Read Online The Doomsday Infection by Martin Lamport - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin Lamport
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all his woes. Even when Stanley graduated from the police academy, she taunted him that they must’ve lowered their intake standards and that he’d always remain in uniform.
However, in spite of her he’d enjoyed police work and the comradeship of his co-workers. They had a bond , brought together by the events they experienced, that civilians could not comprehend, like having to attend to the aftermath of a murder. Be it a stabbing, shooting or plain old barehanded, cold-blooded strangling. The slaughtering of one another with whatever came to hand, pots, pans, toasters, needle, or scissors, it amazed Stanley. The murder, nearly always committed by one family member upon another family member; it was still by far the number one category of homicide.
Stanley could sympathize with them. God, he wished he’d had the guts to kill his mother years ago. Of course, now that she WAS dying he hoped he could prolong her life so that he could watch her die in painful agony for even longer. She’d often catch him smirking when the pain got too much. Yet a smile would cross her face and he knew, just knew, that she’d leave all her money to a cats’ home to spite him.
Yet, each week she ’d summon him and each week he’d attend like the obedient slave he always had been. Roll on when the old nag was dead. He’d immerse himself in his job during the day and spend his nights in cop hang-out bars, maybe date a cop groupie – yes, there was such a thing - girls who loved to hang around cops, they even had websites. He’d give it a go soon, after the old hag had gone.
Tonight though, he’d have his regular bar cronies hanging on his every word, with his latest yarn, his story of the RTA - road traffic accident, he’d just left, that was a baffling case if there ever was one.
When he’d arrived at the scene of the accident, the paramedics were already there and had pronounced the motorcycle rider dead. He’d been decapitated so no argument there. Yet Sergeant Stanley Willis still ha d to go through the rigmarole of finding the cause of the accident. He crouched by the torso of the Hells Angel with ‘death or Glory’ tattooed on his arm. It didn’t matter how many corpses Stanley saw it still made his gag reflex kick in some, like this one, as fluid oozed from the raggedy stump of his neck.
He questioned the witnesses, who explained that the Hells Angel on the Harley Davidson fat-boy jumped the lights on red and had been sideswiped by a truck carrying industrial grade plates of glass, which had shot forward and decapitated the Hells Angel. His body continued on its journey until the motorcycle ran out of steam and toppled over. Even more gruesomely, the head smashed through the picture window of a Mexican diner where it spun on the floor spraying the diners in blood.
Unbelievably, none of that was the startling part of the tale, the kicker being that the Hells Angel's body was white and his head was black!
Stanley had spent the best part of an hour looking for another body, unable to believe the w itnesses protestations that there was only one person on the motorcycle. He’d never seen anything like it in all his life. He had no explanation for it - a lily-white body with jailhouse tattoos pledging Aryan gang affiliations, yet with a face as black as coal. God image what Stanley’s Pa would’ve made of that!
He pulled up at his mama’s remote clapboard house and was apprehe nsive to see the front door ajar. He had his hand on the butt of his service weapon and approached gingerly. He pushed open the heavy front door, checked out the dark corners of his childhood home. He knew every nook and cranny, but there was no one there. He called out to his mama, gaining no reply, he quickly checked around and found it empty. He scratched his head. She was unable to get about on her own anymore, and if the home-help had taken her out, she would have locked up. He pushed open the rear door and went out onto the stoop, maybe
However, in spite of her he’d enjoyed police work and the comradeship of his co-workers. They had a bond , brought together by the events they experienced, that civilians could not comprehend, like having to attend to the aftermath of a murder. Be it a stabbing, shooting or plain old barehanded, cold-blooded strangling. The slaughtering of one another with whatever came to hand, pots, pans, toasters, needle, or scissors, it amazed Stanley. The murder, nearly always committed by one family member upon another family member; it was still by far the number one category of homicide.
Stanley could sympathize with them. God, he wished he’d had the guts to kill his mother years ago. Of course, now that she WAS dying he hoped he could prolong her life so that he could watch her die in painful agony for even longer. She’d often catch him smirking when the pain got too much. Yet a smile would cross her face and he knew, just knew, that she’d leave all her money to a cats’ home to spite him.
Yet, each week she ’d summon him and each week he’d attend like the obedient slave he always had been. Roll on when the old nag was dead. He’d immerse himself in his job during the day and spend his nights in cop hang-out bars, maybe date a cop groupie – yes, there was such a thing - girls who loved to hang around cops, they even had websites. He’d give it a go soon, after the old hag had gone.
Tonight though, he’d have his regular bar cronies hanging on his every word, with his latest yarn, his story of the RTA - road traffic accident, he’d just left, that was a baffling case if there ever was one.
When he’d arrived at the scene of the accident, the paramedics were already there and had pronounced the motorcycle rider dead. He’d been decapitated so no argument there. Yet Sergeant Stanley Willis still ha d to go through the rigmarole of finding the cause of the accident. He crouched by the torso of the Hells Angel with ‘death or Glory’ tattooed on his arm. It didn’t matter how many corpses Stanley saw it still made his gag reflex kick in some, like this one, as fluid oozed from the raggedy stump of his neck.
He questioned the witnesses, who explained that the Hells Angel on the Harley Davidson fat-boy jumped the lights on red and had been sideswiped by a truck carrying industrial grade plates of glass, which had shot forward and decapitated the Hells Angel. His body continued on its journey until the motorcycle ran out of steam and toppled over. Even more gruesomely, the head smashed through the picture window of a Mexican diner where it spun on the floor spraying the diners in blood.
Unbelievably, none of that was the startling part of the tale, the kicker being that the Hells Angel's body was white and his head was black!
Stanley had spent the best part of an hour looking for another body, unable to believe the w itnesses protestations that there was only one person on the motorcycle. He’d never seen anything like it in all his life. He had no explanation for it - a lily-white body with jailhouse tattoos pledging Aryan gang affiliations, yet with a face as black as coal. God image what Stanley’s Pa would’ve made of that!
He pulled up at his mama’s remote clapboard house and was apprehe nsive to see the front door ajar. He had his hand on the butt of his service weapon and approached gingerly. He pushed open the heavy front door, checked out the dark corners of his childhood home. He knew every nook and cranny, but there was no one there. He called out to his mama, gaining no reply, he quickly checked around and found it empty. He scratched his head. She was unable to get about on her own anymore, and if the home-help had taken her out, she would have locked up. He pushed open the rear door and went out onto the stoop, maybe
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