Read After: First Light (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 0) for Free Online Page B

chief wasn’t a ball-breaker, but he definitely believed in rank and pecking order. Harlan hadn’t been around long enough to be making his own interpretations of the law.
    He gunned his engine a little, causing the headlights to brighten. The figure neither accelerated nor turned, just lurched on ahead with an unsteady gait.
    Looks like public drunkenness at a minimum. Might be carrying, too. A drug bust would get me in good with the chief.
    Of course, the suspect could be packing a concealed weapon as well. This was America, after all.
    Harlan punched the accelerator and closed the fifty yards in seconds, the engine’s roar reverberating off the concrete, glass, and asphalt of the downtown. That got no rise out of the lurching man, and Harlan screeched to a halt and threw the gear lever into PARK. He got out, leaving the car running.
    The man maintained his unsteady pace. He wore a red hoodie, the sleeves cut unevenly just below the biceps. His jeans were halfway off his ass, showing gray underwear with a black waistband. Something flashed at the man’s side, and Harlan realized it was a watch. Suspect was white. Like they all were in Taylorsville.
    “Police,” Harlan called, in the firm, commanding tone they’d taught him in Basic.
    The suspect might have cocked an ear—maybe—but kept on down the block. Soon he’d be in the shadows at the back of the furniture store. Harlan debated hopping back in the cruiser for pursuit, but now it was getting personal.
    “Halt!” Harlan said, his voice cracking just a little. Very unprofessional. This guy was getting to him in a big way.
    Damn it, I’m the authority here. I’m in control of the situation.
    He unbuttoned the strap on his hip holster, although he didn’t touch the butt of his .38 Smith & Wesson. In Basic, he’d had one rule hammered into his crewcut skull: Don’t pull it unless you mean it.
    He wasn’t sure if he meant it yet. He was annoyed, nervous, and frustrated. Not a good position for making snap decisions.
    He should call it in now. Stefano, a good old Jersey Italian, was manning Unit Seven somewhere in the industrial park. The chief encouraged back-up on all but the most routine duties. “Cover your ass, or the gravedigger will cover it for you,” the chief liked to say.
    One of the suspect’s legs buckled and he nearly fell. Definitely four sheets to the wind. Fortified wine, if Harlan had to guess—Mad Dog or Thunderbird. Harlan used the stumble to close on the suspect, feeling braver with the headlights making a big, bright stage of the street. He was close enough to smell the man—old sweat, piss, and a strange, metallic stench like ozone during a thunderstorm.
    “Stop where you are,” Harlan ordered.
    The man finally turned. He was Caucasian, all right, sporting a ’70’s porn-star moustache with a toothpick jammed between his teeth. The toothpick wiggled, and Harlan realized the wooden sliver wasn’t between the man’s lips; it was protruding from the lower one, a greasy smear of blood marking the point of penetration.
    “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Harlan ordered, although the man didn’t seem to hear. The suspect stuck one pinkie beneath the hoodie to dig at his ear, and stuck the other in his jeans pocket. No way he had a gun in there, Harlan could tell that much, but he didn’t like being ignored.
    He drew his Smith & Wesson. “Freeze.”
    Saying “Freeze” was awkward, the first time he’d ever felt like a cop on a television show. I’ll be eating donuts if this keeps up.
    But Hoodie didn’t seem to care whether Harlan was playing tough. He glared at the officer—and something about his eyes was wrong. They had the wetness of a drunk’s, and that puffiness around the lids, but instead of red spangles splotching the whites, familiar greenish veins streaked through them.
    Like the sky. His eyes are like that weird stuff in  the sky.
    That sounded too much like hallucinogenic hippie hullaballoo. Harlan