Who: Sergeant Jane Rusten. Where: Woodcreek Road, Greenbelt District. What: The APD ramps up the police presence in the Greenbelt following the string of arsons at the Dog Park. While out on patrol, Jane comes across a wounded Hellhound. When: 1/10/20, 7:15 PM.
All the fans and all the fame and though I gave everything to this game They still complain I'm on my grind, fuck the part-time Stay ready for war, I'm on the front line I'm gettin' the feelin' like it's all mine It's becoming the only feeling I know There's all this pressure There's so much fuckin' pressure And it's all in a day's work…
The intermittent bursts of chatter from the cruiser’s squawk box were Jane’s only company as she drove the lonely stretch of Woodcreek Road out in the Greenbelt. If this had been a half a year ago, she’d have Joel next to her as an extra pair of eyes to help scope out the miles upon miles of grid they’d plotted out around the Dog Park in need of extra police presence. She’d also have someone to shoot the shit with during the long, tedious, and uneventful vigil but Joel was Chief now; he had more important things to do than ride shotgun on what amounted to a glorified security gig.
Jane could never, and would never, hold it against Joel that he’d risen in the ranks; she was incredibly proud of her partner and knew he was the right person for the top job...even if it meant she had no one to fucking talk to while out on patrol. Their last chief was the sort of guy that couldn’t find his own ass in an ass-storm whereas Joel knew the department inside and out, which was why he was taking this threat against the Hellhounds so seriously. Even though Jane still wasn’t (and probably wouldn't ever be) completely sold on the MC’s miraculous 180° turnaround into squeaky-clean, law-abiding citizens, even she could see that the fires at the Dog Park weren’t likely an unfortunate coincidence.
Neither did the members of the Hellhounds, apparently. She had passed a half a dozen leather-clad men on bikes at different intervals during her watch, tooling along the backroads and byways of their district. They kept a wary distance between themselves and Jane’s cruiser; Jane thought that was for the best. Once she turned onto Woodcreek, however, Jane found herself alone. Her headlights lit the way through the inky night; since the city had extended curfew, Jane had to get used to working the late shift again, and all the added dangers that entailed.
She followed a slight curve in the road, intent on following Woodcreek back to Convict Hill Road (how very fucking fitting, Jane mused to herself). Then, she’d hop back on the MoPac Expressway and back to the station, where she’d turn her cruiser in her for her bike and clock out for the evening. If she had enough time before curfew, maybe she could stop by Mina's and wish her a happy birthday in person. An annoying whine of static pierced the silence and Jane turned the volume down with an impatient huff. Except, the noise didn’t get quieter. She turned the radio off and slowed the cruiser down to a crawl, turning her head to the noise of what Jane now thought might be a wounded animal. There was something out there somewhere close.
Jane pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned the ignition off. With the engine cut, Jane could clearly hear the sounds of something hurt, something alive...or something very, very dead. She knew she should call for backup. It was the smart thing to do. But what if it was just an injured dog or something? Clipped by one of those idiot yahoo’s on their souped up Harleys, no doubt. If it was anything else, like a shuffler, or a herd of shufflers, Jane would assess the situation fully before she did anything rash. She might be a bit foolhardy sometimes but she was no dumb ass.
Jane exited her vehicle, her service pistol raised and her tactical flashlight poised above it. She listened; there it was again. A pitiful, inhuman groan pierced the night and Jane winced. She swept the beam of light from side to side, walking slowly along the berm of the road, following the cries. She could feel the blood pumping in her veins and roaring in her ears. Adrenaline and duty fueled her.
There. An indistinct shape, black against the deeper blackness of the Austin evening. It shifted feebly against the blacktop, it’s movements labored but even from this distance, Jane could see it was breathing. It was alive and it wasn’t an animal. It was human.
“This is the police,” Jane called, her loud brash voice piercing the night. She trained her flashlight on the person. It was a man, curled up in the fetal position, his face a bloated, swollen kaleidoscope of bruises and blood. He didn't answer her but he turned toward the sound her voice and only then Jane saw he was wearing a Hellhound cut.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jane hissed. The cautious, jaded realist in her knew this could be some sort of trap; an ambush to take down one of Austin’s finest but when cooler thinking kicked in, Jane knew the man’s injuries weren’t fake. She took a quick look around, shining her flashlight around the perimeter in case the person (or persons) that did this were lying in wait. When she didn’t see anyone, she holstered her pistol and approached the man. She kneeled next to him and from her close proximity, Jane could see his injuries weren’t limited to his face. He had some nasty cuts around the collarbone and upper chest and a few deep purple abrasions edging down past the collar of his shirt. His eyes were swollen shut and he had blood in his mouth; every breath he took came out in a wet sounding wheeze.
“You look like shit, son,” Jane breathed. The man moved suddenly and Jane tried to back away but she wasn’t quick enough. The man found her hand with his and, after a moment, squeezed.
“...help me,” he rasped. The effort to speak proved to be too much; he passed out with the words still on his lips. Jane quickly reached down with her other hand to press at his pulse point. A strong beat met her fingertips. Jane reached to the button on her shoulder radio.
“Dispatch, this is Rusten.”
The radio beeped back.
“Go ahead, Rusten.”
“I need a bus at Woodcreek Road, mile marker 7. Got a man on the side of the road here. Face, shoulders…” Jane lifted up the bottom of the man’s shirt to see similar deep bruising along the man’s stomach that crept up to his ribcage. “Torso, all fucked up. Lacerations, contusions out the ass, possible broken ribs. We’ll need a board and collar in case there is any spinal damage. Guy looks like shit run over twice. No perps in sight but the guy’s a Dog, so, could be anyone.”
“A dog, Sergeant? Thought you said it was a person.”
“Hellhound,” Jane clarified. She gingerly touched his front of his vest to locate his nametag. “Goes by...Ricky Hickey? Really, dude? Not sure if that’s given name or an alias but we might know more once we get him to the UMCB.”
The silence from the radio seemed amplified on the long, cold stretch of road but after what could have only been a few moments, it crackled back to life.
“Got a rig heading out your way as we speak, Rusten. ETA…’bout twelve minutes. Got a couple of black and white’s nearby, I gave them your location to help hold down the scene until the ambulance gets there. Seven, eight minutes tops.”
“Thanks dispatch,” Jane said, relief evident in her words. “Rusten out.”
Jane didn’t recognize the name, which meant he wasn’t an officer. His face was a mask of gore and yuck so she couldn’t place the face either. A lower level scumbag, perhaps; maybe one of the drug pushers on the bottom of the food chain back when the Hounds were dealing. Jane looked down at the man, his now limp still clasped in her own. It felt wrong on so many levels and Jane itched to drop him it like a hot potato but something stopped her. What if things were reversed? What if she was laying face down on the street, beat to shit, waiting to die, and by some grace of God someone found her? She’d be so damn grateful, even to a Hellhound.
“Help is on the way, Rickey,” Jane said, patting his hand awkwardly. “You...you just hang tight.”
Far in the distance, Jane heard the wail of sirens.