Free Apocalypse Atlanta by David Rogers Page A

feet, which were bare and scraping along the concrete, and he winced slightly.  That had to hurt, but from her complete lack of reaction, you wouldn’t think so.
    Neither did she seem to mind the marks Darryl could see on the side of her face, reddened patches that looked like she’d been hit.  But most of her flesh had a sort of grayish pallor beneath her dark coloration.  It looked unhealthy.  And, when they went by him with her, he noticed her back and buttocks looked sort of bloated.
    “Damn.” he said mildly, stepping well off to the side, standing on the small patch of grass that bordered the sidewalk and the front of the building.
    “Bitch bit me.” the white cop said angrily as they went past.
    “Still trying to bite too.” the other one commented as they got her down the steps and headed for the cruiser.
    Darryl said nothing as he watched them slam her down over the trunk of the cruiser, and the black cop put his hand on the back of her neck to hold her there as she continued silently struggling, while his partner opened the rear door.  They pulled her back up and tried to put her in the back of the car the usual way, by pressing down on her head to get her to bend enough to fit through the door, but Bethany wasn’t cooperating.  The white cop cursed when she almost got her teeth into his arm again, and finally they managed to lift her between themselves and slide her in on the backseat horizontally.
    Darryl wondered why they hadn’t tasered her; that was usually what happened to anyone who didn’t instantly cooperate with police, but kept his mouth shut.  The black cop slammed the door closed as his partner walked around to the trunk of the cruiser and stuck his key in the lock, looking really pissed.  The black cop turned to Darryl and came up the steps, holding out the door key.
    “Sorry your pard got hurt.” Darryl said as he took the key back.
    “Let me see your hands.” the cop said.  Darryl blinked, because that was usually the first line in an arrest.  But the cop’s own hand wasn’t hovering over his gun, nor anything else on his belt.  So Darryl held up his hands and spread the fingers wide.  The cop looked at them for a long moment, then made a twirling motion with his finger.  Darryl rotated his hands the other way so the cop could see the backs.  “Make fists.” the cop said.  Darryl complied, and waited while the cop examined his knuckles.
    “Okay, I think you’re probably in the clear.” the cop said finally, shaking his head and turning to the cruiser.  The white cop was holding his arm out to the side, pouring a brown bottle of clear liquid across his right forearm, still looking angry.  “Need your ID.” the black cop said over his shoulder as he opened the front passenger door of the cruiser and reached inside.
    Darryl pulled out his wallet and opened it to his driver’s license as the black cop came back with a metal clipboard.  Flipping the top back, he pulled out a book of carbons, moved the cardboard divider under a fresh form, then snapped the clipboard’s holder down on the pad.  Taking Darryl’s license and slotting it into the clip on the holder, the cop produced a pen from his shirt pocket and started writing.
    Darryl remained silent except to answer the occasional questions he was asked as the cop wrote, since he noticed the pad was not a ticket book, but a statement form.  He glanced past the black cop, at his partner, who was now washing off his arm with water from a gallon jug.  Inside the car, Darryl saw Bethany had managed to right herself in the backseat, and was now pressed against the window.
    Her mouth was making those chewing motions, and her attention remained fixed on the two men on the steps with rapt focus.  She didn’t look away until the white cop finished tending to his arm and closed the trunk before walking to join his partner.  Darryl noticed Bethany’s empty eyes followed the white cop’s progress as he passed by the