Читать книгу Allied Zombies for Peace - Craig Nybo - Страница 30

Chapter 23

Bixbie stood next to Officer Howell of the Columbus Metropolitan Motorcycle unit. He and three other motocops had rumbled into International Plaza atop their Harley Davidson Sportsters, all sunglasses, jack-boots, and authority.

Bixbie pointed along the parade route, shouting over the push of press questions and rumble of Harley engines. “You get up there now. But remember, no guns. I don’t want this to turn into an incident.”

“With all due respect, sir, I think this is already an incident,” Officer Howell said.

Bixbie pinched his lips until they were bloodless. He hated motocops. “No guns unless we are fired upon, am I clear?”

“Word on the street is that shots have already been fired, sir.”

“Could have been a backfire or a firecracker; we don’t know.”

“Firecrackers are illegal, sir.”

Bixbie fixed Officer Howell with a reproachful glare. “For now we are giving the situation the benefit of the doubt. No guns unless some S.O.B. in that hell-storm starts blazing, I don’t want to see anything bigger than a nightstick. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go take control of this situation.”

Officer Howell signaled to the other three riders by wheeling his hand around then pointing towards the riot. Like a well-tuned instrument, the motorcycle unit rumbled into formation. They split into two flanks and shot down the street on either side of the World War I marchers, who seemed to be moving into some kind of tactical formation of their own.

Bixbie found another duty officer who stood nearby. He moaned then made the order he had been dreading. “Get dispatch on the line. We are going to need at least one riot unit.”

The officer got into his cruiser and snatched up the radio handset under the dashboard. He raised dispatch and began to explain the situation.

Bixbie glanced up High Street at the rumble. The sound of the pop that sparked off the whole affair replayed over and over in his mind. It sounded like a .38 round. But something about that shot had been different. Usually Bixbie could nail the make of a gun by its report, but he couldn’t peg what kind of weapon had fired that shot. It made no difference. The single shot had stirred up a wasp nest and now it was up to him to clean up the mess.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least the situation couldn’t get any worse. Could it?