Stories From A Dead World, No. 6

FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS [AUTHOR: RUST]

For the moment, I work for the Dustmen. They’re a sort of police. I’m told that police didn’t used to loot the bodies of murdered civilians, and they didn’t tend to break their suspect’s knees if they wouldn’t talk. I break a lot of knees, partially because the box on my back makes me strong enough to do it, partially because its hard to savor the sound of shattering bone if all you can concentrate on is the buzzing in your fingers because the aluminum ball-club you’re using isn’t weighted correctly. Dustmen like to savor the sound of shattering bone. I’m not human, but I’m not quite that twisted. Some of them take pleasure in “Questioning” I don’t feel anything. 

We kicked down a door today. We kick down door everyday, but they’re isn’t typically as much dust. There was a storm coming in though, and  a smuggler we’ve been hunting was holed up in a decrepit old bungalow on the side of the wall. More or less, this is what I heard:

“We’re coming in! Ready?”

A gunshot, not from nearby. 

“1…” 

Something smashes in the house. 

“3!” 

The door slams down. 

“Shit! Down, down!” 

Another gunshot, and another. Close. 

“I’m hit!” 

Gunshots.

“We should really stop warning-“ 

Wood splinters. Crash. 

“Holy shit the ceiling! Jan, you okay?”

“I’m good!”

“Eyes up. Move! Go!”

Boots shake the steps. A door slams open. Gunshot. 

“That was close.”

Glass shatters. 

“He’s gone out the window!”

“We’re on the wall!”

“He’s out on the goddam ledge!” 

“You’d better-“

Gunshot. 

“We’ve got a man down!” 

“Move Rust! Get that asshole!” 

A hiss, and the slide of a gun coming back. I opened my eyes more or less at that point. 

I caught the smuggler in the end. I like some smugglers, before you think I’m some sort of conformist. This smuggler wasn’t one of the good ones though; he sold drugs, and didn’t particularly care who he sold them too, and he transported people like they were cargo, at least he did before I slammed him against the side of the wall, shot him through the chest, and dropped him like a sack of rocks. I’ve gone on at least thirty missions for the Dustmen. Not one of my suspects has escaped. 

I’m good at what I do. It some (horrible) ways, I was built to do one job: hunt.