End of Days by Max Turner Page B

won’t survive a week.”
    He turned and left me alone in the room. I looked around. My instincts were telling me to pay attention, that I’d missed something on my way down to rock bottom. But my processor had more to consider than it could handle. Inspector Johansson was dead. For some reason, this hadn’t really registered, maybe because I didn’t see him die, or because I wasn’t the one responsible, and so I’d been thinking of the whole thing as one big mistake. But now I was stuck here. And he was really gone. Poor Ophelia! She’d be sick with grief.And worry. I had to get in touch with her somehow. I pulled the chains so they were tight between my wrists and tested them again. And again. The cuffs bit through my skin. I didn’t care. I had to do something. But it was no use. Without a hacksaw or a magic wand, I wasn’t going anywhere.
    About ten minutes later two officers walked in. They were dressed up like grunts from a video game. Body armor, helmets with face shields. One was armed with a long stick—like a light saber. A Taser. The second one had a shotgun out. He did the click-click routine to get my attention. It worked. Then came the superzap. All I could think was
Not again.
Pain burned through every nerve. The room spun. I gasped and pitched forward. My head hit the table. It made a dull thud. Then my eyes closed and I went under.

— CHAPTER 9
THE DREAM ROAD
    The room was too bright. I turned away from the light and fell on the floor. It was either daytime or I’d been relocated to a tanning salon. I squinted and looked around. I was in a jail cell. Light spilled through a window set high in a concrete wall. A rough cut of cardboard had been crammed through the bars, but it stopped the light much like a screen stops air. Another wall behind me was made of cinder blocks. I sat up, still squinting. The light was unbearable. It made the skin on my face and neck itch. I could barely see, not that there was much in the way of scenery. A sink. A toilet. A narrow metal bench set into the wall. I had been lying on it until a second ago, before I rolled off onto the floor. I reached up to rub my eyes, but my hands were still chained together, manacled to my waist. My ankles, too. With three sets of chains. I guess Detective Baddon was being true to his word. He wasn’t taking any chances.
    The itch of my skin became a burn. I rolled underneath the bench set in the wall and pressed my back against the cold concrete. It was the only shaded place in the room. As soon as I was out of the light, the stinging began to subside and I was able to look around more comfortably. Outside my cell, at the near end of the hallway, was a desk. An ordinary-looking police officer was sitting there. His dark skin was wrinkled around his eyes, and his tight, curly black hair was receding up his forehead. He was flipping through pages on a clipboard.
    I glanced at the window. It could have been noon or anytimeafter. I wasn’t going to last a day in this place. Then the light faded. I guessed a thick cloud was moving in front of the sun. It gave my eyes a much needed break. I tried to remember what I knew about jail from movies and TV. Then I stood up and walked over to the door of the cell and cleared my throat. I had to take advantage while the sun was hiding.
    â€œI’d like to make a phone call.”
    The officer ignored me, so I said it again. And again.
    Then he put down his clipboard and pen and stood from his desk to face me. His name tag said OFFICER M. LUMSDEN. “No can do.”
    â€œBut I haven’t called anybody, yet.”
    He grabbed another chart from his desk and examined it. Then he looked at me as though he’d just exposed a plot to overthrow the government. “Says here it’s not permitted. I can’t help you.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He thumbed through his papers and shook his head. “Baddon doesn’t want you calling