The Broken Ones by Stephen M. Irwin

the cool air. He was aware of people screaming, of the sounds of traffic, of more tires squealing … but the thuds of his own footsteps and the tight hiss of his breaths were louder. The man who’d been walking alongside the girl, who Oscar would later learn was her father, was staring at his broken daughter, wearing a frown, as if unsure of what he was seeing. Oscar bent to the girl half hidden under the car’s sagging front. The blood was just starting to come from her in rivulets. One arm was cocked uncomfortably behind her back; the other seemed to reach forward like a relay runner’s. Her face was turned to the west, and was unmarked, but a corona was growing behind her cheek on the cold footpath—a spreading crimson puddle that reflected the light. Her eyes were glazed, and one was filling red with blood. Her mouth was open in a small expression of surprise.
    Oscar looked around, ready to tell someone to call an ambulance.
    The street was in chaos. Some cars had rammed others, and yet more were smashing into those. A truck had struck a light pole across the street, and wires were sparking. People were pointing in all directions and yelling. One woman stood stock-still in the middle of the road between screeching, sliding vehicles, staring horrified at empty space. A riderless motorcycle was spinning on its side down the middle of the road, trailing sparks. And in the sky Oscar saw a white jetliner plunging steeply to earth.
    In the midst of all this, ninety feet or so down the footpath, a young man with a pale triangular face watched Oscar through eyes that were all black shadow.

Chapter 3
    W hen Oscar drove through the main entrance, he saw only one patrol car in the wide, leaf-strewn parking lot. He parked next to the white cruiser, pulled on his hat and coat, and stepped into the cold rain.
    No overhead lights illuminated the field of wet asphalt, but that wasn’t surprising; these days even facilities like this had their power heavily rationed. Oscar rubbed his cold hands together. Dawn was still an hour away.
    Neve was waiting near the tall chain-link fence, her cheeks flushed in the cold, wet air. Rain rumbled on her umbrella.
    “How did you get here?” he asked.
    “Train.” She pointed out into the dark. “It’s only half a click from the station.”
    Jesus, Oscar thought. The trains were dangerous enough in daylight hours—they seemed to draw like magnets the barely hinged who wanted a captive audience to bash, stab, or burn. At night, even uniformed cops traveled in trios and wore Kevlar vests. But Neve was different from him in lots of ways. She carried her gun loaded, for starters.
    “You should have stayed in bed,” he said. “I can handle this.”
    She said nothing. Oscar noticed that the skin under her eyes was dark, a sign of poor sleep. He felt an annoying fillip of guilt. He covered it by indicating the lone squad car. “Interesting change.”
    She shrugged. “Maybe Homicide hasn’t arrived yet.”
    They avoided puddles in the potholed asphalt on their way to the pedestrian gate. Despite the steady rain, the air smelled ripe and spoiled, a thick brew of feces and rot.
    Oscar pressed the intercom buzzer and waited. Cold seeped upthrough his shoes. He pressed again. A tin sign was clipped to the fence, exhorting caution and explaining processes—all forms and functions of earlier, more ordered days. Someone had used a marker to write across the verbiage, “Shit.” Across a dark courtyard beyond the fence was a long, low building. A single light glowed behind one of the many windows.
    “Hello!” Oscar shouted through the fence. “Police!”
    A rectangle of matching glow appeared beside the window as a figure arrived in the open doorway. “Detective Manari?”
    “Mariani,” Oscar replied.
    The gate latch buzzed like a dying hornet.
    The sewage plant’s night supervisor was thin; a cheap cigarette cantilevered from one corner of his mouth. He briefly touched hands with Oscar