September 11th, 2032
Gulfport had survived five hurricanes in the last seven years. The worst one had pummeled the city five years ago and then had been accompanied with an earthquake. It was named Suteka. The devastation had been costly to the citizens. Several miles of town had been buried beneath water. Fema had arrived in waves and had seemed intent to never leave. The people became tired of temporary housing, rolling shelters and free handouts. Becoming annoyed with Fema, the Mayor had issued a public proclamation demanding that the governmental agency evacuate. Intent on rebuilding their city on their own terms, the flooding had been ignored and the renovated city had been rebuilt on stilts, columns and trusses. The city expanded so wide that it crossed over the Gulf shoreline. Bridges interconnected into three abandoned oil rigs. Then roadways were added and then apartments erected. Businesses pushed in and thrived. Tourists flocked to visit the city that had become an enormous dock over the Gulf, a long look across the horizon, a hundred feet above ocean. One of the oil rigs had been renovated into a museum and another was a Contemporary Arts Complex.
Most of the city’s wealth came from seventeen oil rigs that were farther off the coast. Its lumber distribution days were far behind it. Statisticians theorized that Gulfport would eventually meet the new oil rigs in another twenty years. Newer bridges and towns had already been idealized, modeled and critiqued.
Metal streets and concrete buildings surrounded the casino boats, capturing their billowing decks between roads and diners. Although attached by roped bridges, the boats still bounced on the waves. The extended city became a loophole of legalities; rules changed as the people crossed from land into a metallic deck, over an oily tomb. Most of the time, Coast Guard patrolled the streets, substituting their boats with cars.
Beneath the metallic sheet roadways, the city was rigged on sewage piping, electric cable networks and parking garages. Maintenance crews preferred the new city style. The easy access to piping made repairs more efficient. There were no waits for bulldozers and cranes to peel away the Earth before they could reach the pipe. The underground network was known as Down Below.
In Down Below, random ladders offered access into the Gulf, squeezed between metallic columns. Coast Guard patrolled the crisscrossing water alleys and metal roads. The Gulf water sloshed oil against the metal docks that were designed for maintenance barges. A maintenance crew welded a new coupling onto an electric pipe. The electric cable had been spliced and power had been used for a homeless family that lived there. The small hut had been trashed and the homeless family scared away.
Swimming in the water, a few daring teenagers played games of hide and seek underneath docks, between pipes and around columns. Their hormones and guiltless lives ignored the possible risks of contamination between the oil and the trash. A homeless man cooked a fish that had died from an overdose of oil. His hunger outweighed the risk of illness.
A hundred yards above, a car rolled up to an entrance ramp that led into Down Below. Its engine barely murmured as it powered down. Its small snout stuck out like a beak and its tail fanned out like feathers. A trim female and husky male exited the vehicle, adjusting their gun holsters and badges to dress their professional appearance.
Detective Fiona Marx was a well groomed Officer, stringent on protocol and strong on research. She tolerated egos and ogling looks but criticized those who failed to follow basic protocol. She followed rules and a sense of ethical duty. She understood the reason for all the rules and strictly obeyed them. She was generally disliked by her peers but that never concerned her. Her integrity was a stubborn virtue, unscathed by disapproving minds.
Her partner was of a different stock. Forced to work together, Detective Durst spent thirty years in the force and twenty five in a marriage. He forced his children to follow only two courses in life, a doctor or a lawyer. His experience guided his actions and then his heart followed. He enjoyed life with a beer and resolved his job with a gun. He had an old sense of police mentality, following crimes on his feet than with his fingers. He saw the younger generation as too dependent on gadgets and the imagined realms of cyberspace to solve problems.
A young police Officer greeted the two Detectives at the entrance. His uniform seemed awkward on him, a light blue shirt covered with a long navy blue uniform; Gulfport PD combined a Coast Guard and Police uniform with blues, coppers and stripes. The Officer looked fresh from cadet school, probably rushed into service over the enthusiasm of the end of the world that was prophesized by the Camping siblings. When recognizing Detective Durst, he smiled. “Nobody to shoot here.”
Fiona replied, “That won’t stop him.” Detective Marx brushed her black hair from her face before placing glasses on her nose. “Show us what you got, young pup.”
“This way.” He led them down the long ramp that curved into the bowels of Gulfport’s extended city. Reaching the ramp’s end, they descended down a rickety wood stairs until reaching a dock of rusted iron. “Here we are.” He waved a hand to a naked abdomen and a severed arm. The Officer pointed a thumb towards the teenagers across the ebbing Gulf. “Those teen twits found these body parts smacking against the underside of the dock. They dragged them out and then decided to call it in.”
Durst asked, “Why isn’t Rains and Stans taking care of this? This is their field.”
“Mass suicides on the east and west coast. Apparently connected. Some Koolaid involved.”
“Nice,” Fiona responded.
“You’ll start; they’ll finish later,” the Officer stated. “A naked body for the lady. And a severed limb for you.”
“Loverly.” Fiona crouched towards the abdomen poking it with a metal rebar she had found on the dock.
“Same body?” Durst asked.
“Wrong pigment. Wrong skin tone. Otherwise, a strange tan.” Fiona lifted the arm and twirled it in her hands. “The arm is chewed up, like from a saw’s teeth. But the body appears to be sheered smoothly off at the shoulder and below the elbow.”
“So we’re looking at two bodies. Not necessarily cut from the same crime. Figuratively speaking of course.”
“Check out the wire,” the Officer advised. “I don’t think that is an accident from them floating about in that muck.”
“What?” Fiona asked.
“In the arm.” The Officer pointed at a turquoise line jutting from the exposed flesh.
Durst took a closer look. “Is that copper?”
Officer nodded his head. “Sure is. Must be worth a pretty penny. Looked like it was shoved up there. One of the stupid teenagers thought it was a vein that popped out. Didn’t realize that the turquoise rust and that sheen were indicators of copper.”
“Well, from this end could be worth a hundred dollars,” Fiona suggested. “Maybe more, if it’s longer. Seems like it was shoved up its arm or something.”
“Well, let’s bag them and have Doctor Peron take a stab at them. They could be related or a coincidental catch,” Durst stated before ascending the stairs.
Fiona grunted at her partner’s callous and careless nature. It was obvious that he didn’t consider the Gulf catch worth investigating. When he was assigned to her, she was not excited about spending the entire week saddled to his side.
By Jax E. Garson- copyright 2011, all rights reserved
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