"Getting Wet"

By: 
Tom Moran

“Sit tight,” Fletcher ordered. “This isn’t going to take any time at all.”

It will take time, Cabrini thought. The killing, maybe not that much. But going through the bags, emptying pockets, feeling along the seams of their clothing for a sign of something hidden in the lining, making sure they hadn’t stuffed anything inside themselves. That would take time. There were six wets. Two of them were women. Not bad looking. Fletcher and the others might be able to finish up in two hours. A little less if they rushed it. Maybe.

“What if the Colonel gets here before you get back?”

“He won’t.” Fletcher snapped. He pushed his laser flash up toward Cabrini’s nose, blinding him. Cabrini didn’t have to see Fletcher’s ruddy face to know that the man was sneering at him. The thick-necked heavy muscled lieutenant had never cared much for Cabrini and possessed no qualms about showing it. “I plan on being front and center when the Colonel arrives. His eyes are gonna pop out when he sees what I have got for him. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

What I got for him, Cabrini thought. For Fletcher, the rest of them didn’t exist. Not when it came to taking credit. Fletcher was in charge, but on the night patrols he always hung back, claiming he was providing cover for the others in case some wets tried to jump them. The real reason he stayed back was the booby traps and land mines strewn along the lakeshore by the Industrials at the beginning of The Breakup when everything was chaos. The patrols had maps that showed where the traps and mines were supposed to be, but you couldn’t count on them. You couldn’t trust anything coming from the Capital.

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Author Info: 

Tom Moran, a former aerospace engineer, has taught at RIT for 13 years. He is working on a book about literary engineers: engineers who write short stories, novels and poems. His essays and non-fiction articles have appeared in numerous publications, including the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post and the Seattle Times.

Tom has two favorite places in Rochester: The George Eastman House, where he always knows the images on the walls will make his visit a visual adventure, and Paola’s Burrito Place on South Ave, where the tortas remind him of the great Mexican food he enjoyed during his years living in Los Angeles.