The streets themselves still stank of gas, melted plastic, and the fresh dead cops. Slick, wet smears of fire-foam and the carbon-blasted debris littered the cramped concrete space below. Thick, acrid smoke swung in drunken spirals above the blasted remains of what was once a cop car as I watched from my perch. The bodies had been removed some hours ago – but the crowds of street freaks and gawkers still dug through the blistered, smoking carcass mining whatever they could steal.

From my smoke-stained windows, overlooking the neon-junkpile below, I knew that the scavengers would drag off the salable broken bits as yellow acid rain dissolved the last of the organics. Bomb blasts like this were still common post-COVID as ‘civil unrest’ and ‘police actions’ continued throughout the entire country. Both eloquent ways of stating ‘murderous rampages on either side’. Old TV Boomers everywhere dug in and depended on the approved state broadcasts for their news but for no-techs like me, there was no beating the value of seeing it live. But when everything was manipulated and faked, the only proof you had was watching it with your own eyes. And even that was dodgy. Trust no one. Except yourself. Maybe.

I’d watched as homemade firebombs smashed into the local cruiser this night. No warning, no manifesto, just fire, and anger – the crowd howling to show the State how pissed-off they were. There was no food today (again), there hadn’t been any yesterday either but the state liquor allotment had arrived right on time. Hungry bellies filled with government go-go juice equaled a shit storm, of course. Had no one thought that this would happen? Did they even care? I was no fan of the cops, but the blackened corpses that were hauled out of the wreckage were twisted in agony, torn, and fused in a grisly rictus. An ugly death that was cruel by anyone’s standard. I’d seen lots of dead bodies in my time so the BBQ didn’t quite phase me anymore. But, that sweet sickly pork smell led hungry dogs and feral children to the scene slavering for a hot meal. I don’t judge. I knew too well what hungry is. And how good that first bite was. Even when you knew where the meat came from. You choked it down and chewed on. Not looking as you ate.

I pitched my last smoke-end out into the night, watching the red heater pinwheel down, down, down as I locked my windows tight. Here in the rehabs, the helter-skelter building of the stilted block loomed dangerously over the battlezone and gave me the perfect vantage point for tonight’s mayhem. There would be retaliation soon with vicious cop death squads hunting down stone-cold crazies willing to take them on. A tossed brick or a bottle or rock would start something stupid. The booze didn’t help – when did it ever? – with both sides juiced and another bloody massacre would kick-off. I had had more than enough of pogroms. I’d survived too many.

It was past time to go out and try and stop this from happening again. Not that I had a chance in Hell since no one listens to a Healer when there’s blood to spill. All I could hope to do was patch up the still-bleeding and pray for the dying and freshly dead. Both sides. I’m equal opportunity when it comes to grief. Worthy aspirations, I hoped for a man like me – but cold comfort to those in pain or dying hard.