Blast Protocol

Chapter 1

When I got caught drinking at school, I thought my dad would rush home early from work, furious, demanding an explanation. I thought he would care. But then I remembered, this was my dad I was talking about.

And that wasn't even all of it. Because things had been different, these past few months. And they would never be the same.

Thinking about that, made me think about my mom, and my sister. And that made me realize the buzz was wearing off, and I needed another drink.

It was seven minutes past noon, and I was sitting in the back of a cop car. I was leaning with the side of my head pressed against the black bars in front of the window, watching the scenery pass by. Suburban houses with big leafy trees in the backyards and chain-link fences along the front. Every house looking much like another, just a giant, sprawling masquerade of normalcy. Occasionally, I reached for the flask in my pocket during the ride. Kept forgetting it was confiscated.

I'd gone along with it when they told me to take the breathalyzer test. I thought calling the police was a bit over-the-top, even for school faculty, but at the same time, I just couldn't bring myself to care. I'm not even sure they cared. There were no speeches. No one tried to give me 'the talk'. They just walked me through each set of procedures, all the while doing their very best to avoid looking me in the eye. Misbehaving meant being suspended, which meant more time to do the things I was already doing, away from school. What was the point in that?

It was kind of disappointing, actually. I didn't care anymore, and the last real authorities in my life didn't seem to care much, either. And where did that leave me? Wasn't my life supposed to be a steep drop-off from here? From apathy, to poverty, to crime, imprisonment, and, I dunno, crack addiction—something like that? That was what society said, anyway.

Me, I just wanted to go home. I just wanted another drink.

My house was on the other side of the suburb, at the top of a secluded hill. An upper-middle-class house cloistered among dozens of other upper-middle-class houses. There was a steep downhill slope on the other side of the house, just beyond the fence bordering the backyard, affording a sweeping view of the suburb below.

The cop car slowed, easing to a stop in front of the place. I picked up my bag and waited for the door to unlock. Staticky exchanges fizzed and sparked from the police radio up front. The cop, a middle-aged guy with a mustache, a flat-top haircut, and a big gut, eased around to look at me over his shoulder, making the leather seat crinkle and crease, sounding like a fart. He wore sunglasses with polarized lenses, and I could see my reflection in them. A sixteen-year-old kid with dark, messy hair, in a flannel shirt and jeans. My eyes were near bloodshot, and there were dark circles under them.

"Looks like your dad's not home."

He was right. The carport was empty. Which didn't surprise me.

"It's okay," I said. "I have a key."

I looped one of my bag's straps over my shoulder, ready to debark the vessel. But the door was still locked.

"Listen," the cop said. "You're probably not looking to have a conversation with someone like me about this. But there's something I think you should hear."

I gazed out the window, let out a slow, steady breath. "I'm not hurting anyone."

"No," he admitted. "Not yet. Not today. But at some point..." He broke off, and I could almost hear the gears in his head turning, like he had some piece of aged wisdom to share, but he was trying to phrase it so I wouldn't reject it outright. It was his obligation to bestow a kernel of insight, maybe make the world just a bit better down the line. Doing his duty as a good ol' boy in blue.