Deep Inside by Polly Frost Page B

plinking sound as the first of the cops’ bullets hits metal, but then I’m on two wheels going around the corner, and out of sight.
    I hear sirens warm up and motors fire up. I spin the wheel and head down a side road. I run a red light, make a bus plow into a fruit stand. Behind me, two cop cars smash sideways into each other. One of them flips through the air and lands on its roof. The other cop cars slam into it from behind, clogging the road. They can’t get by.
    I head down another alleyway. No one knows this area like I do. I park the car I’m in, hot-wire another, and I’m off at legal speed.
    This used to be my beat: hookers and drugs, baby. People I knew and sometimes even cared about, but I came down hard on them. I had to. Now it’s where people come to get a fix of Serzan.
    I motor past the pink house where I got turned out. I give it a look and feel like I’m passing the graveyard where my former self now dwells. I’m also feeling the need for a fix. My pussy is doing a slow, achy dance.
    I spot my chance another block down the road.
    The tip of a tentacle waves from behind a Dumpster. I roar over to the trash bin, hop out, and investigate what’s going on.
    There in the shadows, a man and a woman are at it with two Serzan. The man’s dick is out. The alien sucks it as the woman lies on the ground bathed in shimmering slime.
    I shine my flashlight, but it doesn’t matter to them. It wouldn’t matter to me either. I level my gun to their heads.
    â€œGet up,” I say.
    But they’re too far gone. The woman’s eyes roll back as tentacles plunge in and out of her. Too fast for my taste, but the alien is clearly reading her mind just right. She’s making growling, panting sounds, and barely manages to get out the words,
    â€œPlease just let us be.”
    She’s tanned and highlighted, a trophy wife with a silver-haired older husband.
    I smack both of them around with the butt end of my gun.
    â€œPlease don’t hurt us!” the man says. “I swear we’ve never done this before.”
    The Serzan wave their tentacles. I am starting to tremble with need.
    â€œOkay,” he says. “You’re right. We’re addicts. But we need our fix! Only don’t arrest us. I can pay you off—”
    â€œI don’t want money,” I scream. “I want you out of here!”
    â€œBut our SUV’s parked a good two blocks away—”
    They see I mean business. They grab their sticky clothes and run naked down the alley, jumping over broken bottles and streams of urine.
    â€œGo back to Palm Beach, losers!” I scream. I fire a shot into the air. The man knocks over a garbage can.
    As soon as they disappear around the alley corner, I’m out of my suit and in the arms of the pleasure beasts. Without being told, they know I need a quickie, they know I need it good and hard. And they don’t disappoint me. Unfortunately, they’re also all fucked out and that’s it from these aliens.
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    I steer the car I hot-wired over to Zac’s place. I hear sirens. I’m in a post-Serzan haze, but I still know that I.A.’s got to have staked the place out. Where else would I go for help?
    I park in a dark alley three blocks away, then make my way past Dumpsters and dart into the club through the freight entry.
    The sight of the bustle, the smell of the food, the clanking of the glasses—it all comes back to me.
    Zac.
    At one time you and I were the subjects of a feature story in Miami Life magazine. It wasn’t so long ago, really. There we were, bronze, fit…impossibly young. You ran Miami Beach’s latest happening nightclub. I was the cop who was fighting the good fight against the terrifying new alien epidemic.
    Readers probably thought we were a wholesome couple. Readers don’t need to know the truth. Civilians don’t understand that the war on evil is fought best by those who