Page 57 of Strays
The sergeant continues. “Here’s the deal. You pull your weight. You don’t cause trouble. That’s all I expect.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
He stands. “Let’s walk.”
We follow him to a glass-walled room. Maps cover one wall, mission tags pinned in clusters. A screen flickers with a paused surveillance feed.
“Briefing room,” he says. “0700 roll call. Don’t be late. If you miss it, you’re benched.”
Next is a caged-off room with wire mesh walls and a solid steel gate. Lockers line the inside, each marked with call signs and barcodes. Tactical vests hang on hooks. Rifles locked in upright racks. There are two cabinets in the back, probably for heavier ordnance.
“This is the gear cage. You won’t be issued weapons or armor until Quartermaster gets your certs transferred and the captain signs off.”
No problem there. The gear’s sized for humans anyway.
Down the hall, we pass a locker room. The sharp sting of disinfectant hits hard. Inside, there are narrow benches, peeling paint and rust in the showers. I can tell the second locker on the right row is Wilsbone’s just by the scent coming from it. If I tried, I could probably place the two officers from the lobby too.
We keep moving. Around the corner, we pass a break room, the scent of burnt coffee punching through the door. Inside there’s a vending machine, a battered microwave, and a fridge with a Sharpie sign: LABEL YOUR SHIT. DON’T TOUCH WHAT ISN’T YOURS.
“This is the common area,” the sergeant says, without stopping.
Finally, we reach a larger room. Long table down the middle. Whiteboards line the far wall, scribbled with acronyms and a half-erased building layout. A few desks off to the side, three already occupied.
“Squad room. You’ll work from here,” Wilsbone says. “But only permanent personnel get a desk.”
No complaint from me. The less time I spend crammed into a human chair behind a desk that cuts off at my knees, the better. Judging by my brothers’ bored expressions, they couldn’t care less either.
Wilsbone’s eyes linger on us just a beat too long before saying, “You’ll be paired with Fontes. He’s squad lead today.”
He pushes the door open, steps inside and nods to one officer. “This is Fontes.”
The officer doesn’t get up. Just looks us over, assessing. Then he asks to the sergeant: “They briefed yet?”
“Just finished the tour,” Wilsbone replies.
“I’ve got it.”
Once Wilsbone leaves, Fontes turns back to us. “You’re shadowing today. We’ve got a recon sweep this afternoon. Nothing tactical, just presence patrol. You’ll walk it with us. Get a feel for how we move.”
He taps a spot on a map spread across the table. “Three calls came in over the weekend from North Hill Industrial, reporting movement in Bay Seven, in the old freight depots. Cameras picked up heat, but no patrol followed up. Could be squatters. Could be something else.”
We take one of the unit’s black Tahoes. Fontes drives. And another officer — Cole — rides shotgun to track comms, while my brothers and I cram into the back seat. It’s roomy for humans. For us, not so much. But still beats Jo’s Corolla.
We roll in twenty minutes later. It’s an industrial dead zone between the rail yard and the river. No housing. Just rust, concrete, and weeds clawing through cracks. The air reeks of diesel and oil.
Fontes parks behind a freight dock and steps out. “Eyes open. If anything feels off, say it.”
He takes point. Jay trails just off his left. Cole’s in third, gripping his rifle tight. I fall in behind him, watching our right, and Shane covers the rear. We move in silence, the only noise from our boots on the gravel. Our shadows stretch across a row of broken pallets outside a loading bay. The garage door’s bent upward at the bottom, like someone tried to pry it open.
Cole gestures to it with two fingers. “That’s new.”
Fontes nods and logs it on his phone.
Further down, there’s a fenced yard full of stripped trucks. We check a side building, the back door is unlocked, but cold. No recent movement. We loop toward the outer fence, and that’s when we see the truck, half-sunk in a drainage ditch. A delivery model, long dead.
Fontes slows and raises a hand.
We spread out. Jay drifts left, Shane drops back and I take the right. Cole flanks Fontes as he circles the vehicle. He checks the doors, cracks the front driver’s side and shines his light inside. Pauses at the rear door, looks in the bed,then steps back. “Clear.”
