Highway To Hell Read Free Page A

from into a danger detector that was more often than not correct.
    Marcus reached for his radio to alert his protégé, but stopped his hand halfway. By the time Dillings got there, even with his rookie over-enthusiasm, Marcus would have taken care of it.
    He looked around and saw the couple that were responsible for the scene he was about to join. A young woman, too skinny for her height… for any height. Marcus guessed from first glance that she was around 5’10”, although she stood with her back to him. Her strawberry blond hair fell greasily against her shoulders, and she wore a tank top that showed bony shoulders covered by tribal tattoo that traced a spiral path down her left arm. Its design was somewhat distorted; an obvious side effect to the weight she had lost since its initial application. Her outfit was completed by a denim skirt that was only just long enough to cover her hipless waist, revealing skinny legs that were bruised and covered with veins that, by the time she hit forty, would resemble a detailed road map of the British Isles. She tottered on a pair of high heels that made her even taller, and off to one side stood a rough looking pram, which rocked from side to side as the occupant continued to scream.
    Marcus looked at the pram, wondering why neither the mother nor the person she was with was responding. Then he saw her head snap backwards, twisting to the left, and he understood it all. The woman fell backwards. She stumbled on her heels and fell to the floor, turning as she did. Marcus saw blood; her lips were broken, her left eye swollen shut. Yet the worst thing was the look on her face; it told him this was part of her everyday life.
    Her skin looked dead, stretched taut over her rake-thin frame. Her large breasts swung unrestrained beneath her yellow summer-inspired tank top, and their size in relation to the rest of her frame and their lack of gravity defiance told Marcus two things. One, the baby in the pram was hungry, and two it was young, a matter of weeks old; this thought was confirmed by the sagging post labor stomach which took a while to recover, and on most women doesn’t look anything unusual. However on a frame as malnourished as hers, it shone out like a distress flare on a clear night at sea. The other clear giveaway with regards to the age of the child were the two large, wet stains on the point of each breast, where milk leaked from her nutritious teats.
    “Hey!” Marcus heard himself shout, announcing his presence while letting others know that something had happened and that they should keep back. All thought of calling his partner was gone. He would never get there in time.
    The lady – who Marcus saw when he was close to her, was younger than he had presumed; early twenties at best – was crying. She cradled her right arm on which she had fallen. The man backed up half a step when he saw Marcus stride towards him. His head immediately began to look around for an escape route. He was a large guy, about the same size as Marcus himself although less muscular and wirier. He had a lean, quick look about him, and was just as black. In fact, had he been in possession of a large afro, Marcus would have believed he was looking back through time at a younger version of himself. Or rather what he would have been had boxing not rescued him from the trouble filled neighborhood and social circle that had taken so many of his childhood friends. The one problem about growing up in a small fishing town was that there was remarkably little in the way of entertainment, and so Marcus had turned to the streets, hanging around with the kids from school. During his years on the force, he had busted a great number of them. The man in question was bald, his head shaved unlike Marcus’s own natural look. He wore a white tank top that showed his muscle covered body. His arms were decorated with all manner of tattoos, which wound from his wrists up to his shoulders, and judging by the patterns