My name’s Mathis; I’m with the Coca-Cola Enforcement Squad. That’s Detective Sergeant Mathis to you. It’s my job to keep the Company safe from the scum of the earth who might damage its bottom line. The way this case started out, it made me sick.
It was a photograph that started it. One of the rookies brought it in, said it had been doing the rounds in some of the Zero Zone apartment blocks. Classic snuff shit; grainy shades of faded grey that made it hard to make out the details. What it looked like – whether it was real or not – was exactly up my alley. A polaroid snap of a Stanley knife buried up to the hilt in the body of a can of Diet Coke. Written – scrawled – along the bottom of the polaroid were the words “Say your prayers you aluminum cunt.”
“Sweet sugar-free Jesus,” I said. This looked like dangerous work, but it was too early to call. It could just be one brain-case with a ridiculous anti-Company grudge after all.
“Have you seen any more like this?” I asked. The Rookie shook his head.
“I couldn’t tell ya, Sarge. The Zero Zone is as alien to me as the plateaus of Mars. But I know who can.”

The Rookie was my guide as we went plain-garb into the ZZ, dressed like any average spug. Junkies – caff-heads – everywhere. Wouldn’t be surprised if Pepsiites reared their head down here once more.
“Patrol come down here often?” I said under my breath to the Rook. He made a tiny motion with his head which I interpreted to mean no. “Where you taking me?”
“I got… an old associate lives in the block where the evvy showed up. He’ll be able to tell us more.”
“Hope you’re right, for all our sakes.”

Rook rapped on the door. 99-B in Park Gardens block. I looked around. No park or gardens in sight.
Door opened a crack. An ancient face looked out, and then I realised it wasn’t ancient – just aged. Prematurely aged by caff and the stresses of life in the ZZ. He was probably my age. A beard was clinging to existence on the bottom of his chin, but not much else.
He looked at us with the strange mixture of wired and exhausted that caff-heads get and said:
“You’ll want to come in. Nobody likes the Squad round here.”

When I was sat down in one of his too-soft chairs I said:
“I understand you’ve worked with the Rook here. Says you brought him this photo.”
“Yep. That’s one of the ones that’s been doing the rounds.”
“One of them? So there’s more?”
The man nodded. I glanced at Rook, who made a concerned face.
“How many more?”
“More than you’ll find,” said the man, grinning toothily. They were yellow and gappy and rotted. “You dumb flatfoot!”
He reached into his coat, and my sidearm was in my hand. It flashed and he went over backwards, tipping his chair so he landed on his back.
More polaroids spilled from his hand. I stood up, picked one up. Someone had crossed out the first “a” from the company logo and replaced it with a “k”. This was sprayed on the side of a building. Underneath it was painted a crude rendering of a man in a long raincoat flashing the viewer with a cartoonishly large member.
“These fucking animals,” I said. “Call it in.”
The Rook nodded. He hadn’t got up from his chair. Blood was pooling from the ugly wound in the man’s chest. I could see inside his heart from where I was standing.
Fucking satirists. The lowest of the low.

We searched the caff-junkie’s den for anything that might lead us closer to these copyright perverters. The photos were too damn cheap to take us anywhere, so we had to damn near turn the place upside down and shake it to see what fell out.
“Goddamn,” I said. “I could use a can.” I could feel my teeth on edge. We’re all caff-heads really, when you get right down to the bottom of it. Just some of us hold on tighter.
“You want me to run and-”
“Not right now, Rook. Not the time.” I opened a drawer and whistled. “Score.” It was a black address-book, the kind your grandparents had. I passed it to the kid. “Take a look through, see if anything jumps at ya.”
He riffled through the book quick, quicker than I’d have expected. Then I remembered this kid came from uptown – probably went to a company school. Don’t move his lips when he reads like the rest of us.
“Nothing much Sarge, only-”
“What?”
“There’s this apartment number here,” he said, showing me. “- only there’s no name, just a hyphen. A line,” he corrected, seeing my blank expression.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “That looks like something to me, kiddo. Good job.”

It was about seven then, so we pulled into a joint for a vat-burger and a couple of cans each. I could feel that nectar curling through my veins, cooling my blood and stilling the incipient shake in my fingertips. I would have stayed there all damn night.
“You knew that guy, didn’t you?” I said.
“He used to live uptown, but the company dropped him when he got too… bad. He called me up out of the blue when he got that first photo in his mailbox.”
“Or so he told you. Does it bother you he’s dead?” I asked. The Rook looked at me with steely blue eyes.
“Truthfully, sir? He was a caff’ed up junkie. You did the city a favour.”
That’s when I realised this kid was cold. Colder than a fresh case of glass bottles off the fridge truck. The kind of cold that freezes a man to death if he stands too close. I paid the check and we left. We’d kicked rocks for long enough. Time to pay our artistic friends a visit.

Rapped smartly on the door, just like I had before. It was Paradise Place, door 22. Smaller building than the one Rook’s informant had lived in. The number in the old-but-not-old man’s book was 23, but I had an inkling that going straight in hard like that would be a recipe for a cold glass of trouble.
“I’m Sergeant Mathis,” I said, flashing my badge at the middle-aged woman who opened the door. She gasped and put a hand over her mouth. “I’m guessing you know why I’m here.”
She nodded and glanced up the hall towards 23. I gave a curt nod of acknowledgement in return. The Rook leaned in, just wishing to make his presence known I think.
“You hear anything strange coming from number 23?” I said. “Or see anything? Anything could be useful.”
“People are always comin’ and goin’,” said the woman. “Odd people. Funny clothes. Looked like a bunch of phrenics.”
“Probably artistic types,” spat the Rook. “Come on,” he said to me. I could tell he was itching for some action after the incident earlier. He was practically foaming at the mouth.
“Wait,” I said. “Have you seen anything like this?” I held up one of the tamer photographs. The woman gasped and shook her head.
“That’s… who would do such a thing?” she said.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. And we believe your neighbours may be part of it,” said the Rook.
“Oh my- I never knew- me and my daughter, we keep to ourselves-”
“Nobody’s accusing you, ma’am,” I said coolly. “I was hoping you might have some insight as to their routines. When might be the best time to strike, that sort of thing.”

The woman explained to us the best she could that the time when we could get the most of these renegades in one swoop would be around 1am, when they came back from hustling the folks leaving the bars and pooled their winnings to put towards their next project.
Rook would have arrested her then and there just for knowing, but I grabbed his hand, and she explained that her daughter had heard them through the thin drywall that separated the apartments in this complex.

Backup came soon after in the form of Detective Folie, who had been on assignment in a nearby block, and Tactical Officer Jute. He distributed kevlan to the rest of us, the ultra-light armour slipping over my junked-out Zero Zone gear.
“Here we go again,” said Folie, and she grinned with teeth that seemed sharp at the ends.
Jute kicked the door just below the handle and the lock imploded and his rifle was up.
“Hit the floor!” he yelled, and as we followed him into the room there was the sound of about a dozen people dropping to their knees. They weren’t even armed. Idiots.
“Fucking fascists!” came a yell from behind us, from the doorway. There was a flash and I turned in time to see the Rook lower his gun.
She couldn’t have been that old, maybe sixteen. Crimson blood was streaming down her chest from a bubbling bullet hole in her throat.
“Millie!” cried the woman from 22.

I protected the kid from the worst of it in the paperwork. Caught myself a week’s suspension for it, too.