Well, there went any hope of a quiet afternoon. 

With a note of lazy reluctance, Omar obeyed Mira’s command and pulled the receiver close to his mouth. His other hand opened the front drawer and throws a box of tissues onto Mira’s coffee-soaken lap.  “ Dispatch, this is Zero-Eight-Five-Two. Ten-Four, copy.” The line chittered with static haze before a clear voice parted through it. 

“ Ten-Four, Zero-Eight-Five-Two. Be advised that witness reports indicate 3, over.” 

3? Omar’s stomach knotted on itself, his knuckles turning white. Hopefully, there’d be two or three units to help back them up if things went south but with most of their units either sick or occupied with keeping martial law on the streets, they’d be lucky to get even one. Omar hesitated, looking at Mira nervously, before recollecting himself and replying back. 

“10-4. Inform us if units are en-route,” The radio clicked silent and Omar signed as Mira sped through Lambour’s roads and bricken buildings. “Fuck,” Omar whisepered to himself, shaking his head. As if an pandemic wasn’t bad enough, it looked like disaster attracted the worst of opportunists. It appeared that Lambour County wasn’t going to the sleepy northern town that he originally thought it was going to be. Puddles were split into mist under the wheels of their cruiser as they entered the perimeter of the outer eastern boroughs. 

Omar looked at the panoply of neon signs that hung off the sides of shop fronts, laundromats and craft shops in Willard County. Willard Street was a local staple in Lambour, connected to the first by-way for weary travellers off the I-95. Now, those same glass windows that showed glazed baked tarts and heirloom crafted wooden puppets were covered by seams of wax papers which were jaggedly written with  phrases in red ink such as “STAY OUT” and “ORDER ONLINE”. The gas station at the corner was cherry red and looked positively quaint in its antiquity, the cherry red pumps still visible in the heavy rain. As Mira stopped the car off the side of the gas station, Omar could see a few local citizens standing by. He squinted through the rain to get a good look but the only thing he could make out is the door of the gas station, slightly left ajar. 
 
Before opening the door, Omar places a white parka folded up into a triangular bundle into Mira’s hands and puts on one himself. He pushes it open and immediately regrets it. The rain is heavy, blistering. The plastic parka he’s wearing isn’t enough to stop the drops from battering him senseless. He dips his hand into his hand and fumbles around for his sidearm. His fingers unclasp the strap and the tupperware like sensation of a standard U.S issued Glock greets his fingers. His index finger hooks around the trigger guard as he reaches into the car to take out the microphone. 

“ This is the Sheriff’s office. All individuals inside the premises of this building must come out now with their hands behind their head. Failure to do so will lead to - “ 

The sound of thunder rips through the air. Then, Omar realizes it’s not thunder when a spiderweb of cracks unfurl across their window. He ducks down and shouts a word in Hindi that he thinks is a swear.

“ Should we go in?,” Omar questioned Mira, his eyes shifting uneasily towards her. His senior's expression creases in concentration before replying back. " Stay here and keep him talking. I'll go around the back." 

A protest began to arise in Omar's throat about how they should wait for reinforcements but the longer they'd wait, the more likely the situation would escalate. Omar took ahold of the radio again. 

" This is your final warning. Step out with your arms in the air." 

" Fuck you, man!," A voice cried out from the gas station. " You drive away first or I swear to Christ, I'm going to shoot the guys I have here in the head!"