Safety Nation Chapter 1

It’s been a week since the announcement of my novel, Safety Nation. Now, I’m pleased to share the first chapter with you. I haven’t decided how many chapters I’m going to post online, but it will probably be around 100 pages of the book.

In the coming weeks you can expect more chapters, as well as the release date, and the cover art. Each update is really exciting for me. All the various aspects are still getting finalized (fonts, book size, layout, etc.). Really boring stuff for everyone else, but agonizing for me, because I want it to be perfect.

It probably goes without saying, but this chapter, as well as the entire book, is copyrighted.

Without further ado, enjoy the first chapter…

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Safety Nation by Logan Riley

1

Sex Detail.

I hated this job. Of all the possible assignments, this was the most disgusting. We spy on people having sex. Not the glamorous movie version of sex where two attractive people make well-choreographed love. It was usually two sweaty slobs clumsily slapping their bodies together. After several years away from this assignment, I was back, and not by choice.

The van was hot, and the stagnant air choked me. I tore at my tie and jerked the collar of my shirt down. That didn’t help. The stifling air was made worse by the body heat of the man next to me. Huxley sat with a pair of binoculars stuck to his face like they were an appendage. He sported a perverted grin.

Huxley was getting into it now. A rivulet of drool trickled from his mouth. I caught a glimpse of a substantial bulge in his pants, and quickly wished I hadn’t. He was a man who loved his job.

“Huxley, let’s get going,” I said.

“. . . not yet.”

“We confirmed the safety violation. What are we waiting for?”

“. . . it’s not . . . the right time.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

“I’ll say . . . when it’s time.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. I was trying to play by Huxley’s rules, but I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out. If this continued, I would have to put a stop to it.

I picked up my binoculars and peered at the house. The blinds were drawn. I turned on the infrared sensor, and two red shapes appeared. They were on the couch, the woman on her back, the man on top, practically smothering her. Her legs were wrapped around him as he thrust his pelvis rhythmically but out of synch with his partner. Like every couple I’d seen on Sex Detail, they were as ungraceful and bumbling as the next. I put my binoculars away.

“Huxley, can we get a move on, already?”

“. . . almost. Another . . . minute.”

Huxley was in charge, but I’m not sure why that compelled me to listen to him. I used to be in charge, but now, with the demotion, I had to answer to him. They could have put me anywhere, but they purposely sent me back to Sex Detail. Everyone knew I hated Huxley, and making me his subordinate was another way for the higher-ups to twist the knife in a little deeper.

I had showed up for my shift at seven o’clock p.m. All departments worked around the clock, but Sex Detail worked primarily at night. The heaviest number of violations occurred when people were home from work, relaxing, perhaps having a few drinks, and making poor choices. Some said the department was useless since ninety percent of violations went unnoticed. Nevertheless, the government kept the operation running.

As soon as I arrived, I went to Supply to get my equipment.

“Name and serial number,” the guy behind the bullet-proof glass said, disinterested.

“Smith. Number 1872124482.”

The disinterested guy clattered at his computer terminal. I knew he recognized me; we had both worked here for decades. But he had to go through this rigmarole every day because it was procedure. If he didn’t follow procedure, he’d violate safety regulations.

The terminal clicked and whirred. Eventually, he got the information he needed. “Welcome back, Inspector Smith. You’ve been approved. You can pick up your equipment at the Retrieval Station. Do you need directions?”

“No thanks.”

Of course I didn’t need directions. There was only one way I could go. I turned right and walked down a long, blazingly bright corridor. The ceiling was comprised almost entirely of fluorescent lights.

At the end of the hall was an automated box, like an old-fashioned package drop-box. The metal door was dented in several places. It greeted me with a robotic female voice.

“Please state your name and serial number.”

“Smith. Number 1872124482.”

“Processing . . .”

I could sense the line of agents behind me growing. As we drudged through the hallway, we were often delayed by this infernal machine.

“Error. Please state your name and serial number,” the robot voice said.

I leaned close and shouted, “Smith! Number 1872124482!”

“Processing . . .”

The person behind me murmured. The other agents were growing impatient. For the safety of the nation, one would think the government would pay for more efficient equipment, but I guess it wasn’t in the budget.

“Approved. Welcome back, Inspector. Please collect your equipment and proceed to the Unlocking Station. Do you require directions?”

“No.”

I threw the metal door open, and pulled out a small box. It was made of thick, clear, bullet-proof plastic, and, of course, it was locked. It contained all my equipment: badge, weapon, handcuffs, binoculars, and multi-tool. I would have preferred to smash it open and bypass the next station, but that was impossible. Burgess had shown me that.

Burgess had been an agent, too. One day, he brought his equipment box to Unlocking, but it malfunctioned and they couldn’t open it. This was the fourth time it had happened that week. That’s when Burgess snapped. He flung the box down and pulled out a real gun, the kind that shot real bullets. He blasted the box at point-blank range. The bullets ricocheted, and one of them hit another agent in the chest, killing him. When the gun was empty, Burgess was hauled away. Nobody heard from him in the two years since. He was probably in the asylum now.

So, I carried my bullet-proof box down another impossibly long, impossibly bright corridor until I reached the next window. Another guy sat behind another pane of impenetrable glass. “Name and serial number,” he said.

“Smith. Number 1872124482.”

He was a little friendlier than the first guy, but not much. He punched my information into his terminal and waited. We were always waiting. A study once showed that slowness led to fewer accidents, which was safer than the alternative. And so, we waited.

“Hello, Inspector Smith,” the slightly friendlier guy said. “Pass your equipment box through the slot to your right. If your serial number matches the one on the box, I’ll unlock it.”

I did as instructed and returned to waiting. I was great at waiting. After a solid four minutes, the guy said, “Please take your equipment.”

I reached into the slot and removed my equipment. I attached everything to my belt except my badge, which was secured to the inner breast pocket of my suit jacket. The equipment was small enough that it wasn’t noticeable, and it didn’t impede my movements. I turned right again, and circled back to where I had started.

After I had my equipment, I went into the Central Office. It was a huge room with a million lights shining down on a thousand desks. The walls were drab and devoid of color or artwork. There were no partitions of any kinds. Partitions obstructed things from view, and that wasn’t safe. Black signs with white block text hung over areas where the different departments were located: Transit, Healthcare, Hair Care, Construction, Maritime, Education, Sewage, the list went on and on. I waded through the vast sea of desks until I reached the middle of the great room.

Huxley was there, leaning against a desk, his black hair tussled, his clothes smeared with ancient stains. When he saw me, he bared his mossy teeth in a sinister sneer. I had only seen him for a second and I was already annoyed.

“Look who’s back,” he said.

“We’re working together again?”

“Just like old times.”

“Wonderful,” I groaned.

“And you thought you were done with Sex Detail.”

“I was.”

“Nobody ever really leaves. We all love it too much.”

“You’re the only one. You’re too perverted to work anywhere else.”

“That’s no way to talk to a superior,” he said in a mocking voice. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. I’ll let ya off easy this time.”

“You’re a saint.”

We stared at each other while Huxley’s brain tried to process my sarcasm. Breaking the silence, I said, “Where are we heading tonight?”

Huxley slapped his arm around the back of my shoulders and squeezed. He was strong, and the pressure quickly started to hurt. With an undercurrent of venom, he said, “Smith, my man, a lot has changed since you became a hot shot. We don’t do just one or two dates a night. Now we do three, four, five.”

He squeezed harder, but I broke free of his crushing grip. He chuckled and said, “I bet you’re glad to be back.”

I averted my eyes for a moment. If I looked at him now, I would want to punch his stupid, grinning face. And that would definitely be a safety violation. I waited for my pulse to slow. When it did, I looked up again.

Huxley nodded his head in the direction of the garage and said, “I’ll drive.”

And so, our night began.

In the old days, Sex Detail had the manpower to cover the entire city. Over the years, budget cuts reduced the department’s manpower. They even took away all of the department’s desks except for one. Eventually, there weren’t enough agents to cover all the married couples and people in long-term relationships. So, the detail focused on dates and new romances. That’s where most of the sex violations occurred. The married couples weren’t having that much sex.

We caught up with the first couple around nine o’clock as their date was concluding. According to the file, it was their second date, and the girl was “very religious.” When she and the guy got to the door, they kissed. The guy grabbed the girl’s butt, and she backed away, ending the date in a slap. The guy was left standing on the doorstep. Huxley looked sullen, but didn’t say anything. He shifted the van into gear, and we drove to the second case.

This one was between two kids, barely of consenting age. They returned to the boy’s apartment. Since this was their fourth date, the probability of them consummating was extremely high. Using the binocular’s X-ray function, we were able to see them engage in wild sex. They bounced off the walls in all sorts of incredible positions. But for Huxley it wasn’t good enough. They used a condom. They had been safe, which meant we couldn’t do a thing. We moved on to the next case.

We caught up with them as they were leaving a restaurant. Their car swerved all over the road. They must have sabotaged the Auto-Driver function, which was illegal. The government mandated all cars, with the exception of law enforcement, be driven by computers to ensure the safety of the populace. We could have arrested them for that, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun for Huxley.

When they got to the house, they started going at it almost immediately. This was when Huxley got excited for the first time this evening. The couple was not practicing safe sex.

Huxley panted cartoonishly as he watched the amorous couple. It wasn’t the sex that excited him, because he hadn’t reacted this way with the previous couple. No, it was the fact they were breaking a safety statute, and he would get to arrest them.

“Huxley, it’s been long enough.”

“. . . almost there.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I couldn’t spend another minute in that enclosed space, in the heat, with Huxley doing unmentionable things to himself. I slid open the van’s side door and hopped out. The air outside was cooler and less stagnant. “You will not!” Huxley hissed. “That’s an order!”

I paused. I had a choice to make. I could play by the rules, as I always had, or I could ignore them. Years of playing by the rules had burned me. Doing that landed me right back where I started. I didn’t care about the rules any longer.

Huxley cursed. I heard him clamber out of the van and race up behind me, his breaths labored. We skulked to the front door of the house. Huxley gave the doorknob a jiggle and found it was unlocked. “Follow me,” he whispered. “Quietly.”

We pushed into the house. As we neared the living room, I could hear the heavy moaning of the two participants. It was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of slapping flesh. They were still going at it. They certainly had stamina.

We entered the living room. On the couch, two huge masses of flesh gyrated against each other. I couldn’t tell where one person ended and the other began. The man started thrusting faster. He raised his head up, and he emitted a high-pitched whine, about to climax.

“Freeze!” Huxley shouted.

He drew his weapon and pointed it at the couple. The woman screamed. The man pulled out of her and tumbled onto the floor with a thud.

“You are both under arrest for violation of Safety Statute 12-34-56, failure to use a condom while engaged in sexual intercourse as a non-married couple without permission to procreate,” Huxley said.

He holstered the weapon and took out his handcuffs. He slapped them on the wrists of the man and continued, “You are also in violation of Safety Statute 78-12-22, tampering with your motor vehicle’s Auto-Driver function, 69-42-06, driving while under the influence of alcohol, and 82-82-29, failure to lock your residence during evening hours.”

The woman kept on screaming, and the man blubbered with surprise. Neither of them registered a word Huxley had just said.

“Ya got anything to say for yourselves?”

They remained bewildered.

“Scumbags,” Huxley said. “Smith, cuff her and let’s go.”

I handcuffed the woman, and we escorted them, naked, to the van. They smelled like sweat and sex. I tried to ignore the odors.

As we drove back to headquarters, a permanent smile was etched on Huxley’s face. He had waited all that time just to interrupt them at that precise moment. He was sadistic. A stellar government employee.

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To be continued!