by Carl Damen
Instantly, more rioters were on him, but he held his own, twisting and dodging with grace, blocking and striking as if this were all just an elaborate dance.
The light of a streetlamp glanced off the visor of his helmet, and for just a moment Jack thought he caught a glimpse of Ken. For some reason this terrified him, and he felt a jolt of nausea run up his spine.
The officer looked up, seemingly knowing that frightened eyes were upon him. The blankness of his helmet locked with Jack's eyes for a moment, then the officer—Ken—disengaged from his attackers and lunged in Jack's direction.
Jack reached back for Amanda's arm.
"Ow!"
"We have to go—"
"There's still too many—"
"NOW!"
Jack turned away from the rapidly approaching Ken and ran in the direction of the church.
"Wait!" Amanda was following him now; she latched onto his sleeve and managed to keep pace as he barreled through rioters.
Sounds of injury and screams of pain followed behind them.
Jack pushed ahead, fueled by the irrational fear that Ken was gunning for him. If it even was Ken, if he even was coming after him specifically; it could be a police officer coming in his direction coincidentally.
He risked a look over his shoulder and saw their pursuer hot on their trail, leaping over rioters, quickly knocking down those he couldn't scale.
"Who the fuck is that?"
"I don't know!" No point loading on more baggage than she could carry at this stage.
They were coming up on a side street that was nearly empty; only a few people stood and gawked at the riot, recording the chaos with their mobiles. Jack broke past the final line of rioters, into the emptiness, and risked a final look back—no one was following them. Police still battled civilians, the violence still engulfed the streets, but there was no phantom police officer chasing them.
A girl around Amanda's age approached them, staring fixedly at the screen of the mobile she was pointing at them. "What's going on in there? What's it like?"
Jack, still trying to catch his breath, pushed the mobile away and walked slowly down the street.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going home!"
A moment later he heard Amanda's footsteps following him to safety.
For the first time in his memory, Jack could see stars in the sky over Philadelphia. The usual light that glared from the city had gone off about half an hour ago, flickering off in miles-wide blocks. Only isolated points burned in the darkness: hospitals, police stations, a few other buildings supplied by generators.
Fires.
Sky Crest was one of the safe beacons of civilization, and Amanda lay sleeping on the living room couch, warmed by the glow of the television giving second-hand accounts of what she had experienced that day.
Jack stood in space over the edge of the building, supported by the thin railing of the balcony. Below him the city was nearly dead, the only signs of life the occasional spark of gunfire or flare of torchlight. The city had fallen back to the technology of its colonial past.
Shortly before the power had gone out, the governor had interrupted every television broadcast and informed the people of Pennsylvania that he was declaring a state of emergency. The National Guard was to be deployed as soon as humanly possible, and the city of Philadelphia was to be put under martial law until such a time as the riots could be ended and peace restored.
His announcement had only made things worse.
Sounds of sniffling reached out from the apartment, barely audible over the screams from below. Amanda was not taking this well; Jack knew she felt responsible for all of this. As much as he wanted to comfort her, though, he knew there was some truth to her belief. There was no way she could have predicted any of this would happen, but she had thrown the snowball that had touched this off.
Jack pushed off the balcony rail and walked inside. He stood behind the couch and listened to the news anchor tick off statistics: deaths, arrests, cost of property damage. Every few minutes a talking head would appear and wonder where the president was in all of this, what he would do to help. Then would come talk of E.H.U.D.s: were they behind this? Was this the first steps in a mass destabilization campaign?
A toilet flushed, and Grant walked into the room. He stood at the edge of the sunken living room, looking at his daughter, then glanced furtively at Jack.
"She's right, you know."
Jack nodded. "She needs to get out of here."
Grant sniffed and swallowed. "I hate to see her go, but... This isn't a place for a kid, especially with what she's got on her now."
"And the grandkids."
Grant visibly restrained himself from laughing. "You won't let me live this down, will you?"
Jack shook his head. "You're old, dude. Get used to it."
Grant didn't respond for nearly a minute. He stepped down into the living room, approached the couch, and leaned over to stroke Amanda's forehead. "I'm not ready..."
Jack placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'll get the tickets. You call Denise."
"I'm sure she'll be overjoyed. Amanda's living up to every expectation she had for her."
"Who's going to tell Ware?"
Grant stiffened. "Amanda can call him if she wants. It's best if our paths don't cross for a few more years..."
Jack nodded.
"Look... I know things haven't been the best between us over the last few months. I still think there's more going on we don't know about with you, but..." Grant paused and rubbed at the back of his head. "I just wanted to thank you for everything you're doing here. All those years I had without you... They've really shown me how much I need you."
Jack nodded. "You've gotten me through worse."
Grant chuckled and shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I guess I did." He sighed, then reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. "Listen, I've been told that there's an emergency triage center setting up downstairs. Apparently this place is owned by the NSA, and he's got local National Guard diverting wounded overflow here. So, I'm going to head down and work a bit. Can you tell Amanda what's going on if she wakes up before I get back?"
Jack nodded.
"I'll call Denise when I get back."
Jack nodded.
Grant kissed his daughter, then left.
Jack stared after his brother, wishing there were more he could do to help. Somehow, he felt just as responsible for this situation as Amanda did.
He turned, walked back to the balcony, and stared out at his the walls of his normalcy crumbled and floated away like ash in the fires that were spreading below...
10
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
The black face of the powerless television stared out into the room, absorbing what little light there was, reflecting none. Nestled deep within the confluence of shadows that was the couch hunched Ken, feeling more dead than alive after a day spent chasing the lawless hordes through the streets. A muscle in his leg suddenly tried to contract, and he slowly stretched it out, dislodging a small mountain of food wrappers that had grown around him over the last several hours.
"What was that?" Lauren called from the kitchen.
He didn't answer; it was really none of her business. "How's the food coming?"
"It's hard with no light, but—"
"Don't care; I'll eat anything at this point. Just bring it, okay?"
She sighed. "You're the hungry one..."
Dishes rattled, furniture banged, and Lauren swore loudly.
"The ottoman's to your left."
She stepped around it, just barely, and arrived in front of the couch carrying a plate full of runny eggs and nearly raw bacon. "Where are you?"
"On the couch."
"I told you we needed more flashlights."
"Lower your left hand about six inches. There." He grabbed the plate and began shoveling the eggs into his mouth without a fork. "Mmm, goo'."
"So glad
you like it." Lauren banged around in the dark for a moment before sitting down on the couch. "I can't believe you've been out in this all day."
"I's no' so ba'... Jus' go'a show 'em oos boss..."
She brought her legs up and leaned towards him. "You know I don't like it when you talk like that. I'm really scared."
He shrugged, knowing she couldn't see him in the dark. She was worried about him; that was cute. He liked it when she was like this. It meant she wasn't thinking about Jack.
They sat in silence for a while, Ken eating and Lauren fretting. She was afraid he'd be hurt, killed, that she'd be left alone again, just as she had when Jack—
He swallowed. "What say we go up on the roof later? City should be dark enough no one'd see us if we—"
Shattered glass filled the room, followed by a muffled crunch as something heavy landed nearby. Lauren jumped back, nearly landing on top of Ken. He pushed past her, made out a brick laying on the floor next to the couch. Moonlight shone through their shattered front window, angry voices flowing in from the street.
"What happened?" Lauren was struggling to stand, her footing unsure in a puddle of yolk.
"Some assholes just broke our window."
"WHAT?"
"I'll handle it. You go back to the bedroom. Gun's in the closet, second shelf up. Use it if you need to."
She nodded—Ken could barely see the gesture, but it showed that she understood and was able to act; always a good sign in a panic situation. And now Ken wouldn't have to worry about her. He could deal with these interlopers without fear of Lauren getting in the way.
He stopped by the small closet next to the front door and rummaged around for a moment, coming up with a baseball bat. Then, it was out onto the stoop.
Outside the gate at the bottom of their steps was a crowd of forty or so people, clutching flashlights and mobiles, the modern equivalent of torches and pitchforks. One or two held, as was to be expected, bricks.
Ken hefted the bat and let it rest on his shoulder. "The hell you people want?"
One man, tall and heavy-set, stepped forward. "You killed my son!" he shouted, his voice slightly accented. "You killed Raife!"
"Raife?" Ken was taken aback. He had killed a few people in his lifetime, certainly, but he hadn't killed any Raifes. Especially not this Raife. "Shit, I haven't been near a school since I graduated."
"You may not have killed him personally, but it was your words that killed him! Your hate, your anger!"
"No, it was his stupidity!" The crowd gasped; they didn't expect their victim to speak against them. "Damn kid wants to get involved in politics, that's his own business. But when he starts screwing around with big people, he has to be prepared to get screwed in turn."
The crowd tried to yell him down, but he kept on talking. "Besides, it wasn't us cops who threw the first stone." A quick burst of yelling from the crowd. "Fine, snowball, whatever."
Someone hurled a brick, and it bounced off the door behind Ken.
He gritted his teeth, and tightened his fingers around the shaft of the bat. "Alright, that's enough." He lifted the bat from his shoulder and let it drop to hang loosely at the end of his arm. "You got 'til five to get out of here before I start defending my home."
"You don't defend anything! You kill and destroy! You crush the voice of America!"
"I'm already up to three."
The crowd bellowed something, its multiple voices blurring the slogan into something unrecognizable.
"And... five." Ken lunged off of the stoop and landed on the low wall fronting his house. He bounced up, then came down at Mr. Omerta. The bat whistled through the air, contacting Omerta's knee from the side. Something let out a sharp crack. Ken lifted the bat to examine it; the last several inches had splintered and stood off at an angle from the bat.
Omerta was now laying on the pavement, groaning and crying, scrabbling weakly at his twisted leg. Someone leapt over him and charged at Ken.
Ken readied the bat and swung, in the proper position for hitting a baseball, at his attacker's head. The attacker twisted, fell across Omerta.
That was the last thing Ken remembered clearly. After that time fell away and he entered into his dance for the second time that day. The bat became an increasingly frayed extension of his arm, striking out and transmitting his quiet rage in short bursts to whoever came within range.
Someone came running in from the front; she may have been holding a knife. Ken leaned into a deep lunge, the bat projecting outwards in a straight line, connecting with the woman's chin, sending shockwaves down the wood into Ken's flesh. It felt good.
He pushed upwards, pirouetting and coming down into a crouch, the bat describing the arc of his movement, hitting a wrist supporting a brick, feeling the twin bones buckle, the brick fall through space and land on toes protected only by cheap canvas and rubber. There were screams.
Ken didn't register them as sounds of pain; for him they were akin to a score marker. He was in a pinball machine, the screams were the pegs he hit, lighting up and telling him he was still on top, still winning. A scream: one less person to threaten his well-being. A defeated whimper: One less person to distract his time from Lauren. A sudden pained gasp: One less person to tell him he was incapable of defending what was his.
In this situation, he ruled, he was god, he was untouchable.
Eventually the ringing sounds of success became fewer and farther in between, and Ken slowly came away from his ruminations. He was leaning forward on one knee, arms outstretched to either side, ten or so people lying in the street around him. The rest had fled.
He dropped his bat and stood, quickly ascertaining that his attackers were still alive. Good; maybe now no one would threaten the safety of his home.
He walked briskly up the steps, trying to make it back to the couch before fatigue overtook him; his muscles were already trembling and the world was beginning to fade. He pushed open the door and heard the labored click of a spring pulling a mechanism into position.
"Freeze, asshole."
"It's me, Lu."
A second mechanical sound, this one more muffled. "Oh, my God, you're okay." Her voice was a mixture of relief and pride. She had been ready to defend herself, as needless as the gesture had ultimately been.
"Yeah." He walked over to her, gingerly took the gun, and hugged her close. "Yeah, I'm okay. And so are you, huh? You did a good job there, ready to take over for me."
"No one's going to take my man from me again."
There was every possibility that her 'man' meant Ken... but all he heard was 'Jack'. "You think you could get me some food, maybe?"
He returned to the couch, to the safety of the darkness, and tried not to hear 'Jack' with every word Lauren said.
Deep banks of smoke and fog settled in over the city, turning the dawn light into an indistinct glow. It cut visibility down to a few hundred feet in any direction, slowing traffic from a crawl to a virtual standstill. Combined with the sheer number of people trying to leave the city, every freeway, highway, and back alley had been turned into a stagnant river of steel and plastic.
In the back seat of Grant's car, Amanda yawned and stretched. "How long we been out?"
Jack glanced at the dashboard clock. "Umm... about three hours, now."
"How far we gone?"
"Ten miles, I think."
"Shit."
Grant drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "This is why I made your reservations for tonight."
"Should've taken SEPTA."
"They're shut down."
Just as Amanda was drifting back into sleep and Jack was considering what music he should listen to, ripples from somewhere far up the road reached them, and traffic jolted forward, clipping along at a brisk fifteen miles an hour.
The sudden speed only lasted a few minutes. As quickly as they had sped up, cars ahead of him braked and Grant was forced back into idleness.
Jack rolled down his window and leaned out, half-standing to see anyt
hing beyond the next car. There, that was what had caused the second slow down. In the opposite lane, appearing like a legion of demons marching from the sulfurous fumes of hell, came rank after rank of a military convoy: Humvees, supply trucks, personnel carriers, tanks. The National Guard had arrived.
