by Ginger Booth
“Don’t think so. Catatonic. Internal bleeding. Raped a bazillion times, kicked, beaten. They did a number on her. You continuing to 7 West?”
Frosty slipped his valentine back into his coat. “No.” He surprised himself with the conviction of his gut instinct, and puzzled it out. “Let’s not stir two anthills on the same day. Kringle might need to make another statement tonight. Reinforce 6E and hope like hell the two ends don’t join forces.”
Maz grinned at the new nickname. “Are you sure they’re separate gangs?”
“Yeah, you missed the last bit. They’ve got 200 fighters and four blocks strung along 6th. Probably centered between 24th and 25th.”
Maz boggled, swinging his arms half-around in enthusiasm. “You got all that? Outstanding! Tell me we’re gonna kill them.”
“Oh, yeah.” How, was the question.
21
February 14, E-day plus 68.
Ava threw up an arm block, which deflected the attacking dog into the stairwell wall. Right behind her and a junior black belt himself, Germy gave the critter a sharp chop. Soccer fan Switch kicked it into the wall to fall to the half-floor landing. Zoey, who’d soon learned to quit whining, jumped on the poor beast with both feet, then cut its throat. With a deep sigh of relief, Ava left the black fifteen-pound bulldog-terrier mutt to her for gutting.
She turned and stepped up to the hall just as an old man emerged from his apartment, maybe 80 with a shock of straight white hair, tall and thin with broad shoulders, once strong but moving slower these days. “Roger!” he cried. He withdrew into his apartment at the sight of her.
“That your dog, sir? Roger?” She hoped he wasn’t calling for a stronger friend. She bounded toward his door and pushed it open. He brandished a broom at her. “Black yap-yap dog?”
The broom lowered. “You didn’t hurt him?” His familiar Slavic accent was faint, possibly most of a lifetime spent in the States.
“I’m sorry, sir, we killed him.” The man gagged out a cry. His broom clattered to the worn linoleum. “Feral dogs attack us all the time. I’m sorry for your loss. Would you…like some of the meat?”
“I can’t, I…can’t.” He turned and stumbled into the wall on his way to the living room, or only room, a cozy den piled with books and a mountain of bedding on a sofa by the window. He collapsed to a seat, large hands between his knees.
Judging from the pictures everywhere, he liked to sketch people and animals in the parks. Ava peered closer at the nearest drawing on the wall, full of pencil texture hatching and some grey-tone pastels and washes, plus a few artful smudges of color to make the composition pop. Ava’s art teachers in school presented those techniques, their efforts wasted on her. “You’re a talented artist, sir. We won’t hurt you.”
“Ahhh. You already did. Roger was all I… We took care of each other. He caught me rats to share.” He waved to indicate a metal box on an otherwise bare table across the window from him.
Ava peered in and found it to be a clever little stove, about 10 inches cubed, with adjustable airflow and a fuel grate, and a food grill on top. From the fittings Ava could tell it all folded flat, a convenient little camp stove, currently full of burnt paper. Her fingers itched to steal it. Her Coleman’s ‘generator’ bar broke last week. Frosty mourned the loss of his hot drink daily, and she missed it too. “Do you have a Coleman stove, too, sir?”
His head hung down, and he pointed to a closet, a corner demarcated by a cheap torn shower curtain, swagged to one side. “No fuel.”
“If I find some fuel, can I trade it for one of your stoves? Or just the Coleman’s generator bar?” She turned back to see him contemplating a serious knife, its blade a handspan long. Did he mean to throw it? Ava hoped not, but she and the karate team trained at blocking thrown blades, not terribly risky in her layers under a winter coat. She blinked stupidly, lips open. “Don’t, sir.”
“I’m dying. Tumor. The pain is… But I kept going, for Roger.”
“You won’t yell out, will you sir? Call someone up from below to attack us?”
“They’re monsters downstairs. No, I don’t want them. Just go. Please. Go away.”
Ava backed out reluctantly. They weren’t much alike, but somehow he reminded her of her beloved grandfather, Deda. She hoped he didn’t do anything rash. She couldn’t imagine being tempted to kill herself. But she’d seen plenty of adults give up since Ebola. Frosty seemed to supply Hotwire’s will to live daily.
Unbidden, the kids had scattered to glean the other apartments, netting a few shriveled potatoes and an onion, among other overlooked prizes. When they emerged on the roof, they found a pigeon coop, door hanging open, the birds free to come and go. The boys were delighted, managed to snag two before the flapping wings beat their escape. Pigeon was damned fine eating!
By now the sky wore a quiet robin’s egg blue, and the skyscraper tops caught the first rays of pink-yellow sun, Ava’s direct view of the dawn blocked. Someone had collected pots to await the spring, though they hadn’t found much soil. There was a fair bit of gravel up here for drainage, though. She could make it work.
Who was she kidding? Someone else would make it work. She’d stay at the dojo. She already collected pots and soils herself.
The team took turns and watched through the day. West 25th had barricades of a sort on the 7th Avenue end, not the 6th, plus a few trashcans for water collection. But if the young black guys who occasionally met and walked constituted a gang, they were far smaller than the White Tigers. They certainly weren’t on a defensive posture.
After a few hours, Ava ducked inside out of the raw wind and remembered her self-assigned mission to find rubbing alcohol to fuel the Coleman stove for Roger’s bereaved owner. She thought to check with him first which floors to avoid.
He was dead, bled out on the couch. His shirt already open for the blade, Ava lifted it and grimaced at the visible tumor bulging from his gut, stabbed in his final act. She covered him with a blanket, then claimed his stoves. Since the neighbors were used to him cooking, Ava dared to use the clever little folding stove to grill them a supper of pigeon and rat. Her barbecue glaze of ketchup, duck sauce, and mustard came out delicious.
After a couple dozing hours, they slipped home through the silent night.
Ava found Frosty in the dojo waiting up for her, though he yawned mightily. She stowed her new Coleman stove in the office, then pecked a kiss on his cheek. She drew out the cooked meat she saved for him, and offered it. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He smiled at her, then closed his eyes to savor the delectable barbecued pigeon first. He disappeared into experiencing his food as thoroughly as she did. In constant motion, his muscular body must scream for sustenance. He claimed he’d decided to quit feeling hungry. Ava didn’t believe him.
He opened his eyes, brow furrowed. “Six months? Was our anniversary last week?”
Ava snickered. “Five months, on the 26th from our first date. You aren’t very good at math, are you?” He was so good at so much, she treasured being better than him at something.
“Verbal to a fault,” he agreed ruefully. “Had to take statistics instead of calculus. I worried I wouldn’t get into Yale because of that.”
“Their loss for not accepting you,” Ava assured him. She smiled, then dropped her eyes in discomfort. She wanted to nurse her grudge. She also wanted to drop-kick her grudge and make love tonight. She never had a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day before. He confused her.
“Your present is upstairs. I couldn’t sleep before I knew you were back safe.”
“I was right, Frosty. My kids and I did great as scouts.”
“Never doubted you. I just don’t like you out of my sight. Makes me anxious.”
She shivered at a sudden chill. Maybe she was his dog Roger, and Germy and the other kids as well.
“Any luck on diplomacy?” she asked as they trudged to the 3rd floor.
“Learned a lot. The bastards on 6th Avenue need to die slowly in agon
y.”
She paused to gape at him. OK, he could be cold, but rarely cruel.
People were sleeping. He let them into the apartment before continuing. “Picked up a white girl they passed around, brutalized. She’s catatonic in the hospital.”
Ava’s heart hammered so hard she could hear it.
“I’m sorry, baby. Shouldn’t have said that.” He crouched to draw a gift from a bottom cabinet still stocked with cookie cutters and baking pans. “Happy Valentine’s.”
He’d wrapped a box in metallic silver paper with cheerful pink and red hearts, and a glittery snowman gift tag. She turned it over to read, ‘Ava, I love you forever. Cade.’ She froze and re-read that several times.
“Signing it Frosty felt redundant. Open it.”
She peeled off the paper, hoping this wasn’t flimsy summer lingerie. But no, her jaw dropped as her fingers unveiled dry mixes for blueberry and buttermilk pancakes, cornbread and biscuits, just add water and cook, plus a cute bottle of olive oil infused with garlic and basil.
“Not very romantic, but –”
His apology was interrupted as Ava flung her arms around his neck. She kissed him sincerely this time. When they broke for air, she murmured, “I think I’ll love you forever, too. No matter what else happens, Cade.”
“I’ll let you call me Cade once because it’s our first Valentine’s,” he warned her. “Don’t get spoiled.” He couldn’t finish the sentence without laughing at himself. They fell together sobbing with giggles. As the laughter died back, he teased, “That was your plan? For Valentine’s Day, I get whatever food happened along? You give me that every day.”
“Oh! I figured you already found it.” She crooked a finger and led him toward the bed alcove, snagging the solar desk lamp so he could leave his latest stubby staircase candle behind. She pointed to the dresser. “Didn’t you look for clothes this morning?”
“I don’t have any clean –” He opened his drawer, chock full of clean underwear. “Socks! You washed my laundry?” True, every apartment supplied a wardrobe, but hundreds of kids ran through the supply near at hand. By now they had to wash and dry them with cracked winter hands in icy pool water. Then their rich and itchy collection of lice and fleas would happily hop to the new clothes anyway. Easier to lower their standards.
He counted through them. She’d supplied 15 pairs of clean socks to keep his feet clean and dry twice a day for a week. “Wow, baby. That was a lot of work.”
“Yeah. I thought, you know, it was caring about your comfort and right next to your body for a week.” Ava got tangled and bashful trying to explain, and gave up. “That’s dumb.”
He sank to the bed to gaze up at her. “Not at all. I love it! Thank you.”
They made love with enthusiasm that night, Ava’s first experience with make-up sex. She cuddled to his chest and felt in love with him all over again.
Then he pointed out, “Baby, you could hire someone to wash our clothes. Rank hath its privileges.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She hit him. He laughed and immobilized her, nestled spoon-fashion for warmth to sleep.
In the night, he sat bolt upright screaming from a nightmare. She held him to her breast until he calmed. He never spoke a word, and in the morning didn’t remember it happened.
22
February 20, E-day plus 74.
“Smiley!” Maz cried out, as a draft of cooler air accompanied their scout through the door. Frosty’s head whiplashed away from the punching bags. The pair goofed around in the dojo late with Jake, waiting and growing increasingly anxious for Smiley’s return from his mission. They grabbed their gi jackets, discarded in the milder evening, and hustled into the office. Smiley grabbed himself some water along the way.
Frosty clapped him on the back. “Did you eat?” He waved the scar-lipped teen to the best seat in the room.
“They fed me. A lot. Spicy, some kind of Caribbean meat pie for dinner.”
“Caribbean,” Jake pounced, straight to business. “What kind?”
“Puerto Rican gang. Call themselves Libre. Yeah, Frosty, Elon says he likes that we’re white American, and they’re Puerto Rican. Celebrate their identity, he says. He seeks alliance, not merger.”
“So you found Elon. Start at the beginning. Any trouble crossing 6th?” That was Frosty’s first concern. West 23rd seemed quiet for the intervening block to Madison Square, and they watched it constantly from the 6E barricade. But Hip Hop blocked their intersection religiously, usually four guards per shift, and more at the other cross-streets, with their south barricade at 22nd, and their HQ in a coffee shop a block and a half north of them.
“Pretty quiet at 3 a.m.,” Smiley assured him. “But it was pitch dark last night, overcast with ball lightning.”
He needed to be careful of those – they cast enough light to see by. This new weather wrinkle was a familiar hazard. The news Before claimed that the dirt carried aloft from the Dust Bowl rubbed together to generate the roving balls of static electricity. They didn’t electrocute when they attacked, but they hurt a lot. They appeared to be attracted to conductors like human bodies and bare metal. Trial and error proved that throwing at penny through the ball worked. The ball swerved away to follow the purer conductor, preferably into a puddle, where the thing happily ground itself to death. The younger kids played with them.
Smiley went on to recount his trek to Libre, guided by a sentry from Elon’s gang who spotted him with night vision goggles. (Jake wanted a crate full.) Smiley was treated to breakfast and blankets to sleep at the sentry’s place until Elon called him to meet around 1 p.m.
“He was pissed at first, Frosty, that it took you so long to respond. But Puño – that was my guide’s handle, means Fist in Spanish – he talked Elon around. ‘Look at the maps and research they’re sharing, Elon!’ So I hurried up and showed him the map, and told him we were scouting the neighborhood when they contacted us. Elon thawed after that.”
Frosty interrupted. “Tell me about Elon. What do you make of him? Good guy?”
Smiley rocked his head so-so. “Your greeting card might have come from Puño, I’m not sure. It was Puño’s idea to contact us. He ran the scrounge on the next block of 23rd, and heard about us from evicted grownups. Puño’s cool. Black belt, one dan, he said to tell you. Elon and his lieutenants, you’re talking some serious criminals. Or, actually I’m not sure about Elon. He defended Puño from his nasties. Maybe only his warlords served hard time. They’re older, immune to Ebola. They ran into each other on the streets and got a head start capturing turf while everyone else was holed up sick. Laid claim to Madison Square and proceeded to swap out anyone who wasn’t Puerto Rican.”
“So the gang isn’t all male fighters?” Maz asked.
“No, whole community, babies to seniles. Elon’s got two queen bitches, real hard asses. Both live with him. Better him than me, you know? Those chicks could tear Kat to pieces.”
Maz continued, “You know how big they are?”
“I told them that about us, like you told me to. That’s when he called in the queens. They said 350 fighters, meaning front-line guys of fighting age, 15-30, plus 450 girls same age range. And 500 dependents, kids and seniors. Same system as us, guys fight, but girls on defense. And everybody works.”
“Yeep.” The White Tigers numbered about 420 now, all inclusive. A few girls, like Panic and Butch, balked at being assigned to defense when they were top-notch fighters. Frosty’s rebuttal was that defense took priority over offense. When the gang went on offense, he wanted his best fighting girls to lead the same girls and kids who obeyed them every day. His argument prevailed.
Smiley acknowledged, “Yeah, they’re big. They hold all the way around Madison Square. But they stop halfway on the long avenue blocks. Like the next block of 23rd, the first half is buffer zone, then turns into Libre turf.”
“So we’re already back to back with them,” Jake mused. “Except Hip Hop is in the way.”
“Yeah, but they go
t 4 blocks of Hip Hop on their flank, and they want zero. And we’re only one intersection to them. Elon wants the same as us. Box in Hip Hop, hammer and anvil, and exterminate, then stand back to back. He really liked our intel. Picked my brain about our gang, just like you’re doing about his. What kind of guy you are, Frosty, and the top lieutenants, including Kat. How hard-core racist we are, how we’d feel about them being hard-core Puerto Rican. I assured him we’re pro-us, not anti-anybody, like you said. But we like some subcultures better than others. And Hip Hop is depraved. They agree Hip Hop needs to die. The bastards took some of Libre’s girls. His queens demand blood for it.”
“I like it,” Maz offered. “A little worried about the felons.”
Smiley shrugged. “Probably drug convictions, hard-core gang bangers before the Epidemic. Elon says he’s got a place for any Puerto Rican. Offers them dignity and respect. Anybody else, he kicks them out and keeps their stuff.”
“Are his streets clean?” Frosty asked. “Sewage?”
Smiley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they dug latrines in the park. The streets aren’t bad.”
Jake asked, “Did you ask about Raul, the grownup gang?”
“Said he wants the west side our problem, not his. That Raul sounds like a serious outfit, but Elon wants nothing to do with him. For now.”
Frosty liked what he was hearing, but Smiley seemed to harbor mixed feelings. “You don’t fully trust this Elon.”
“Hard to say,” Smiley admitted. “Puño I liked. Freshman at NYU, karate, friendly, smart. And Puño trusts Elon. But the hard-core types, Puño shrinks from. They’re not MS-13 level psychopaths, but they’re scary bad. They didn’t really talk during the meeting. Just posing crap, picked their teeth with knives, leered. Intimidation.” Smiley gulped. “They scared me. I was glad as hell Puño stood beside me. And Elon didn’t let them touch me or anything.”
