Feral King

by Ginger Booth

  Her bowl was smallest. She rejoined reality before the others. No one spoke while they ate. Maz alternated eating with licking the rim of his bowl, to make it last. Kat slurped noodles a single strand at a time. Frosty chewed a meat chunk, eyes closed, expression inscrutable.

  “Rabbit starvation,” Kat said, when everyone finished licking their bowls and spoons. Frosty and Maz leaned back against the cozy sofa and armchair to savor the warmth in their bellies and digest. “Panic, did this have enough fat to prevent that thing you were worried about?”

  “I don’t know,” Ava admitted. “But the vitamin and carbs should help. At least reset the clock. It takes about seven days for rabbit starvation to set in?”

  Humans were omnivores. In famine and starvation, cannibalism seemed an obvious solution. As they could attest from personal experience, morals were irrelevant when you were desperate enough. Except it just didn’t work. If you ate starving people, you expended more vitamins digesting the lean protein than you got benefit from the food. At first this turned into a gnawing craving for fats. Most of the gang suffered that already. If you persisted, within a week serious symptoms would develop, with diarrhea, headache, and an achy lassitude, and eventual death.

  Kat craned her neck to peer around Maz’s armchair to the window. “How are your greens coming along?”

  “Not big enough to harvest yet. But they’re growing.” Ava was proud of that rig, an aquarium in the window, with a few hefty black rocks to capture the sun as heat and hold it into the night. They still battled freezing nights, but with the same hours of light as August, cool-season crops could grow if only she managed to get them warm enough to germinate. Not very many in an aquarium, but as starved as they were for vitamins, it mattered. She planted several seed varieties, and hoped for lettuce, but only mustard greens sprouted in the cool conditions. “I put baby leaves in the soup. We each got one.”

  “Delicious, baby,” Frosty purred. “We should clean.”

  He always offered. It never happened. Kat cleared the table, and Ava joined her for companionship as she washed the dishes.

  Ava glanced playfully between Maz and Kat a couple times. In reply, Kat shrugged microscopically with a private smile. Maybe. “Good!”

  “You and His Iciness?” Kat inquired in return, one eyebrow arched.

  “We’re right here, you know,” Maz complained.

  Frosty rose and headed for the bedroom after giving Maz an arm up. “Confidences.”

  “We’re tight,” Ava claimed, breaking eye contact. “The fire. The punch. The rape. The gang. Waiting for the big fight is wearing on all of us. He’s nice to me though.” Well, when he wasn’t hitting her, or swearing at her. He infuriated her, and their relationship was grossly unequal. But then he’d cling to her breast weeping, and all was forgiven. Ava was hardly an expert on love and romance.

  “We’re still right here,” Maz reminded her, raising his voice only slightly. Despite the pretty oriental screen, the entire apartment was only the one modest room.

  Kat leaned toward her across the counter. “He’s head over heels in love with you. Believe it, Panic. And unlike some people, you’ll never worry who else he brings to bed.”

  Maz didn’t deign to comment on that one. He favored nooners, with rarely the same girl twice.

  Ava barely dared breathe her response. “I worry about him. He’s not…”

  “We’re all in that boat.” Kat patted her hand with dish suds. Ava blew the foam back at her face. Kat retaliated, and they moved on to cheerfully dissect third parties not present.

  Ava’s life sucked in so many ways. But she loved that she finally had a girlfriend in Kat.

  Frosty and Maz lay across the bed as usual, heads in opposite directions to share their thoughts. Frosty breathed, “I’m scared. The way people look at me. The cannibal thing.”

  “We needed fuel for the fight.” Maz’s voice didn’t sound too certain of that, but he’d agreed to the measure at the time. The guys decided to kill some enemies for food even before the fortuitous building fire. Frosty just ran with the opportunity to make it feel less cold-blooded. Maybe even a one-time deal.

  Well, if they lost people to this ‘rabbit starvation,’ cannibalism wouldn’t catch on.

  “Not that,” Frosty returned. “More the doubt in their eyes. Like I’m a monster. Like Ava. She thinks I’m crazy.”

  “No. You think you’re crazy. It’s just too heavy, Snowman. Here, symbolic gesture. Hand the whole gang over to me.”

  Frosty chuckled silently, but grabbed a pillow and thwacked it onto his face. “Keep it.”

  Maz slapped it back three times across his torso. “Hip Hop, Caudillos, and Libre too.”

  “You’re worried,” Frosty observed with a sigh.

  “The plan is good. But Libre might not show, and we fight Hip Hop alone. You know the Caudillos will notice the fight and join in. Simple opportunity. And even if we win against both of them, Libre could turn on us.”

  Frosty didn’t bother to comment. They ran through all these arguments with Jake and the others. The bottom line was, they had to break out of this prison or die. The gangs were consolidating, growing larger. They had zero land to grow food on. Even the cockroaches, pigeons, and rats were growing scarce. The few remaining feral dogs were powerful, smart and vicious. They couldn’t afford to stay bottled up on this block. To expand, they needed to kick the hostiles off their doorstep.

  “But you, I’m not worried about, Frostman,” Maz added. “Ego and arrogance, planetary in scope. You’ll keep going.”

  “But am I crazy?”

  “You always were.”

  Frosty chuckled, if only half-heartedly.

  24

  March 4, E-day plus 86

  “Frosty!” Ava cried out. She darted through the throng from her muster point toward his, gathering just in front of hers near the alley to West 24th. They weren’t showing lights, and the 4 a.m. street lay tarry black in a cold drizzle. At least it wasn’t snowing. Everyone was supposed to keep their voices down. But with hundreds on the street, that wasn’t wholly possible. Most nursed a cold, flu, or racking cough. The crowd shifted nervously with a constant grumble.

  Still, those who heard shushed her fiercely, including her own young charges. A guy grabbed her arm and whispered. “Frosty’s 10 yards up, 5 to the left. For God’s sakes, don’t call attention to him again!”

  Ava didn’t recognize the voice, but he had a point. Frosty was a prize worth ransom, or a mortal blow to the whole gang if he fell, a prime target, yet another thing to worry about.

  The directions proved good. She followed them, then more quietly asked if Frosty was nearby. He heard her voice himself this time.

  “Hey, baby, what’s up?” He found her shoulder, then gloved hand, and grasped it. He leaned in to ask softly, “Problem?”

  “No. I wanted to kiss you good-bye.” Intent on final instructions and muster, they’d hustled out the door this pre-morning with no sentimental parting. It had been bugging her ever since. Her team was mustered, and there was time left to seek him out, barely. “Good luck.” She tugged his hand to pull him down, and kissed him fiercely. He returned the kiss with interest, then broke off.

  “Baby, I’m in the rear of my column. You’re at the head of yours. We go through together. Love you.” He hugged her again. “Back to your troops, Panic.”

  She gulped. “Right.”

  “You got this, baby. I believe in you.”

  Maz’s voice loomed at his shoulder. “Show a light and hustle, Panic. We march now.”

  Damn. She let go Frosty’s hand with a final squeeze and used her precious rechargeable penlight to find her way back to Butch. “Sorry about that. I just had to.”

  “I get it. But the signal went up, five minute warning for us.”

  Ava blew out slowly to steady herself. A leader on edge spread fear, not confidence. Frosty taught her that.

  Butch bopped her arm to catch her attention. Three short lig
ht blips, her three minute warning. Ava and Butch both tapped their next in lines for two lines apiece, counting ‘one.’ Chancy beside Ava did the same. The kids each tapped the kid behind. From here in everyone stuck like glue to the person ahead, laying a hand on his back or whatever it took to avoid getting separated. Overall, Ava had nearly 80 kids on this detail, 20 apiece between her and her co-captains. With only 10 kids per line, they grabbed their gear quickly. Counter-taps of readiness came back up the line before Ava received her one-minute warning flash. The guys in front of them emptied left into the alley.

  Now. Ava’s lines went first, Germy’s hand on her back. Once she turned into the alley, she showed a light at their feet because of the 10-yard gap between her and the end of Frosty’s column. The guys clanked, heavy with ammo. Her own kids shuffled sneakers on the wet pavement, their weaponry rather different.

  The guys halted in front of her, lighting a raised fist. She mimicked the signal for those behind her and risked a glance back. Chancy and Butch raised lit fists, too. Bringing up the rear, Pixie probably wasn’t in the alley yet. Cool. Trust them. They’d been working together for days now. A thousand doubts skittered across her mind, and she firmly told them to shut up.

  Right now, she was walking about a block, with friends. That’s all. Stay in the now.

  The column before her moved again, and soon they emerged from the alley onto West 24th. At that point, she halted her people until Pixie’s group emerged from the alley. Ava traded fist-bops with her co-captains before Pixie and Chancy split to lead their charges up to the next alley on either side of the street. Then Butch and her people melted into the alley they just emerged from. As of right now, that access was sealed except to runners. It was Butch’s job to keep it that way, with only 20 children. On the bright side, Butch had only to send a runner through to 23rd if she needed backup.

  Down to her group of 20 now, Ava continued to her own bottleneck, another branched alley with two exits to 25th and one on 24th. To her vast relief, Frosty’s team waited for her in the interior corridor, paved and noisome with filth.

  He folded her into his arms quickly, and kissed the top of her head. “Love you. Hold our retreat. You’re our lifeline.”

  “Will do. Love you, too.” Then he was gone, Maz and Hotwire and a dozen others by his side. She was glad for that. They protected the gang king.

  She swallowed and turned to distribute her kids. “Remember, no one gets through to 24th through here except us. Whispers only. What’s the challenge?”

  “White,” they chorused softly.

  “And the response?”

  “Supreme.”

  “Good job! Now Frosty gave me a hug for each of you.” She embraced each kid as she dispatched them to their personal positions. “You’re brave and smart. You can do this. I believe in you.”

  Frosty hustled to join the attack leaders, huddled past the alley to talk. “What’s our status?”

  Pistol growled, “You’d know that already if you didn’t get hung up kissing your girlfriend.” Pistol was the attack leader, though in theory Frosty had overall command of this north prong of the offensive.

  “Shut it, Pistol,” Maz grit out. “It’s our job to secure our retreat. Just answer the damned question.”

  Frosty enjoyed Maz cutting people down so he could focus on the constructive instead. “Contact with Libre? Jake?”

  “Signal from Libre,” Waldo supplied, another attack team captain. “Got a runner from Jake. They’re good to go.”

  “And did we send a runner?”

  “I can’t send a runner for everything!” Pistol objected.

  “Libre showing up for the fight isn’t just anything,” Frosty replied lightly. “Runner!” A 13-year-old ran to him and received his instructions, straight through to Jake in case he had questions. He would have dearly loved to coordinate with walkie-talkies. They could manage batteries enough for one per position. But like the pennant signals, radio simply couldn’t pass through a mid-size building, let alone four blocks full. Mid-size for Chelsea was about ten stories, ranging from four to forty, blocking the sky on a narrow two-lane one-way like 25th Street.

  He turned back to Pistol and checked his watch. Thankfully those batteries lasted a year or more, though few wore them anymore. “Curtain’s up in 12 minutes. Where do you want us?” A brief debate settled on 10 guys at the first alley, 5 at the second, and none at the third, way down the block where they’d be unavailable as reserves. “Remember, any wounded, this first alley is your exit.”

  “You trying to psych us out?” Pistol growled.

  Maz shoved him. “Not too late to relieve you, asshole. Waldo and Knuckle don’t cop an attitude.”

  “Just nerves, Maz,” Frosty soothed. “Pistol, Maz has a point. Show some respect. Bitching is not leading. Waldo, Knuckle, good work. I believe in you. Pistol, too, even if he is a grouch.” They thrust hands between them for a 5-way shake, then dispersed to their teams, about 17 apiece for the three attack groups.

  Time. He lit his fist and dropped it forward for go, mostly to signal Panic, since each of the attack team leaders did the same thing. Fifty guys ran toward 6th Avenue, as the first pops of gunfire rang from 26th, Libre’s prong against Hip Hop’s northern barricade. Pistol’s guys were to block the opposing gang’s reinforcements when they woke up and ran north. In theory, this was a turkey shoot.

  But Jake stressed that was highly unlikely. Pistol’s guys had Hip Hop coming at them from right and left. Libre would attack from beyond the barricade at 26th, but also faced the Tigers across the avenue to bar entry to their side of West 25th. The potential for cross-fire was endless. Knuckle’s team sought second floor windows for a firing position at the northwest corner. But if Hip Hops slept in that building, they’d bog down in a hallway fight. Pistol and Waldo stayed mobile, Pistol turning up to 26th and Waldo watching toward 24th. Jake projected chaos, basically.

  Panic seemed to favor chaos as well. She and the kids made an unholy racket in the alley behind him. Unfortunate in the dark, since Frosty relied on his ears. He moved up half a building to take a seat on its front step and merge with the black shadows. Maz dogged him, of course.

  Someone’s steps rang on the slimy pavement toward him, footfalls stirring up stink. Frosty brought his pistol up slowly, aiming by sound. “White Hamilton,” he challenged.

  The runner slid to a stop before him, and supplied the Libre response, “Broadway. Pomelo’s regards. Ain’t nothing up here, shift south.”

  Frosty frowned at the dark. “Who’s Pomelo? Where’s Elon?”

  The runner huffed a laugh. “Elon’s in bed, man. Who you?”

  “Frosty. The plan was to fight at 26th, hold here at 25th, drive Hip Hop out West 24th toward 7th.”

  “Yeah, Pomelo says it’s a lost cause. Hip Hop ain’t running. They’re massing toward 23rd.”

  Shit. “Tell Pomelo –”

  “I ain’t telling Pomelo nothing. Pomelo loco. Just saying. We’re headed to 23rd, expect to hang up at 24th.”

  “Got it. Thank Pomelo for me.”

  The runner snorted again, then sped back to the fight. Frosty picked the only runner he had handy and sent him to advise Pistol, Waldo, and Knuckle, and return to him with status.

  Jake was right. Their plan didn’t survive long at all.

  Jake’s muscles were rigid. His prong was 100 guys, already trading fire with the Hip Hop south barricade at 22nd. The plan called for Hip Hops to run here and duke it out. And a half dozen enemy were shooting from their rampart, built mostly of mattresses and sofas, forcing the Tigers to keep their heads down and approach slowly.

  But the rest of the enemy failed to cooperate. Few Hip Hops arrived to reinforce the barricade. He wished he could see where they were massing. They might be gathering a like force to hurl at him all at once.

  No, he realized in a moment of dire clarity. Why do that? They’d hurt him far worse if they attacked his 6E barricade, with 200 strong. They could wipe the Tiger
s’ whole home block. That’s what they should do, to win. Dammit!

  Jake recoiled to his right as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He needed to see what they were doing. Now! “Light the keg and roll it!”

  One of his younger guys took a baby keg, its beer replaced with fuel oil, and lit it. Neither of its two apertures was closed, so the keg spilled oil as it rolled north, igniting in a line. Now at least they could see who they were shooting at. He pulled his rifle around and started toward the barricade, firing systematically toward the west end. Everyone he passed, he told the new plan – stay left on the avenue, and shoot left. They were headed home to 23rd Street.

  Because there were no more than 20 Hip Hops at that barricade. In the dark he couldn’t see beyond them. Sunrise was still a couple hours away.

  A few Hip Hops gathered to consult behind a washing machine. Jake paused a moment to aim carefully, and took out all three.

  He paused to gauge the tableau again, 15 yards closer to the enemy. The lit fuel oil was a mixed blessing, because it lit his attackers far better than the defenders. And the light ruined his night vision, so he couldn’t see the far side of the avenue.

  “Good shot, boss!” Polack encouraged, one of his captains. “What are we doing at 23rd?”

  Hell if I know. “Defend our home block. Kill Hoppers.”

  “Outstanding!”

  Jake led from the front. No runners reached him in the center of his own firefight on 6th Avenue. Not that it mattered. The enemy was straight ahead, and so was home. His way there was to mow through them.