Aftermath

by LeVar Burton

  Four days later. President-elect Lawrence Everette was killed in a chemical bomb attack while having dinner in an exclusive Richmond restaurant. Twenty-seven other people also died in the attack, including Professor Leyland Reynolds. The attacker who set the bomb was a twenty-two-year-old ex-marine from Davenport, Iowa; a card-carrying member of a militant extremist group that wanted to keep America “pure,” meaning white.

  No sooner had reports of Everette’s assassination been aired on television and radio than riots broke out in Los Angeles, Miami, New York and Atlanta. African-Americans, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans and other minorities, enraged that their hopes of racial equality had been destroyed, took to the streets, smashing cars and windows, setting fires and pelting the police with rocks and bottles. For the first time since Sherman’s march to the sea, the skyline of Atlanta glowed red as fires burned in the downtown area. By midnight the situation was completely out of hand and the police could do little more than pull back, turning control of the city over to the angry mobs. Government troops were called for, but they didn’t arrive until two days later. In the meantime, Atlanta burned.

  Rene looked at the photo of her father. At least his death had spared him from seeing his beloved city become a battlefield, from seeing the university campus baptized in the blood of young men and women. She, on the other hand, had witnessed all the atrocities of war in glorious Technicolor.

  Circling her desk, she opened the safe sitting in the corner of the room and removed a gray padded case. Inside the case were file folders, two micro computer disks and the Neuro-Enhancer. Rene double-checked to make sure everything was still there, and then breathed a sigh of relief. Her worries had been for nothing.

  Danger!

  The word cut through her like a burning knife, a whispered word of warning that only her mind could hear. She spun around. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Something bad was about to happen.

  Rene placed the Neuro-Enhancer back in the safe and locked the door. She started to leave the office, but noticed she had accidentally left the microdisks lying on the desk. They were her original and a backup, each containing a set of binary codes that duplicated the firing order of the brain’s neurons. Without the disks, the Neuro-Enhancer was useless; safeguarding them was critical.

  Grabbing the disks, Rene turned to unlock the safe again but was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking.

  Startled, she hurried to the door and opened it, leaning her head out into the hallway. She listened for a minute but didn’t hear anything. All was quiet. Still, Rene knew she wasn’t just imagining things. The sound of glass breaking had come from somewhere in the building. Maybe someone had tossed a rock at one of the office windows. If so, then the building would be unsecured. Rene owed it to the company she worked for to investigate the sound. She’d call the police, but no one would come. Not at night.

  Her heart thumped with fear as she left the office and crept along the hallway, her soft-soled shoes gliding silently over the carpeting. She paused at the top of the stairs to listen, wondering if the noise she heard had come from outside. Sounds had a way of traveling through old buildings, echoing along hallways and vibrating through walls. The noise might have been nothing more than the shattering of a wine bottle dropped by some old drunk in a back alley.

  She descended the stairs to the first floor and started down the corridor, checking doors as she went. Most of the offices were locked, so she could do little more than pause to listen at the door. Those that were open proved to be undisturbed.

  Rene was just starting to relax when she entered the lobby and felt a gust of fresh air. Turning, she saw that someone had knocked all the glass out of the front door, allowing the night to enter. She stared at the gaping opening for a moment, and then realized that the alarm should be ringing but wasn’t. It could only mean that someone had disconnected it prior to smashing the door.

  Panic raced through her. This was no random act of vandalism; someone hadn’t just thrown a rock through the door for the hell of it. This was thought out and deliberately planned. Someone had broken into the Hawkins Neural Institute and was probably still inside the building somewhere. She was not alone.

  The sound of a door slamming echoed from the second floor, causing her to jump.

  Burglars! They must have used the stairway at the opposite end of the building. While she was coming down, they had been going up. A thought flashed through her mind: she had left her office door open, left the lights on, her purse sitting on the desk. They would know that someone else was in the building. She had to get out.

  Rene turned and ran for the front door. She was halfway across the lobby when a white man, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, stepped through the open doorway.

  She froze; so did the man. They stood at opposite ends of the lobby, eyeing each other. A tense moment passed, then the man smiled and spoke. Rene saw that he was wearing some kind of throat mike and earpiece, probably a two-way radio. “I’ve got her,” he said. “She’s in the lobby.”

  From the second floor came the sound of footsteps running down the hall. The man with the mike reached beneath his shirt and unclipped something from his belt. Rene didn’t wait to discover what that something was. She turned and fled, racing toward the back of the building.

  The hallway turned left; Rene followed it. She knew better than to try any of the doors; they would be locked. So would the fire exit at the rear of the building, but only to the outside. If she could reach the fire exit, she might be able to get away.

  She turned right at the next hallway, pausing long enough to tip over a trash can in an attempt to slow down her pursuer. The trick worked. The man with the mike came around the corner and hit the trash can at full speed, tripped over it and crashed into the wall.

  The emergency exit was in sight, the bright red door illuminated by a lighted sign above it. Rene was almost to the exit when she was tackled from behind.

  She went down hard and slid, elbows and chin rubbed raw on the carpeting. But as she went down, she kicked out and felt the hold on her legs loosen. Slipping free, she rolled across the floor, collided against the wall, and stood up. Her attacker also got to his feet.

  He was a white man, but not the same one she had seen in the doorway—the one who had tripped over the trash can. Tall and muscular, he too was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans. He stood between her and the doorway, blocking the exit. Rene thought about running back down the hallway, but the man who had tripped showed up.

  She was surrounded, trapped, two against one. But she wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Her father wouldn’t have; neither would she. Pushing herself off the wall, Rene charged straight at the man blocking the emergency exit. He braced himself for the attack, spread his arms to grab her.

  Rene pulled her right arm back and made a fist. The move was a fake. When the man blocking the door raised his hands to protect his face, she dove past him.

  She hit the floor, crawled, jumped up and threw herself against the safety bar. The door opened and she ran out into the night

  Rene sprinted down the alleyway, her attackers right behind her. She was halfway down the alley when she spotted a third man in front of her. At first she thought it was another burglar, then realized it was just a homeless black man rummaging through the trash bins. The man looked up as she ran toward him.

  “Help me!” she yelled. The homeless man looked at Rene, then looked past her and saw the two men chasing her. His eyes widened in fear and he turned to run.

  “Please, help me!”

  She was almost to him when a blinding pain ripped through her hips and back. Rene’s legs went numb. She staggered a few feet and fell into the arms of the homeless man. Looking down, she saw two tiny electronic darts sticking out of her right hip.

  No. Oh, God, no. She could no longer feel her legs, the numbness spreading quickly throughout her entire body. As unconsciousness raced to overcome her, Rene pushed the code disks into the hands of the homeles
s man.

  “Run. Run. For God’s sake, run.”

  He hesitated, saw the men racing toward him, and then let go of her. The last thing Rene saw before a blanket of darkness descended over her was the man fleeing for his life down the alleyway.

  Chapter 6

  Leon Cane faded around the corner and took off, running for his life. His oversized shoes echoed loudly off the pavement, threatened to slip off his feet and go flying through the air. Still, he didn’t dare slow down. He had just witnessed a crime. Robbery, rape, murder; he wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. He had seen the men involved, two white men, had seen their faces. Criminals showed their faces only when they knew there would be no witness left alive to describe them. If the men caught him they would surely kill him.

  What about the woman? Was she dead? Had she been beaten and raped, her naked body left like garbage in the alley? A wave of guilt tore through him, causing him to slow his pace. He stopped and looked behind him. No one followed.

  Did they kill her? The guilt he felt grew stronger, tightened his throat and squeezed his heart.

  “I couldn’t do anything,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “They had guns. They would have killed me.” He spoke the truth, but his words were hollow and did nothing to change his mood. The woman had cried out to him, cried out for help. Like his wife had …

  Leon shook his head again, pushing back the images that threatened to form in his mind. Painful images from long ago. No matter how many times he tried to push them down, bury them in the cobwebs of time, they bobbed back to the surface to rip out his heart.

  She needed my help.

  “I could do nothing!”

  He looked down and opened his right hand. The woman had given him a pair of computer microdisks. He had no idea what was on them, obviously something important—something her attackers wanted. Maybe he should take the disks to the police. They would know what to do with them.

  Leon thought about it and then decided against the idea. The police would be of no help. At best, they would ask him a lot of questions he couldn’t answer. At worst, they would lock him up.

  If Leon had a computer, he could find out what was on the disks. He smiled. There were no computers among the homeless, no televisions or electricity. The country was broke, as were most of the people in it. But there was one place where he might find what he was looking for.

  Slipping the disks into his shirt pocket, he walked along Marietta Street until it crossed International Boulevard. Leon followed International until he reached Centennial Park, which was no longer a park but a community of simple wooden shelters, cardboard boxes, tents and lean-tos. A tall cyclone fence had been erected around the park, leaving only one entrance open on the north side. Above the entrance someone had jokingly painted a sign, christening the new community “Second Chance.”

  Two men stood guard at the entranceway: one black, the other white. Both of them were members of the Eternal Brotherhood, an organization made up of several local gangs. The Brotherhood had come into existence shortly after the war ended in an attempt to bring peace back to the streets of Atlanta. Based upon an uneasy alliance, the members offered their services in positions once provided by the government. They functioned as the police officers, fire fighters and sanitary engineers of the homeless and displaced. They were also judge and jury, dealing out swift punishment to those who broke the laws of the street communities.

  Leon didn’t see any weapons, but knew both men would be armed. He also knew neither one of them would hesitate to shoot an unwelcome intruder. Fortunately, he had been to Second Chance enough times to be recognized, even known. As he approached, the guards relaxed their stance and smiled.

  “Hey, Leon. What brings you out so late at night?” one of them called. “I thought you’d be home, snug in your bed by now.”

  “I was on my way home,” Leon replied, “but I wanted to stop by to see the Junkman.” He stepped up to the gate and raised his arms out to his sides, allowing himself to be frisked. The black guard, who went by the name of T.J., patted him down and found no concealed weapons.

  “Give me lovin’,” he said, grabbing Leon in a bear hug.

  Leon hugged TJ. back, and then hugged his partner. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the other man’s name was Slide.

  “You’d better watch out for the Junkman,” T.J. warned. “He’s a smooth operator.”

  “Yeah.” Slide grinned. “He’ll talk you out of your pants and then sell them back to you. Make money doing it too.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Leon nodded, entering the village.

  Unlike many of the tent cities, Second Chance had been laid out with some thought to order. The tents and other shelters had been set up in neat rows, with space behind each row for growing vegetables or hanging laundry. In the center of the park, an area was left open for leisurely activities, monthly Brotherhood meetings and Sunday worship service. Tonight the members of the community were being treated to the vocals of a young woman, accompanied by two men on acoustic guitars. Her voice was clear and pleasant; she might have been a professional singer in a previous era. The woman stood upon a plywood platform and sang to an audience of fifty or so spellbound listeners.

  Leon wanted to listen to the performance, but business came first. Weaving around the people listening to the concert, he made his way to the opposite end of the park, to a section known as trader’s row. Here rows of booths and tables had been set up, displaying a variety of items for sale or trade. Just about everything could be had for a price.

  There were booths featuring homemade lye soaps, shampoos and perfumes. Others offered slightly used shoes and articles of clothing. Loaves of bread covered one table, baked fresh in the small brick oven behind it. Next to the bread table, pieces of meat simmered over a small barbecue pit. Leon suspected the meat was either alley cat or rat.

  Behind the booths lived the traders, their tents and shacks often as cluttered with merchandise as their stands. It was still early, so quite a few of them were up and about. They sat around tiny campfires, keeping an eye on their wares, hoping a potential customer would come along. Leon nodded to a few of them as he walked past.

  At the end of trader’s row stood a large gray tent, its canvas walls mildewed with age. There were no tables or booth, but everyone knew that the man who owned the tent was indeed a trader. In fact, he was the most profitable trader in the entire village. If Shaky Larkins, alias the Junkman, did not have what you were looking for then he could probably get it.

  Stepping up to the tent, Leon knocked on the piece of board hanging from a length of frayed rope. He had to knock only twice before being answered.

  “Go away! I’m closed!”

  Leon smiled. Shaky was never closed; it was just his standard reply. Ignoring the remark, he opened the flap and entered the tent.

  “Can’t you hear? I said I was—” Shaky looked up, saw who it was, and smiled. “Leon. Leon Cane. How the hell are you? Don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in.” He stood up and gestured for Leon to enter. Shaky’s real name was James, but no one ever called him that. Bony, wrinkled and gray-headed, the Junkman looked much older than his actual age of sixty-five.

  Squeezing his way between piles of mechanical parts, clothing, used appliances and other miscellaneous junk, Leon took a seat on a chair made from scrap pieces of wood and automobile tires.

  “You’re just in time for coffee,” Shaky said, removing a dented metal pot from a small fire. Leon watched as he slowly poured a stream of thin brown liquid into two tin cups, spilling some in the process.

  Since the economic collapse, coffee, like a lot of other things, was in rare supply. With prices starting at thirty-five dollars a pound, few could afford the real stuff anymore. Instead, they substituted with a variety of other ingredients. In the South roasted acorns or pecan shells were used. Up North the drink of choice was made from hickory and walnut shells.

  Shaky handed Leon a cup of what proved to be pecan coffee
. “So what brings you to this neighborhood at night?” he asked. “Get tired of living by yourself?”

  Leon shook his head. “I was hoping you might have something I need.”

  “Shopping, are we? For what?” Shaky snapped his fingers. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I know. It’s books, isn’t it? It’s always books with you. Never met someone who read so much in all my life. But you’re in luck. I’ve got a few new titles you might be interested in. Hardbacks. Real difficult to come by nowadays.” He set his cup down on a small wooden crate and started searching through his piles of odds and ends.

  “Shaky, stop,” Leon said. The old man ignored him and continued to toss hubcaps and old toasters out of the way.

  “Most folks don’t read books nowadays; they just use them for starting fires or wiping their butts. A damn shame if you ask me. Such a waste. But they won’t be wiping their butts on these. No sir. At least not till you’re done with them.”

  “Shaky, I don’t want any books!” Leon said, raising his voice to be heard. Shaky stopped digging and turned to face him.

  “You don’t?” He straightened. “Then why didn’t you say so instead of having me bust my back looking for you.” He shook his head. “That’s the trouble with you young uns: no respect for your elders.” He sat down in a chair opposite Leon and snatched up his coffee cup. “Like I ain’t got anything better to do than to look for books for someone who don’t want any.”

  Leon waited for the old man to stop fussing and then said, “I don’t need books. What I need is something that will play these.” He pulled the code disks out of his shirt pocket and placed them on the wooden crate that served as a table. Shaky picked up the disks and looked at them.

  “Where’d you get these? Pull them out of a Dumpster?”

  Leon explained what had happened, describing in detail the woman in the alley and the men chasing her.

  “Did you go to the police?” Shaky asked, turning the disks over in his hands.

  Leon shook his head. “I didn’t think the police would believe me. You know how it is; they’d probably blame me for the whole thing.”