Five Suns Saga I

by Jim Heskett

  As soon as he stepped out into the street, he noticed something different. People. A couple dozen of them, walking the streets, talking, bartering, acting like the old days. Even some children were playing in the ruins of the tiny park in the vacant lot next door. Maybe it was the hint of sunshine, or maybe everyone was planning to attend the big Times Square shindig.

  Once he arrived at the Square, he could hardly believe his eyes. Hundreds of people milled about. He hadn’t seen this many people in Manhattan at one time since the flood last year, and they weren’t ever gathered in one place like this. The crowd had formed a semicircle in front of the McDonalds, all eyes on the giant, formerly lit-up M hanging above the entrance.

  They did indeed have food, and many of them chewed some kind of meat on sticks, some ate baked potatoes from red and white hot dog trays. One guy was drinking wine out of a glass. Where the hell had he gotten that?

  Sutter pulled the hood of his coat up and walked toward the Square. Just because the crowd outside seemed friendly didn’t make it true, so he kept his eyes down.

  A few of the Red Streets stood at the edges of the crowd, some on walkie talkies. Directing traffic, handing out food.

  Sutter placed one hand on the curved end of the crowbar as he blended into the crowd and made his way through them. Head low to keep his face shielded, he wondered if anyone might recognize him. His cousin had disappeared a couple months back, and Sutter had assumed that he’d made a pilgrimage to that urban legend of a refugee camp in Virginia. Either that, or upstate, maybe.

  The people started to chant, and Sutter checked the sky. The sun wasn’t directly overhead, so the big moment should be at least a half hour away. But what if he was too late? He’d hoped to go in and search the body before they strung it up. He figured he might have to sneak past a few Red Streets, maybe fight if he had to.

  But if he couldn’t get up there in time, he’d have to wait all day and all night to get some time alone to get at that journal. And by then, the Red Streets would have returned. Was he supposed to hide out in their office building for hours undetected?

  No, he needed to do this now.

  He picked up the pace and edged around the crowd, then down west 47th to the alley. He slowed his pace so he could listen for any noise at the back entrance.

  He peeked around the corner, inching his head carefully. No one around back. A descending ramp led to a large garage door at the bottom of the ramp.

  He descended the slope, crowbar in hand, with his eyes on the door. How many of them could he take if they came out right now? Two, maybe three, tops. Aside from one little tussle in Battery Park the year before, it had been a long time since Sutter had needed to defend himself. Being a hermit had its perks, but it also meant his muscles were flabby and loose.

  Back when Sutter carried a gun and a badge as one of New York’s finest, he boasted six pack abs and biceps that used to win arm-wrestling contests. Now he had exposed ribs and arms as straight as PVC pipes.

  At the bottom of the ramp, he studied the two entrances. No handle on the door, a key lock, and the space around the frame was razor-thin. Probably not wide enough to pry open with the crowbar. The sliding door was secured only with a hefty padlock, but raising that thing would be as loud as gunfire. No chance to sneak up on anyone on the other side.

  He wedged the crowbar in the space between the padlock and the attached ring. With a grunt, he lifted the bar, applying all the leverage he could muster. It creaked and groaned, and then the ring snapped off with a terrible screech.

  He ran back around the side of the building, chest pounding, and peeked. If they were coming up the ramp, they’d be there in seconds.

  Time eked by as Sutter waited, hearing only the sound of his heartbeat. No one seemed to be coming. He left his hiding spot and descended the ramp, crowbar raised above his head. But he reached the bottom without incident.

  With a hand on the lower part of the big door, he lifted it enough to get a look inside. Something like a big garage was on the other side, large enough for trucks. Boxes and crates lined the back wall to the ceiling, and a single door on the far side seemed the only exit.

  But no Red Streets.

  Sutter lifted the door the rest of the way and peered inside the room. With no overhead lights to guide him, he carefully examined the shadowy corners before entering. He slowed his breathing and focused on his ears. The chants of the crowd out front were a slight warble, but there was nothing else.

  He walked through the room and listened at the door. Again, no sounds. Opened the door, only a crack at first. Nothing.

  He walked through the door to a hallway, and found stairs on the left. He ascended, thinking that he must be on the basement level, and needed to go up three flights.

  The first flight passed quietly, always listening, taking careful steps. Then, as he reached the ground floor landing, he heard voices above him in the stairwell.

  “Tell that fat piece of shit he better have the bus ready in five minutes for Ms. Chalmers’ people. When the contact says it’s time to roll, we better not be late.”

  There was a door to his left, but Sutter didn’t dare try to open it without time to listen properly.

  “Can do. I think I left my walkie back in the truck, though,” said another voice.

  Footsteps coming down the stairs, growing louder.

  Sutter’s skin crawled. Go back down or try the door? He had only seconds to make a decision.

  He opted to go back down, trying to be both fast and quiet.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said the second voice, still growing louder, “Just heard they’re low on potatoes.”

  “Fuck the potatoes,” said the first voice. “In ten minutes, it won’t matter anymore.”

  Sutter didn’t think he could outpace them. He turned in the stairwell and raised the crowbar, steeling himself against what was coming.

  “Wait a second,” said the second voice. “My walkie’s not in the truck, it’s back in my room.”

  The footsteps halted, then receded in another direction.

  Sutter breathed out, let his grip on the crowbar relax a little. He started back up the stairs, his ears pointed up. But in a few seconds, a door open and shut, and the stairwell became quiet.

  Whoever they were, they’d be coming back down the stairs soon. Sutter picked up the pace to arrive at the third floor, and he paused in front of the door. He gripped the handle, taking deep breaths to settle his mind. As a cop, he’d clear a room by focusing his eyes on the back four corners, then looking left and right to check for anyone behind him. The old ways were starting to come back to him.

  Crowbar in hand, he eased open the door. Inside, rows of cubicles crisscrossed a wide open space, some of them covered in blankets like little tents. The windows were covered in newspaper. No sounds came from the room, but several smaller rooms lined the edges, probably conference rooms or executive offices. Some of those little rooms had lights on.

  Sutter dropped flat and inched along toward the edge of the cubicles. He peered in between two rows and saw nothing. No sign of any people. Judging by the size of the cube farm, at least fifty people lived on this floor. Sutter didn’t remember seeing that many Red Streets outside in the Square, so where had they gone?

  He rounded the cube farm and approached the window, now feeling less anxious. But where was the body? Maybe he was too late. He hadn’t heard any grand cheer from the crowd, so the body must not yet be on display. Hidden somewhere, probably.

  He walked to the back of the windows, looking for any sign of LaVey’s corpse, some rope, or anything that might give him a clue. But there seemed to be no evidence anything was happening here. Maybe he had picked the wrong floor.

  “We’ve got a visitor,” said a voice from behind him.

  Sutter whipped around, and now had faces to match the voices from the stairwell. Two guys, one short and one tall, both in black bandanas and black leather jackets.

  “Yep, looks that way. Y
ou know this is private property, right?” said the short one.

  The tall one slipped something from under his coat, a small device that looked like the handle grip of a pistol. A stun gun. He pressed a button and the end danced with electricity.

  “I don’t really give a fuck why he’s here,” the tall guy said, and they both rushed at Sutter.

  Sutter was quick, but not quick enough. Before he had time to raise the crowbar, the short one threw his weight against him, knocking him into the window. A piece of newspaper drifted onto his head as he crashed into the glass.

  Short Guy snatched the crowbar away and held Sutter by the neck while Tall Guy held the stun gun in front of Sutter’s face.

  “Hang on a second,” Short Guy said. “I actually do want to know why he’s here.”

  Sutter said nothing, trying to turn his head away from them. Short Guy had such a tight grip on his neck, he could barely breathe.

  “It’s LaVey, right?” said Tall Guy. “You’re trying to get a souvenir or something? Maybe take his glasses and trade them for a clean pair of jeans?”

  Sutter closed his eyes. If what he’d heard about the Red Streets was true, it didn’t matter what he said or didn’t say. They were going to kill him anyway, and not quickly or easily.

  “Why don’t you tell us what we want to know?” said Short Guy.

  “Doesn’t matter why I’m here,” Sutter said, rasping through the choke hold.

  Short Guy rubbed his free hand against his chin. “No, you know what it is? I’ll bet he’s here for the journal.”

  Sutter’s eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch, but it was apparently enough for them to notice. They shared a look.

  “It is, isn’t it? You’re trying to get LaVey’s journal, the one that’s supposed to explain everything. The holy goddamn grail of answers, is that it?”

  They both started laughing.

  “Why is that funny?” Sutter said.

  “We don’t have any fucking journal,” Tall Guy said. “LaVey might have had some journal, but we have no idea.”

  “You didn’t search him?”

  Tall Guy laughed harder. “Search him? You think he’s really here? Oh, you dumb shit, you’re in for a surprise. LaVey died last year, down in Florida. Or out in California, depending on who you ask.”

  Sutter searched their faces, trying to discern the truth in their expressions. “Then what’s going on outside in the Square?”

  “You’re going to find out real soon,” said Short Guy. “You’re going to get a front row seat.”

  The walkie talkie on Short Guy’s hip squawked, and Sutter saw his chance. He ducked down to break the grip on his neck and threw his weight at the stun gun, swatting at it. He barely avoided touching the live end, but he managed to knock it from Tall Guy’s hands. It skittered along the floor.

  Sutter felt the air change, and he turned around in time to see Short Guy swinging the crowbar at his head. He twisted away from it, and the weapon glided past his ear, smacking him on the shoulder instead. No immediate pain, but he knew his shoulder might be dislocated. The pain would come later.

  He dropped to a knee and reached for the stun gun, then jabbed it into Short Guy’s gut. Sounded like a continuous bug zapper. The man convulsed, his eyes bulging.

  A half-second later, a pair of arms encircled Sutter from behind, dragging him backward. He swung the stun gun above his head and made contact. The arms loosened their grip. Sutter spun, then drove the stun gun into Tall Guy’s face.

  The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as the man screamed. He held the weapon in place for a few seconds, until Tall Guy went limp on the floor.

  Then Sutter turned his attention back to Short Guy, who was in the fetal position, coughing and sputtering.

  As Sutter stood over him, Short Guy raised a hand. “Please, don’t,” he said.

  Sutter pressed the button to turn on the stun gun. Felt it vibrating in his hand. “What’s going on in the Square? If you don’t have LaVey, what are you doing out there?”

  A scream came from outside. Sutter rushed to the window and tore away a strip of newspaper. At first, the scene below looked like a mosh pit at a concert, with a crowd of people surrounded by about a hundred men in black leather jackets. The Red Streets were forcing people to the ground, wrapping their arms and legs with zip-ties, then connecting the two points. Hog-tied.

  Many of the people were escaping, but at least forty or fifty were already restrained, thrashing helplessly on the ground.

  Sutter turned back to Short Guy and held the stun gun over his face. “What are they doing?”

  Short Guy hiccuped, trying to catch his breath. “We’ve… we’ve got a buyer lined up in Chicago.”

  “A buyer for what?”

  When it hit him, Sutter became lightheaded and had to brace himself against the window. He’d heard about this happening, but had never seen it before. He kicked the man on the floor in the head, which quieted him instantly. Maybe dead, but Sutter wasn’t going to check.

  He went back to the window and considered his options. He could go out the back, wait at a safe distance on west 47th until all the shouting died down. He couldn’t save these people, could he? Trying to help them would be insane. There were a hundred Red Streets down there in the Square, many of them with guns.

  A yellow school bus backed up to the edge of the crowd. Two men opened the back door as organized groups of Red Streets started dragging people toward the bus, kicking and screaming.

  Then, Sutter saw Zach, on the red steps atop the one-story TKTS booth. His young friend was the reason Sutter was here, looking for a journal that didn’t exist. Zach, who had seemed so enthusiastic about Senator LaVey being strung up today.

  He looked like he was moving, so still alive, at least. He and a few others were corralled there on those steps. Two Red Streets stood over them, shouting and throwing the occasional kick into their stomachs.

  Sutter didn’t stop to consider anything else. He lifted the crowbar off the floor and dashed toward the stairs.

  ***

  Many years before, as a rookie cop, Sutter raided a warehouse in Brooklyn which was suspected to be home to a meth lab. When the cops busted inside, however, they found something much worse. Not meth. Instead, the warehouse had been used to house a collection of bodies murdered by a gang who had called themselves the BMW. Blood everywhere. Human bones arranged on the floor with chalk outlines to mock the dead. Severed limbs hanging from hooks on the ceiling.

  As he sprinted down west 47th toward Times Square, Sutter smelled that same metallic scent of blood that he remembered filling his nostrils in that warehouse. He heard the cries and wails of innocent people being carted off to Chicago to be sold into slavery.

  He couldn’t save all these people, but maybe he could save Zach… maybe he could at least save the one person he considered to be a friend.

  By the time he’d reached the edge of the Square, the adrenaline dissipated and he had to pause to catch his breath. Eating once a day for so long hadn’t done much for his endurance. He didn’t know if he even had the strength to lift the crowbar against anyone.

  At least none of the gang bangers had seen him coming, or so he thought. All the chaos was occurring in the center of the Square, and the bus idled on the far side. He still had a chance to reach Zach, but he’d have to climb the one-story TKTS building from the back, unless he wanted to try to fight through a group of Red Streets. There was a trash can across the street that might get him close enough to grab the ledge by the steps.

  Deep, gulping breaths. Crowbar and a stun gun, but no way to know how much charge remained.

  He rushed for the trash can, stowing the stun gun in his pocket and the crowbar in his belt loop. He stacked the can in front of the glass TKTS building, then climbed on top, now feeling the piercing pain in his shoulder from the crowbar blow the short guy had dealt him.

  He threw himself at the ledge, barely grasping it. The pain in his shoulder f
elt like a hot needle poking through his skin. He hauled himself up, and saw there were less people on the steps than before. There was only one guard on the steps but another one was dragging some poor woman down the steps, toward the bus.

  Sutter climbed on the railing then pulled the crowbar from his belt. He gripped it as Zach looked up at him. Zach shook his head, but Sutter kept his eyes on the gang banger.

  He launched through the air, toward the lone Red Streets member on the step. He started to swing mid-air, and cracked the crowbar against the man’s bandana-topped skull. A spray of blood hit Sutter in the chest, and they rolled a few steps down. The man shook once, then went still.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Zach said.

  “We’re leaving.”

  But Zach was cuffed with zip-ties, and Sutter had no knife. He had to think fast because if the Red Streets saw them, Sutter would be hopelessly outnumbered.

  He slammed the crowbar against the glass railing on the side of the steps, which broke into a hundred pieces. He grabbed a shard, not caring that it was cutting into his flesh.

  “Sutter, stop,” Zach said. “Just get out of here.”

  Sutter reached behind Zach and started to slash the shard against the zip-ties. “Don’t worry, we’re both going to get out of here.”

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  He’d cut through the feet restraints and then started to work on the ones binding Zach’s hands when a voice sounded across the Square.

  “There! On the stairs!”

  Sutter looked up at a group of four Red Streets, looking straight at them, standing fifty feet from the steps.

  “Aw, fuck me,” Zach said.

  Sutter sliced the hand restraints and helped Zach to his feet. The Red Streets sprinted toward them.

  Sutter pointed at the railing at the top of the steps. “We’re going over,” he said, then grabbed Zach by the wrist and yanked him to the top. He climbed the rail, but Zach stayed put.

  “Come on, Zach, do it,” Sutter said.

  Zach winced, then stepped up onto the railing, and they both leaped to the ground. Sutter tucked and rolled, but Zach landed on his side. He yelped, grasping his back.