by Kenny Soward
A round hit his crate and sprayed wood chips into his face, causing him to duck. The ladies killed two more of the jerking monstrosities as they hitch-ran. The Brit shot over Lonnie’s shoulder, causing his right ear to ring. Gunpowder singed his eyes and nose.
He should be more afraid, should be terrified, but the ice kept him calm.
A defiant war cry erupted from the far end of the alley. The ladies responded with vampire cries, sounding like opera singers being throttled to death. The Brit whooped like a soldier. Crash made dog noises, woof, woof, woof.
Something careened at Lonnie through the air. A wild flapping of dust-leathery wings. A mouth of gnashing teeth. The mess of a bird thing nearly tore off his face before he put a bullet into it.
Other horrors rushed them. All rickety legs and wobbling, reaching arms. Fingers like ghoulish spikes. He caught glimpses of things that could have been human. Things with foreheads decorated with metal studs, faces tattooed with spirals and other swirling designs.
The gang mowed them down, turning the alleyway into a blood-slick mess.
Lonnie pulled the trigger again but the click of an empty gun reached his ears.
“Shit,” he cursed, relaxing against the crate.
“Anyone got an extra mag for this?”
No magazines were forthcoming.
“All right then.” Lonnie tucked his gun back into his holster and pulled out his knife. Not so much for its killing power (it was only a four-inch blade) but handy for opening bags of drugs or cutting apples. Well, now it had another use although he couldn’t say he'd trained in the art of knife fighting.
Stab, stab, he figured. Keep on stabbing.
Something charged out of the mist. A bull of a man with plated shoulders and a pair of iron horns splaying out from the helmet he wore. Lonnie knew some big guys, but this one was a monster. If he had to guess the guy’s weight he would have said easily three hundred and fifty pounds, at six-and-a-half feet tall.
Crash rushed by, already bleeding from a dozen wounds. He launched himself at the oncoming ram. They came together with a gut wrenching crunch, shoulder-to-shoulder, but not before a horn caught Crash beneath his collar bone. Lonnie winced, sure the beefy Jamaican would be made short work of. He hesitated between staying put and charging in with his knife, but no one else was rushing to help. They looked on with quiet expectation as the giants wrestled with strains and grunts, shifting and vying for leverage.
Crash, having a lower center of gravity, used the stuck horn to pull the bullish man into a bent position. Then he clutched the horns and twisted, spinning the beast off its feet and to the ground where Lonnie lost sight of them in the churning swirl of mist. The struggle continued another moment before Lonnie heard a sharp snap.
The group held their breath in anticipation, releasing it when Crash stood up, dusted his hands off, and staggered back to the safety of cover fire where he collapsed into the ladies’ waiting arms.
“Good man.” Ingrid gave Crash a pat on his chest.
The Brit puffed. “That’s our Crash. Stopped him cold.”
The big guy grunted and nodded, his eyes staring at Lonnie with blank exhaustion.
Was that it? Had they won? Lonnie desperately hoped so.
“Shouldn’t we get back inside?” he said.
“The rule of the streets, mate,” the Brit said. “You can fight them now, or fight them later. Either way, you’re gonna fight.”
It made sense if you believed in gangs full of monsters and maniacs.
Before he could stop her, before he could reach out and snatch her back, Selix staggered onto the battlefield, wobbly-kneed and drugged out of her mind. In a rush of breath, she said, “It’s a sleether. A real nasty one, too.”
“You know what to do, lass.”
“No mercy, dearie. Show it none.”
“Be careful,” Ingrid added with worry.
Lonnie squinted into the darkness. “I don't see it.”
Selix danced away from them in a raise-kneed jerk. She balanced on one leg and held the pose. “Oh it’s there, Lonnie. The living shadow. The black electric.”
Selix broke her pose and shifted her weight to both feet. Shook her hips with an awkward sway. Raised her hands over her head and waved them comically. Despite the terrors Lonnie had seen in the past few minutes, he wanted to laugh. Not because it was actually funny, but because it was dangerously stupid.
His eyes shifted from Ingrid to Elsa, then back to the Brit. “She’s going to fucking dance?”
“Magic.” Ingrid said.
“Magic?”
“Yeah, mate. Real good stuff. Just watch.”
Lonnie wanted to reach out, grab Selix’s arm, and pull her back behind cover. Then again, there was the open backpack full of black tar just sitting in the alleyway for anyone to take. The heroin itch returned, worming its way back into his brain. The burn of it, right behind his ear, right beneath his skull, oozing through gaps in the black ice.
Selix squatted as if trying to hide behind an invisible box. Her arm rose, finger pointing to some far distant spot on the brick. “There!”
Lonnie followed Selix’s finger with his eyes, traced it across the distance, passing over tipped trash cans and the open dumpster. A darkness, a brackish moisture, crept along the faded brick. Sounds like ice forming with intense speed reached his ears. Deep within the pitch black something moved. At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him, but they were adjusting to reveal a man shape, a cloud of black within the black rushing toward them.
The shadow man’s arm whipped from left to right, fingers splayed. A stroke of lightning ripped through the air—not the regular bright stuff, but electrified black—and struck the crates, cutting through them so they exploded in chips of wood and fire.
Lonnie threw himself backwards into the Brit. “Jesus!”
“Jesus is not here, Lons. Only us,” Elsa snapped.
Lonnie patted his front to make sure he wasn't burned or hadn’t pissed himself. Everything was intact. He was still dry. The black ice in his head squealed and cracked, the events of the moment sticking in his mind.
Selix danced harder, palms raised in front of her, legs out-of-sync and wonky. Another shock of dark lightning hit the pavement and shot up at Selix, only to deflect off her hands into the dawning light.
She lost her balance and fell with a plaintive cry.
Lonnie’s instincts kicked in. A strange energy pinged inside him, driving his motions with precision. He tossed the knife and caught it by the blade. Whipped it forward, not expecting to hit the sleether much less have an affect. But the blade stuck in the sleether's gut. The darkness hitched to a stop, shivering, choking.
"Chew on that, bitch," Lonnie said with an off chuckle, not quite sounding like himself.
Selix climbed to her feet. Scurried forward two steps, hands clawing at the air. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Lonnie swore red vapors oozed from her fingertips and rolled toward the staggering sleether. “This is not your world,” she cried, “this is not your place. Take your dark spark back to the Fade.”
The gang shouted in unison. “Go back to the Fade!”
Selix lowered herself into a crouch again, a lunatic sorceress. “Begone, demon. I cast you from Earth, never to return!”
The thing they called the sleether, the electric black, screeched. Its cry fell distant. The strange compression around them faded, alley settling into normal morning light once again, mist slipping back the way it had come.
Whoops and hollers from the gang. Elsa fired her weapon into the air.
The smoke from Selix’s fingers wafted away, and she collapsed to the pavement in a heap.
Crash rushed to her and scooped her off the ground, the Brit shouting for Lonnie to get the door. Lonnie stepped over the bag of dope and held the door wide. Crash carried Selix past him and inside, Ingrid mothering her the entire way.
Elsa lingered in the alley, fierce eyes appraising Lonnie. She seemed to want to
say something, but didn’t. Then she went inside, too.
Alone in the alley, Lonnie stared at the package of heroin. It would be easy. Just pick it up and run. Run far away from the things he’d seen, the things sticking now that the black ice was cracking. He didn’t think it was supposed to do that. Wasn’t supposed to fade so fast. And it left many unanswered questions. Like, why ice him in the first place?
He heard Selix’s words. Everything is fine. It’s all iced.
“It’s iced, all right. But not for long.”
Lonnie used his foot to push the heroin back into the backpack, bent and retrieved it, and followed the gang inside.
Chapter 4
Lonnie pulled the heavy door shut and threw the bolts. Punched in the code to arm the alarm. He closed his eyes. Took a deep, calming breath. Started to re-assemble. The call from the Brit. The start of the firefight. His threatening to shoot Elsa. Selix touching him, turning everything cold. The sleether.
He followed the gang up the steps to Selix’s top floor apartment. Ingrid first, then Crash carrying their exhausted leader. The Brit and then Elsa. Their mood had improved. They laughed, joked—wounded as they were—except Crash whose shoulder pained him to silence.
“Did you see that?” Elsa’s question was for anyone. “I blew Osha’s head off. She’s been spreading those horrid rumors for years and I finally got to end her.”
“She got you first, sister.” Ingrid glanced back at the wide bullet nick in Elsa’s shoulder.
“It’s true, lass,” the Brit said. “A hair to the right and she'd be the one gloating.”
“I’m not gloating. Just stating a fact.”
“Yes, and now you’ll carry on like a proud little bird.”
“Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”
“And make your dreams come true? No thanks.”
Ingrid giggled.
Elsa made a dismissive noise. “You should thank me, Ingrid. I heard Osha once ranted about the girth of your ass.”
Ingrid’s expression fell. “Oh. In that case, I’m glad you blew her head off. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Elsa’s eyes found Lonnie lingering a few steps behind in his iced state. “Aw. Did poor Lons go poop in his pantaloons? Does he need a diaper change?” She drew out diaper change with a cruel smile.
Lonnie’s lip curled in a sneer. “What’s a pantaloon? What fucking country are you from?”
Ingrid chimed. “Well, Lons, a pantaloon is a—”
“I know what a pantaloon is. I’m just making fun of Elsa’s choice of words. Not hip. Sorta dated, wouldn’t you say? I mean, pantaloons?”
Elsa’s eyes smoldered, eyelids drooping. The argument might have escalated, but they'd arrived at Selix’s room on the third floor just down the hall from the parlor. A place Lonnie had never entered, not in his three years with the Eighth Street Gang.
Ingrid pushed the door open and the gang entered, leaving the Brit standing at the threshold. “Sorry, mate,” he said, and the door clicked shut.
Lonnie stood mute for a few moments, swaying side-to-side. He closed his eyes and imagined himself treading the brackish water beneath the black ice, glimpsing broken rays of light filtering down. What was in that light? Were they his memories? His consciousness? His soul?
He beat his fists against the ice. A futile mental exercise. Slow going in the chilly waters with no real leverage. Yet, his fists were like picks, knuckles chipping away pieces where they floated past him into the black depths. He caught some. Recollections of things, like the events of the past hour. Others slipped through his hands and got away.
Opening his eyes, Lonnie inspected himself. He was sweating, dirty. Covered with dots of blood. He touched his temple, held out his hand, eyes widening as they came away smeared red.
Lonnie stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom. The room was disgusting, the bowl grimed with piss on the toilet seat. The sink stained yellow where the water had been dripping nonstop forever.
He searched his face in the mirror, amazed at the amount of blood sprinkled across his forehead and in his hair. Lonnie turned on the cold tap, wet his hands, and vigorously cleaned himself. The first splash felt wonderful, eye-opening and refreshing, even if the water stunk. He didn't meet his own stone gray eyes as he ran his fingers through his longish locks, slicking them back as best he could. He drenched his beard, scrubbing out the blood and gunpowder and whatever else had made it in there.
One of the memories that had slipped free resurfaced again, and he greedily caught it.
It was his old place in Newport. A Sunday morning, the only time Lonnie allowed himself a reprieve from the shop. 6AM, scoffing at the clock, then rolling back over to wrap his arms around his wife and pull her to him. She was warm, almost hot, and she felt good curled inside him. The scent of her hair was familiar and arousing, and he thought about waking her up with kisses on her neck, potentially escalating into morning sex. His wife loved to be woken up that way. He imagined her pleasant sigh as she responded to his advances, pressing herself against him, wiggling her ass until he couldn’t take it any longer and rolled her over to ravage her. The quiet morning consumed by their deep, private passion.
But she also liked her sleep, too. Hell, they could both stand a few more hours of shuteye, especially when the Shrimp was being so good, sleeping or playing in the living room, leaving mommy and daddy alone. She’d grown up a lot lately, eager to show her independence.
Fine by him.
The decision made, Lonnie closed his eyes, slept a dreamless sleep, and woke up two hours later. He slid on his sweatpants and slippers and went to the kitchen to see how the Shrimp was doing.
“Daddy.” His little girl came running over from her latest Lego creation to slap her hand on the breakfast bar where some muddy substance swilled in a mug. “I made you coffee.” She sounded smug. Proud of herself whenever she made something for Daddy.
“Oh, really?” Lonnie tried not to chuckle because she got grumpy when he messed with her over stuff like this.
“Yeah. Try it out.”
Lonnie glanced at the open container of coffee on the counter near the sink. Puddles of water. Grounds spilled everywhere. A spoon lay nearby, also covered with dark, wet particles.
Not wanting to disappoint her, Lonnie lifted the cold cup by the handle and took an experimental sip, stifling a wince. It tasted like shit water, but he’d never tell the Shrimp that. “Mmm. I’ll bet mommy will love this.”
“Mommy will love what?”
Lonnie looked up to see his wife walking into the kitchen in her Xavier University PJs. She yawned. Ran a hand through her ruffled hair.
“Look, honey. The Shrimp made us coffee.”
“Oh, great.”
Lonnie locked eyes with the guy in the mirror. Pain sulked behind the color. Resentment that he couldn’t remember his girls’ names no matter how many times he scribbled on notepads or carved up the hardwood floor with his knife. He’d always blamed his forgetfulness on the drugs, but now he figured it was another side effect of Selix’s icing, her cold touch.
Not probably. Definitely.
The gang, Selix, didn’t want him to remember something. But what?
Satisfactorily clean, Lonnie took an old towel off the rack and dried himself off, wringing the wetness out of his beard in a sprinkle of drops on the sink and floor. Once more for good measure, and then he patted the rest of his face dry. He tossed the towel, exited the bathroom, and walked stiffly back to the parlor.
Chapter 5
Lonnie sat on the couch in the light of the TV’s flicker, ass sunk deep in the cushions. It was comfortable, this old ratty furniture and coffee table with its mound of debris. A good place to zone out and let some of the tension from today’s fight dissolve. A good place to wait for some more of those interesting memories to come back.
Mysteries of Ancient Egypt was one of his favorite shows. Pharaohs and pyramids and tombs. Pharaohs’ curses and the gods of the sands. He’d like to
think he would have done pretty well back in those days. Maybe eked out an existence repairing carts or working with tools. Seemed like a simpler life back then. And some of the stuff they talked about, some of the artifacts they showed, felt familiar to him although he couldn’t say why.
He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, grabbed a smoke from its pack, and lit up. Took a nice, slow drag, admiring the dragon lighter a minute more before dropping it in his lap and fishing the remote control from the mess on the table.
A pause in the show left him with an insurance commercial. People frowned sadly at their smashed car and the tree limb resting guilty on top. The next minute they were all smiles when their insurance agent, a humble-hot blonde in a tight skirt, appeared and snapped her fingers. In a blink they were gaping at their repaired vehicle, dad tossing the keys to his daughter so she could go out hightailing it with her friends.
Fake ass bitches, Lonnie thought. Nothing was ever that easy.
He aimed the remote at the TV and scanned up, hoping to find lighter fare. Got stuck on channel 62 for a second. The room filled with flashing blue lights as cops chased a guy across the yard before tackling him hard into a tangle of bushes. Looked painful. Thumping reggae music piped through the speakers, the familiar song sending Lonnie into a fit of annoyance. He hated Cop Justice with a passion. He pressed the remote button frantically before realizing the signal was being blocked by the junk on the table.
Lifting his hand higher, he angled the remote until he got a connection, jumping off Cop Justice to resume scanning.
After a minute, he found a show he liked. The one where regular dolts videotaped themselves doing stupid shit for the world to see. Lonnie never understood the urge to expose one’s stupidity so brazenly. So damn proudly. Seemed like if you were a dumbass you’d want to keep that to yourself. The hosts were a bevy of comedians and actors who commented on the videos, but he kept the sound low so he didn’t have to hear them.
Lonnie chuckled as a guy straddling a handrail with his skateboard lost his balance (sending the board flying) and racked his nuts on the rail. Good stuff. It reminded Lonnie of that one joke about a redneck’s last words; “Hey y’all, watch this.”
