by Kenny Soward
“That’s it.” Carlito whipped his cellphone out and punched three buttons before Lonnie could blink. “I’m calling the police.”
Lonnie spun and got behind his cart full of hardware parts. Gave it a shove so it trundled down the sidewalk, bumping over cracks and divots in the cement. He screamed “Coward!” over his shoulder. “Fucking coward!”
Chapter 11
It was deep night by the time Lonnie returned to the apartment. The high moon clawed feebly against the bright city lights in a struggle to keep from being washed out, except in this part of town where windows remained dark and paltry lamps lit the streets. Here the moon invaded, not only dispersing its creeping light into all corners of the West Side but claiming prime territory in the minds of its denizens as well.
Perfect time for a full moon, Lonnie thought. The crazies will be even crazier.
He pushed the shopping cart into the back alley where they’d fought the Phalans and Crucifers a few hours earlier and parked it next to the door. He’d originally wanted to drag everything through the sewer and into the basement but quickly banished the thought. Too much time wasted on his little detour.
He scanned the brick where he’d shot the millipede creature on the wall and sure enough spotted the divot from his bullet. The pavement glinted wet. Evidence of the firefight. The monsters had been real. No denying it. Even without the bodies.
And who’d taken those?
He went over and poked around in the alley. Found his knife buried under some trash. Held it up and noticed the blade was stained black from the sleether. Seemed fine other than that, so he sheathed it on his belt.
The black ice perpetually creaked and groaned now. Just a thin layer remained. New memories floated around in his head. If he had the time to sit and focus on specific moments, he might reorder them properly. Seemed important to start working on that as soon as possible. What was a man without his memories? Without a notion of his true past?
But they were frightening, too, these memories. Not so easy to process. If he let them, they’d come slamming in, which would only lead to confusion. He’d have to remain patient, meticulously reorganizing everything that made up his personality. Restoring the old parts of himself. Building a new soul. Might not be perfect, but it would have to do.
After he wheeled the stuff inside and checked in with the gang, he’d find a quiet spot to start putting his thoughts in order.
Lonnie scanned the alley in both directions. Satisfied no one was watching, he bent and moved aside a tin can that rested against the wall. The can hid a coin which covered a small crack. He picked up the coin and scraped it inside the crack, drawing out a key with a sigh of relief. He gathered the key, wiped it off, and inserted it into one of the door’s triple locks.
He jerked when a tremendous boom rocked the building. The apartment alarm went off, a loud, pulsing blat. Lonnie threw his ear to the door. Nothing, or possibly the faint sounds of bumping within the building's guts. Hard to tell. Place could be falling to pieces as far as he knew. He stuck the key into the remaining locks, twisting the last one as the distinct cracks of gunfire froze him cold.
Pat. Pat-pat. Pat-pat-pat.
The shots stopped for a moment, started up—pat-pat-pat—then stopped again.
He thought about running. He’d certainly run from things in his life, never pretended to be the strongest of people. But no, Selix was inside. The drugs were inside. He'd be worth shit against big trouble, but if the gang won out and realized Lonnie had abandoned them... Oh, he didn’t want to imagine what they’d do. He didn’t want to end up like Tina or Trolley.
“And I’m not a coward.”
Lonnie pulled the door open, rolled the cart inside, and quietly pushed the door shut behind him. Drew his XDS from its holster. Picked his way through the kitchen to the hallway. Approaching the foyer, Lonnie heard someone gasping in obvious pain. Someone fighting agony. Someone suffering through it. Another softer voice whispered and shushed the first one.
Lonnie edged along the stair wall and sidled up to the banister post at the bottom. He peeked around, spying Crash face down in a puddle of blood, his dreadlocks dipped in the red. The guy was turned away from Lonnie, a good thing because the puddle was huge. He was alive though, the big fellow’s palms against the floor, arms quivering as he pushed in vain.
Easing another couple inches forward, Lonnie caught sight of the front door blasted off its hinges. One or two bullet marks scarred the frame where someone had taken shots. The abandoned street gave no clues as to whether or not the enemy remained inside the building.
Elsa sat in the corner near the busted door, torn skirts cast about her legs like old cobwebs. Her left temple and cheek was awash in blood. Her eye socket on that side, caved in. Crushed. As if someone from the city baseball team had come through swinging for the fences and connected for a home run.
Ingrid knelt next to her sister, worrying and dabbing at the wound, smoothing her hair back to expose more of the damage even though Lonnie would have preferred she keep that shit covered. One of Elsa’s opal green eyes glared at Lonnie. Her gun hand collapsed, dropping her Glock into her lap. Lonnie had just avoided having his head blown off.
“Shit.” He scrambled around the post and over the fallen door, glancing up to check the landing above before stopping next to Crash.
He touched the man’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Fuck no,” came the muffled reply. “See to the ladies.”
“Right.” Lonnie squat-walked over and crouched on Elsa’s right side, her good side, avoiding the ugly damage.
“What the fuck happened?” Lonnie marveled at the blackish blood soaking Elsa’s entire front. To her credit, the woman still somehow glowered with rage. Her good eye, the one not swollen shut, rolled around in its socket, mouth moving more on that side than the other. Her gun arm twitched. Brain and body weren’t getting along very well. Serious nerve damage happening there. She mumbled something incoherent and motioned faintly at the stairs with the Glock. Lonnie’s nose caught a hint of copper you’d expect from so much blood, but something else cloying and sweet and smothering too.
He gagged. “What is that?”
Ingrid, holding a piece of her sister’s hair out of her face, gave him a concerned look. Her lips stretched tight, her words clipped and angry. “The smell is from the spell they used to break in. Two of them. An armored golem and a warlock. Guns. Aluminum bats. They came in casting and swinging.”
Ingrid hadn’t escaped a beating herself. A big purple bruise colored her jaw. One black and swollen eye oozed tears. A huge piece of scalp and hair above her temple was missing. Deep red blood spotted her face. It was smeared and flecked everywhere. On the walls. Across the floor.
“We got one pretty good but their magic was strong. They had protection. And Selix upstairs—”
“The Brit?”
Ingrid threw a hard look upward. “I don’t know. He was up there with Selix. Oh, I feel so dizzy.” With that she fell back on her ass, gun clattering to the hardwood. She clutched her knees to stay upright.
Lonnie crossed over, tried to situate her next to her sister. “Sit here. I'll get help.”
“Lons.” Elsa sounded like she was chewing on a mouthful of mush. “G-get…” Her G’s were wet, raspy K’s. Her good eye bore into him, rimmed with reddish tears. The moisture welled up and trickled.
Lonnie leaned forward, listening hard. “What is it, Elsa?”
Elsa let go of her gun and grabbed Lonnie by his jacket, her grip strong with desperation, pulling him to within inches of her face. Blood smeared her lower lip and dripped from her chin. Lonnie surprised himself by lifting her jaw with his forefinger and wiping the reddish smear away with his thumb. Her lip quivered, instantly thawing his disdain. Despite her hatefulness and cruelty, she was the gang’s most loyal and staunch defender. Both she and her sister. He didn't see why Elsa had given him so much grief and treated him so shitty over the past three years but Lonnie su
spected there was much more between them than met the eye.
Elsa’s good eye remained fixed on him, passing on some great responsibility. “Protect her, Lons. Defend her.”
Lonnie gave a firm nod. His chest filled with something like pride or, at the very least, solidarity. They shared this home. Selix led them. If she died, they’d be lost. “They won’t get to her. I’ll fucking kill them.”
Elsa let him go with a weak sigh, nodding imperceptibly as her eye rolled back in her head and a line of bloody drool dripped to the floor.
Lonnie scanned up to the next landing. Convinced it was clear, he started up the stairwell, hugging the outer wall to keep an eye on anything lurking above him. He didn’t bother with the second floor and passed straight up to the third. The parlor remained untouched, nothing having disturbed the layer of trash on the coffee table. The TV showed a man and woman kissing passionately on the screen, an old-time movie. Dust swirled in the air, and his nose picked up the sweet and cloying scent of magic.
What good was he against a spell? Lonnie wasn’t magical. Well, nothing to speak of. Nothing he controlled. But a Springfield XDS could solve a lot of problems in a hurry. So, he led with the weapon, taking careful, quiet steps. Nothing moved in the dimness. Lightbulbs hung from cords, swinging, casting yellow light in flickers and spurts. A few were busted. Gunpowder pricked at his nose and the scent of magic grew stronger. Shadows danced as he came ahead.
Halfway down the hall he found the Brit. They guy’s head was smashed in like Elsa’s except he’d gotten a far worse doling out. The walls on either side of the hall were painted with blood and busted plaster as if something huge had picked him up and bulldogged him. Lonnie’s chest squeezed, a pang of remorse at the man’s passing. He’d been okay to Lonnie. Not near as bad as Elsa but not with the acceptance Crash had given him either. If anything, the Brit had been a fair guy, doing what needed done, asking nothing he wouldn’t do himself.
Lonnie forced himself to study the guy’s twisted body. Neck snapped, head turned 180 degrees. His gun lay ten feet down the hall. Damn, what a beating. At the same time Lonnie couldn’t help but think he should be especially careful or be the next one brained.
He stepped over the body and then remembered a time with the Brit.
They were in the basement under the stairs, shooting cans and bottles off a table in their makeshift gun range. Lonnie watched the handsome guy pluck targets with his dull steel Beretta. The Brit loved that thing. Wouldn’t shoot any other weapon. Lonnie understood that since he’d not picked up another pistol after giving the XDS a try.
The Brit popped off three rounds with calm professionalism, shattering glass and tin against the back of the alcove where a big pile of dirt absorbed the shot.
“This trigger is a long pull, Lons. That means I can squeeze for a half-inch before it’s ready to fire. Not a hair trigger like that little piece of yours.”
“What’s the benefit in that? Don’t you want to fire fast?”
The Brit chuckled. “Well, not necessarily. It's a sort of built-in safety so you only fire the weapon if you really mean to.”
Lonnie smirked. “When don’t you mean to?”
The Brit lowered his weapon and gave Lonnie a clap in the stomach that bent him. “Smart arse. What I mean is that it’s not always smart to go into a fight like a trigger happy idiot. That gun of yours, breathe on the trigger and you’ll shoot your own feckin’ foot off. Gotta stay calm and collected.” He ripped off three more rounds and cleared three more targets.
“Guess I'll never know. You guys keep me inside all the goddamn time, remember?” Lonnie shoved a box of .40 caliber ammunition over to him and raised his own weapon, squeezing the trigger five times to clear the remaining four targets.
The Brit smiled a secret smile, popped his empty magazine, and reloaded it with rounds from the box. “One day you’ll get your chance, Lons. Business like ours, no one escapes slinging lead at some point.”
“What’s it like? Being in a gun fight, that is.”
The Brit jammed the loaded mag into his Beretta and paused, peering the length of the range. “Well, sure as fuck ain’t the movies, lad. You don’t go diving around like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. No, mostly you gotta work to keep from pissing yourself. Lead flying at you, ricocheting off everything. Hard to find a good target when you’re squinting through that mess.”
The Brit racked a round and fired several times at the broken glass remaining on the table, sending bits blasting back into the dirt mound.
When he'd finished, Lonnie said, “Okay, then. What do I do when shit gets hot?”
The Brit held up a finger. “Keep your cool. Breathe. Try not to let the panic get to you. Because panic always gets you killed. Or it might get me killed, and that’ll just piss me off.”
Lonnie nodded, smiling.
“All right, mate. I’m gonna go turn on the fan. Vent the place.”
Lonnie wiped away a single tear with the back of his hand. He wished he’d remembered the Brit’s lesson before the firefight in the alley—could have used it then—but the point was taken better late than never. And thanks to Selix’s repeated icing over the years (had it been years?) Lonnie might learn many more lessons the hard way. At least until he could sit and think for five fucking minutes without shit going to hell on him.
Lonnie took a deep breath. Loosened his jaw and clamped it tight again.
“Let’s do this.”
He slid by a bedroom on his left, the bathroom on the right. Lonnie continued on with quickened steps, wincing every time the old hardwood creaked. Selix’s door stood cracked at the end of the hall, light seeping out. Lonnie heard two distinct voices. Recognized Selix’s chanting but not the other’s. It wasn’t a conversation but more a casting of words. Magic drifted heavy from inside the room. Tendrils of red smoke wafted out, gathered in the closeness of the passage, and stung his eyes. Lonnie forced his head to the side so he could breathe.
The spells and smells heightened in intensity as the two vocalizations wrestled. The sounds left him nauseous as they warred with his ears, head feeling like it was ten feet underwater. Discomfort in stereo.
He raised his weapon and reached for the knob. His big plan was to open the door and walk in firing. No fancy Tom Cruise diving around shit the Brit had warned against. Just a level bead on the target and a squeeze of the trigger.
He took a deep breath. Grasped the doorknob.
Boom!
A gun, not his, discharged inside the room. Lonnie jumped, nearly dropping his own weapon, ears ringing and heart slamming in his chest. He banged open the door. Raised his XDS, finger on the trigger.
There was no one in the room but Selix.
The woman stood splay-legged on a dirty mattress, bouncing on the squeaky springs in her panties and T-shirt. She held a big gun, the smoking barrel pointed in his general direction. Fury twisted her tear-streaked face. Tendrils of thin red fire trailed off her body, clinging to her skin before disintegrating in an ashy smoke.
And, to his great relief, the disgustingly sweet scent of magic dissipated enough to talk without choking.
Lonnie holstered his weapon. Held up his hands. “Selix, it’s me.”
Recognition dawned in her eyes but her gun remained pointed. Lonnie glanced to the side as he entered and noted the nickel-wide hole in the wall next to the door frame, blinking with the realization he’d almost had his head blown off, again.
“Who—”
“They came for me.” Selix’s voice shook. The monstrous .44 Magnum shook, too.
“Who?” Lonnie approached Selix at an angle, staying out of the gun’s firing path. He put one foot on the bed and gently placed his hand across the top of the .44’s smoking barrel, lowering it. She let it drop to her side. Her legs quivered. She fell. Lonnie caught her, eased her to the mattress, and took the gun away. He set the weapon on the floor next to the bed.
“Who?” He asked a third time, letting her head rest in his l
ap.
Selix’s face contorted with rage. She seethed through snot and tears. “Those fucks. Those sorry bastards. They tried to trap me in the Fade. But I magicked my gun. They couldn’t take it away from me. They threatened me plenty. Bunch of shit talkers!” Selix clenched her hands and screamed, the sound cutting through Lonnie’s head like a scythe.
“Shh.”
“I’ll shut up when they’re dead.”
Lonnie snatched a dirty pillow from the other side of the bed and slid it under Selix’s head. He stood, scanning the room. Went to the open window where the tepid air clashed with the alley chill. His eyes crawled down the brick. There was no fire escape. No ropes. Nothing. No way anyone could make that jump. At least no one normal. “Was it the Phalans? Leftover grudge from earlier?”
“No.” Selix shook her head on the pillow. “I mean, yes. Phalans. Crucifers. But something bigger is controlling them. It wants to clean us out.”
“Who? Why?”
“Who knows? Someone higher. It doesn’t matter.” She swallowed hard, her throat sounding dry. “What about the others?”
“Elsa and Ingrid are wounded. Crash too. It's bad.”
“The Brit?”
Lonnie shook his head.
“Fuck!”
“Fuck is correct.” Lonnie closed his eyes and tried to center himself.
“It’s going down tonight, Lonnie.”
Lonnie didn’t know what the ‘going down’ was. The specifics didn't matter. But Selix had an incredible nose for trouble. Another memory surfaced. They owned a Honda Civic called Scuttlebug parked in commercial garage over by the stadium. For emergencies only since none of them had an actual license. This sounded like an emergency to him.
“Let’s beat it. Take the money and the drugs and drive Scuttlebug the fuck out of here.”
“We can’t run. Not from them.”
Lonnie returned to the bed. Fell to his knees beside her. He reached out, wanting to stroke her hair, but his resentment for her remained strong. He drew back. “How long have you been icing me, Selix?”
