by Mick Farren
In fact, the crowd, although growing increasingly dense, was surprisingly orderly. The chanting and screaming only came in brief bursts, and comparatively few were still on their knees. The majority simply stood, heads tilted back, gazing up at the giant Horsemen. The first ones out had moved up onto the block-long stone steps of the big post office building across the street and were using them as granite bleachers. He could see blue pinpoints of light from the Elvi's globes. War's mount reared, and its rider stabbed down at the mass of people with his spear. There was the murmur of thousands of voices. Carlisle spotted a gang of street kids moving through the growing throng like sharks through a school of tuna. They were almost certainly making a preliminary pass before the first purse- or chain-snatching runs of fast larceny. The calm would not last long.
"But what the hell, it's not my problem."
Unfortunately, he couldn't quite believe himself. Sometime-it seemed like centuries ago – he had sworn an oath to protect the public. It had not said anything about all deals being off if the public put itself willfully at risk or his superiors acted like morons. He couldn't just walk away. He looked around for someone who might be a little more help than Sergeant Muncie. It was then that he spotted the deacons.
There were eight of them, coming out of the Garden at a fast walk. They all wore bulky, dark-blue, three-quarter-length raincoats and porkpie hats. Carlisle knew those raincoats. Their cut sufficiently loose to hide automatic weapons and lightweight body armor. Something was absolutely wrong. They looked like a deacon hit team – and what in the name of merciful heaven was a hit team doing in this already lunatic situation?
They turned sharp right and followed the curve of the building around into Thirty-third Street. He decided to follow them. They seemed to be heading for the gates where cars and trucks had access to the inside of the Garden.
Speedboat
He knew that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. He pushed through a set of double doors and found himself in an approach lane to an underground loading bay. There was a black and heavily armored stretch limousine parked under a light. It might have been a Mercedes when it started out, but the extensive customizing made identification difficult. There was a cowcatcher on the front, and the windshield and windows were just slits surrounded by steel plate. The ceramic eggbox panels covering the sides and top could stop anything short of a rocket attack. Whoever owned the car took his or her personal safety very seriously.
It was not the car, however, that made him duck back into the doorway. It was the five armed men who stood around it. At first he thought that they were cops, but then he saw the pale-blue trim on their uniforms. They were Garden security. Speedboat did not know too much about private rentacops. He didn't have a great deal of contact with them down on the Lower East Side. In theory, he should have been able to stroll up to them with his backstage pass prominently displayed and ask directions. The pass was legit, and it had worked perfectly well on the guards who had let him through the security screens into the backstage area and who had explained how to find the guy he had to contact. Though the explanation had turned out to be garbled, it had been freely and civilly given.
Theory and practice were, unfortunately, two different things. Speedboat fished out the pass from one of his deep pockets and stuck it on the front of his parka, but he hesitated before walking out into plain sight. What kept him there in the doorway, peering furtively at the car and its escort, were the machine pistols that they held at high port. These guys were serious. In a culture where shooting first and asking questions afterward was far too common, an individual with a uniform and a machine pistol required a good deal of consideration and respect.
He had all but finished considering and was about to pull out his pass and walk boldly up to the armed security men when the five of them stiffened. He quickly changed his mind and stayed put. Something was about to happen. There were voices in the darkness beyond the pool of light around the car. Figures came into the light. There were four of them, backed up by even more armed Madison Square Garden security. On the outside, there was a mountain of a man dressed like a western gunfighter, complete with Stetson and fancy suit, and an almost-as-large black man in a scarlet sweatsuit. They flanked a flashy blonde with a gold leather evening coat tossed over her shoulders and a small man wearing a rhinestone suit, dark glasses, and a towel draped around his neck. Disconnected cables trailed from his pants leg. Speedboat froze. It was Alien Proverb himself.
The cowboy opened the door of the limo, and first the blonde and then Proverb got into the back. The cowboy slammed the door. There was a brief conversation with security personnel, and then he and the black man climbed into the front. The long car was started, and it accelerated quickly up the tunnel. The Garden security and the unnoticed Speedboat watched it go. Speedboat was a little bemused; he rarely came close to celebs.
Once again he readied himself to seek directions from the security men, but once again he shrank back into the shelter of the doorway. There was a commotion beyond the lights – shouts and running feet. Another group of men also brandishing guns ran into the space where the armored limo had just been. Speedboat's eyes widened. There was no mistaking the blue raincoats and dark suits. They were dekes. They yelled something indistinguishable at the security men and started up the tunnel at a run. Speedboat did not hesitate. He jerked back through the doors behind him and fled.
Carlisle
There was a sizable crowd around the gates. They were quiet, with no pleading, pushing, or hysteria, and the line of security directly in front of the vehicle entrance had no difficulty in holding them back. These were the hardcore, the fans rather than the faithful. Despite the Four Horsemen, they were waiting for Proverb to come driving out of the bowels of the building in his limousine. They just wanted to be close, maybe to see his face, and they stood quietly holding souvenirs or programs. Two had raised a banner that read 'Next to Jesus, We Love You'. There was a high proportion of Elvi among them, holding up those blue globes.
Carlisle was about eight yards behind the deacons, and he slowed a little as they came up to the knot of fans by the gates. Nothing had prepared him for the sudden and completely purposeless violence. They simply went through the crowd, barking and manhandling, counting on ingrained fear to make the people melt away in front of them. And their tactic might have worked if it had not been for one burly Elvi. His wife was not fast enough in getting out of the way. One of the deacons pushed her roughly. She stumbled on her Minnie Mouse shoes and fell with a shriek. Her previously quiet husband, who had been docilely holding a pair of polytone 3D pictures, one of Elvis Presley in his ceremonial costume and a slightly smaller one of Proverb in his, instantly turned into a mean and outraged good ol' boy. He grabbed the deacon by his lapels and threw him.
"I don't care who you are. Nobody pushes my wife to the ground."
He turned to help his wife to her feet but was immediately jumped by three deacons. Two others pulled guns from under their raincoats. At the very same moment, the gates started to slide open. A large and heavily armored black limo was coming through from inside. It was coming fast, and the Garden security started to move the crowd out of its path. They immediately ran up against the remaining deacons, who seemed to by trying to push through to the gate. There was total confusion. The deacons who were struggling with the furious Elvi tried to break away and go for the car. But the Elvi had not finished with them. He brought one down with a mighty, double-handed chop to the back of his neck. The fallout from that act cannoned into the security men and the now-panicking fans they were attempting to control, resulting in a tangle of struggling people right in front of the car. Whoever was driving the black limo slammed on the brakes, and it screeched to a shuddering halt. The deacons were straight on it, brandishing their weapons and grabbing for the car's door handles.
For Carlisle, everything fell into place. Maybe he was going to see an assassination after all. The idiots were going after Proverb, and they did
not look particularly bothered as to whether they took him alive. That in itself was a measure of how far gone they were. The bastards thought that they could get away with anything.
The black limo was resisting all their efforts to open the door. The engine roared. The people in front of it, caught in the blazing headlights, scrambled to get out of the way. The car shot forward. Its lowered cowcatcher clipped one of the deacons and sent him sprawling on the hard road surface. It made a hard right and sped the wrong way down Thirty-third Street, scattering the stream of people who were coming in the opposite direction to see the Horsemen. A deacon loosed off with a burst from his machine pistol at the disappearing limousine. The bullets struck orange sparks off the sheet steel in the car's armor. The car did not stop, but gunfire started a mass panic on Thirty-third as screaming bystanders dived for cover anywhere they could find it. Carlisle clipped his badge to his lapel and reached for his own gun. The deacons all seemed to be equipped with the latest.10 Krupp HVs, which made his own automag seem puny.
The big Elvi did not seem at all deterred by the show of weapons. With three or four more at his back, he ran straight at the deacon who had fired and blindsided him. The deacon went flying. The way he hit the ground, rolled, and fired did credit to his training. The burst took the Elvi in the chest. He was lifted off the ground and thrown backward. His wife started screaming. The deacon lost his gun as the other Elvi ran over him, kicking and stomping with pointed Italian shoes.
The second burst of gunfire started the stampede. People were running in every direction. The echoes from the surrounding buildings made it impossible to tell where the firing was coming from unless one was very close to the incident. Somewhere a woman was screaming.
"They're killing us! The deacons are killing us!"
It was the kind of blind hysteria that could spread like wildfire through a crowd. Carlisle looked down at his tracy. His first instinct was to call in, but what was the point? He didn't need anyone confirming that there was nothing that could be done.
There was a lot of noise coming from Eighth Avenue. The panic must have reached the main body of the crowd. A second tight, angry group of deacons came running up the ramp from inside the Garden. As they came through the gate, Carlisle grabbed one of them by the arm. He spun the man quickly around and yelled in his face.
"Who's in charge of this nonsense?"
It was only after he had yelled that he recognized the deacon. It was that sanctimonious little jerk Winters. The recognition was simultaneous and mutual.
"Carlisle."
"I asked you a question, boy."
An unpleasant smile spread over Winters' scrubbed, unctuous face. He was out of breath and clearly running on adrenaline. "You don't talk to me like that, Carlisle. After the end of tonight, things are going to be very different."
They both ducked as a bottle smashed against the wall behind them. An angry mob had started to ring the gate, and the deacons were pulling back into a protective formation in the gateway. The crowd did not seem willing to force the confrontation yet. The firepower that the deacons had between them was more than enough to keep them sullenly at bay. They contented themselves with throwing things from the back rows and yelling abuse. Carlisle knew that it was a situation that would not continue indefinitely. It had to deteriorate. Either the mob would work itself up until it was irrational enough to charge the deacons, or else the deacons would lose control and start shooting. In either scenario, people would die. He knew that he really had to get himself out of there. He could not do anything, and he was damned if he would let himself be caught in the crossfire.
He was still holding on to Winters. They were in a kind of no man's land.
Winters glanced down at the ten caliber in his hand. "You realize that I could shoot you out of hand and nobody would do a thing."
Carlisle's own gun was in his free hand. The moment's angry impulse that had caused him to grab Winters was creating a ridiculous and dangerous standoff. It was time to take the initiative. He smiled back. "You could, at that."
Winters' eyes flickered. It was obviously not the response that he had expected.
Carlisle laughed. "For all your bullshit, you deacons really don't have it, do you?"
Without warning, he kicked Winters hard in the crotch and turned to run. Three steps, and he was in among the crowd. They parted to let him through.
Winters
His eyes were watering and he wanted to vomit. He lay on his side, doubled up, his body curled around the throbbing agony between his legs. Only rage stopped him from crying out. That bastard Carlisle. He would kill him. The next time he saw him, he would kill him. Through the pain and the violent fantasies of what he would do to Carlisle, he heard shouts in among the mob.
"Get his gun! Quick, get his gun!"
He realized in horror that when Carlisle had kicked him, he had dropped his weapon. He opened his eyes and saw the brand-new Krupp lying some six feet away on the sidewalk. He had only been issued it half an hour earlier. He tried to move, but the pain redoubled. There were footsteps coming toward him. He tried dragging himself. Hands reached for the gun. He stretched for it, too, but his arm was kicked aside. Then, right on top of him, there was a thunderous explosion of gunfire. Rogers was standing, straddling him, firing over the heads of the crowd. They were backing away, and some had turned tail and run. Rogers' first burst had been aimed at the scum who had been trying to get the HV. Four of them lay sprawled on the sidewalk. There was a lot of blood.
Rogers moved quickly forward, picked up the fallen gun, then stepped back to Winters. "Can you walk?"
"I don't know."
"You'd better."
Meredith, the team leader, was yelling to them. "Everyone move back inside the gates! Move back!"
Rogers slung Winters' machine pistol over his shoulder and put a hand under his armpit. "Come on, I'll help you."
Winters found that his legs were working again. With Rogers holding him up, he hobbled back to where the other deacons were slowly retreating to the vehicle entrance. That withdrawal made the crowd a good deal bolder. They were closing in again. Meredith had found himself a bullhorn somewhere. He faced the mob. He cut a heroic figure, the ramrod-straight embodiment of authority facing the milling forces of darkness and disorder.
"There will be no more warnings. If you don't disperse, I will order my men to open fire."
Winters dropped to one knee. He took his Krupp back from Rogers. The ring of angry faces stopped coming on, but the crowd showed no inclination to disperse.
Meredith looked grimly at the other deacons. "They've had their chance. Fire at will."
The muzzle flashes spat into the night. Winters' gun vibrated in his hand. The Krupp HVs made an angry, high-pitched sound. Winters was surprised at how easy it was. They went down like mown corn. Bodies kicked and contorted on the street and sidewalk. The ones who were not hit in the first withering fire took to their heels, scrambling for their lives. They immediately ran into the crowds behind them who were still pressing forward. All of Thirty-third Street was choked by terrified, struggling humanity. On the far sidewalk, the front window of Toots Shor's bar exploded.
"Hold your fire. Back through the gate, right now."
As he moved back with the others, Winters had almost forgotten about his pain. He felt breathless and light-headed. That'll show the bastards. That'll show them who gives the orders. That'll show those inferior scum what kind of God we worship.
Kline
There had been a chorus of protests when they had been told that they could not leave the VIP lounge. Everyone had something to do or someplace to be. They had parties and dinner dates to go to, or lovers waiting for them. The Yorkshire terrier that was clutched under the arm of the overweight wife of the president of Good Shepherd Inc. started yapping. Maybe it, too, had plans, Cynthia reflected wryly. Only the senior deacons had left, after making a curt announcement that, because of possible street disturbances, everyone should remain
where they were. Only official vehicles would be going in and out of the Garden until it was considered safe. They had left Longstreet to take the flak, with a couple of junior aides to do spin control on the disgruntled guests. Longstreet immediately had the waiters push out the booze as if it were New Year's Eve, and then he got on the phone to his department at Astor Place.
"What the hell is going on?"
During the lengthy pause that followed, Longstreet's face had grown increasingly disbelieving.
"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Has the world gone completely insane?"
There was a shorter pause.
"Why, in God's name, weren't we told about it? Was it supposed to be a surprise?"
Pause.
"What do mean you just got it from NBC? Do you realize how that makes us look? Who authorized this?"
Pause.
"What is Dreisler's office doing authorizing sky spectacles? I'm getting a little tired of the assumption that he can do exactly as he pleases. In the meantime, I'm bottled up in here with a party of extremely miffed bigshots. If this Four Horsemen thing is happening, they might as well see the damn thing. I want you to get on to somebody at the Garden and have a video picture piped in here. In the meantime, I'll do my best to smooth the feathers."
He hung up and turned to the circle of impatiently waiting guests.
"Well, we may not be going anywhere for a while but at least we'll be able to see what's happening."
His words were not greeted with any degree of enthusiasm. The detainees did not want to see what was happening – -they wanted to get on with their planned evenings.
After about five minutes, the monitor screens came to life. Some, apparently being fed from a camera mounted on the roof of the big post office building on the other side of Eighth Avenue, showed an upward-angled shot of the Four Horsemen. A second view was provided by a camera crew in a helicopter hoveling over the Hudson. A third set of images came from a mobile unit down in the crowd. The video hookup, far from calming the protesters in the VIP lounge, actually started a new round of complaints.
