Into the Fire

by Peter Liney

  I scuttled across a pile of broken stones, keeping as low as I could, anxious to see who our visitors had been. No prizes for guessing: there were hundreds of Infinity Specials, all in a line stretching from this side of the street to the other, every one equipped with riot gear and beating their shields and anything else they came across, shouting at the tops of their voices. They were so loud they could be heard above the massive earth-moving equipment in front of them. Overhead, spotlights blazing, were a couple of Dragonflies. I tell ya, it was a full-blown army.

  Through the smoke, I could just make out the silhouettes of those fleeing before them. It was like they were being herded, driven like sheep. Infinity were forcing them out of the area, clearing the City of those they didn’t want, and yet, even when I’d come to that conclusion, even though it was the only possible explanation, I knew it didn’t entirely fit.

  I started to follow, keeping at a safe distance, my curiosity well and truly aroused. Something about this seemed somehow familiar. A time long ago . . . when I was a kid . . .

  And then—oh God!—finally I realized what was going on.

  I glanced behind me. Gordie and Arturo were following and I frantically waved them away, telling them to go back.

  Jameson Circle is three-quarters of a mile or so down the street from the church. In the old days, and I mean long before I got sent out to the Island, it was an impressive address. Now, just like the rest of this area, it’s all a bit run-down: the grand houses have been allowed to deteriorate, divided up into apartments, or mostly just rooms for those who never stay for more than a month or two. In the middle there was once a well-tended communal garden, but now it’s just an open grassless area with a few dying trees—nowhere you’d want to visit, day or night, but I had a strong feeling that was where this circus was headed. And sure enough, as we approached the swell in the street, an order was given and the Specials stopped their beating and shouting and formed themselves into a wall several persons deep—a move, I noticed, that was being replicated on the far side of the Circle, where there was another access—and all those caught inside were trapped. There was a moment of sickening silence, like the feeling of nausea just before you vomit, and I realized my fears were about to come true.

  Once when I was a kid visiting relatives in the country, I was asked if I wanted to go beating. They were paying a few bucks, so yeah, I volunteered, despite having no idea what it was. The following day we were up before dawn, dozens of us, and driven out into the middle of nowhere, where we had to form this long line right across the hillside and slowly advance, beating everything with sticks, shouting at the tops of our voices, making a helluva racket. The aim was to flush out any game in the vicinity, to drive them toward the guns of the hunters waiting ahead. I had realized that was what was going on here.

  There was nothing I could do, had no way to stop it. I wouldn’t have even made it through the wall of Specials. Another signal was given, a couple of shots rang out, and then all hell broke loose. It was deafening, partly ’cuz it was echoing away inside the enclosed circle, bouncing off the walls, but also ’cuz of the sheer weight of weapons being discharged—hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. It went on for the longest couple of minutes I’ve ever known, then finally came to a sporadic spluttering halt. The smoke from their weapons added to the smoke already there, making it impossible to see anything. Into that brief and terrible silence other noises started to be heard: people screaming for mercy, the wailing of the wounded and dying. Those still able ran at the Specials’ shields, trying to force their way out, but they were clubbed and thrown back to await the next spattering around of gunfire. They were helpless. On the nearest roof and in the windows of surrounding buildings I could just make out men and women equipped with firearms, all kinds, eagerly taking aim at those hemmed in below.

  It was a straight-out massacre. I guess they couldn’t get rid of those they didn’t want by sending them out to the Island anymore, so they’d started culling them here, taking advantage of what was going on to “cleanse” the Mainland.

  I don’t know how many were killed; with all the smoke I couldn’t really see. Certainly there wasn’t a lot of movement amongst those lying on the ground. As I turned and slipped away they were already bringing up the white trucks and the clear-up operation was underway.

  Jesus, this place was worse than the Island. Far worse. A lot of those shooting didn’t look to have the faintest idea about guns; I’m not even sure they’d held one before. They were just wildly blasting away, shooting randomly like it was some kind of fairground attraction.

  I turned and hurried back toward the churchyard feeling shocked and bewildered, the way you do when you’re forced to realize the gap between you and other members of the human race is far wider than you ever could’ve imagined. It was so ironic: on the very day that Lena regained her sight, she could’ve been witness to this.

  A little ways down the street I came across Gordie and Arturo hiding in a doorway.

  “I told you two to go back!” I said, turning to check no one was following.

  “What happened?” Gordie asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did they kill them?” Arturo asked, looking a little distressed.

  “Just get back to the crypt, will you,” I said, really not wanting to answer that question.

  “Why did they kill them?” Gordie persisted, knowing my anger was a sign of admission.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, leading them away. “I guess they don’t want some people in their city . . . It don’t matter. As soon as the Doc gives Lena the all-clear, we’re going anyway. Even if I have to put out every fire myself.”

  For a while we walked in silence, both kids looking very thoughtful.

  “It’s like us back on the Island,” Gordie eventually commented.

  “Nah. You didn’t know any better,” I told him, glancing back to see Arturo starting to lag behind. “Hey! Come on!”

  “Can I have a horse in the country?” he asked as he caught up, his thoughts a million miles away from where I expected.

  “What?”

  “A black one, with a white star here,” he said, pointing at his forehead.

  I shrugged, a little perplexed. “I dunno.”

  “You never even seen a horse,” Gordie said dismissively.

  “Seen pictures.”

  “I seen one,” Gordie told him.

  “When?” Arturo asked, with obvious disbelief.

  “In the park, when I was a little kid.”

  “Did you ride it?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m gonna ride mine,” Arturo said, as if he’d regained the upper hand.

  It’s quite something the way kids do that, draw you into their world, their values. Scores of people had just been massacred but these two were far more interested in which of them had ever seen—or ridden—a horse. Maybe, in a way, it’s kind of comforting; as if, by hanging on to a little of their innocence, we can stave off some of our harsh reality.

  We were almost back to the churchyard, Arturo still telling us about all the other animals he was going to have once we got to the country: pigs, sheep, a tiger. In a way, I s’pose it was that sense of normality, of listening to the kind of conversation I’d heard a thousand times before, that made me relax a little, maybe even forget something of what I’d just seen.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a powerful engine roaring up behind us. I turned around, hoping it had nothing to do with us, but in that precise instant we were hit by a bank of spotlights.

  “Run!” I shouted, knowing it meant trouble. “Run!”

  I protected them as best I could, keeping myself between them and our pursuers, but I realized immediately we couldn’t go into the churchyard, that it would endanger everyone. “Don’t go in there!” I screamed, “Keep going!”

  That was a helluva thing to have to say: I mean, we were utterly exposed, caught in those spotlights with nowhere to go—and I’d just run past
our only possible refuge.

  We skirted around the edges of a pile of rubble that had spilled out across the street at a junction, giving us the opportunity to slip down a side road, but whoever was chasing us just bumped over the rubble and accelerated after us and was soon only yards behind, holding station, as if to make it perfectly clear that they could run us down any time they liked, that this was just a game. I felt, rather than saw, this big white pick-up. The driver was repeatedly revving the engine as loud as it would go. I shepherded the kids closer to the wall, hoping there’d be some shelter somewhere, but suddenly a shot rang out. I glanced back at the pickup, looking for something I could do, some way of stopping them. There was a group of four men and two women in the back, all taunting us, guffawing away as they drunkenly swayed around, trying to aim their rifles.

  “Move it!” I screamed at the kids, hoping to put the fear of God into them, to make them run faster than they ever had in their short lives. There was a sudden flurry of gunfire, as if someone had given the order, and bullets were flying everywhere, ricocheting and whining through the air—and one of the kids gave a little moan.

  I turned to Arturo, the youngest, the most vulnerable, but he was running as fast as ever. Gordie also appeared to be moving freely. I was just on the point of assuming it was nothing, of urging them on even faster, when suddenly Arturo faltered, clutched at his side and fell to the ground, rolling over and over.

  I stopped and ran back; in the street the pick-up screeched to a halt. Arturo was just lying there, making this kind of gurgling sound, his eyes rolling back in his head, blood spreading out from his body at an alarming rate. I squatted down, took him in my arms and went to stand up but there was another volley of shots and I got clipped in the shoulder.

  I’d dropped the little guy before I realized, but I recovered enough to try to scoop him up again—but there was so much fire coming my way I had to scramble into this small recess in the wall, next to a tree. Again and again I tried to get out to grab Arturo, but each time I was met by more bullets snapping and pinging around me.

  Gordie had managed to scramble over the wall a few yards further on, but he must’ve worked his way back ’cuz suddenly his voice came from behind me: “Clancy!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Is Arturo okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him, though I had a really bad feeling.

  I was about to try for the little guy once more, at least to get him out of the line of fire, when the pick-up suddenly mounted the sidewalk and drove straight at me, lights blazing, while automatic weapons were indiscriminately discharged. I thought they were going to run Arturo over and maybe settle with me, but the driver screeched to a halt, the passenger door was thrown open, and someone reached down and grabbed Arturo’s body. He gave this cry of triumph as he dragged it inside like he was landing a prize fish or something.

  Then they were gone, accelerating away into the smoky night before I even got to my feet—but I did catch a glimpse of the sign on the back:

  Join the Infinity Clean-up Campaign.

  Beer, burgers and your choice of weapon.

  “What happened?” asked Gordie, suddenly appearing at the top of the wall.

  For a moment I just stood where I was, in a state of shock, again recalling Yoshi’s warning about people coming for us in the middle of the night. “They took him,” I said dazedly.

  “Kidnapped?” he said, scrambling down the wall, staring at the pool of Arturo’s blood.

  I didn’t know how to reply. In the end, I knew he would demand the truth so I just came right out and said it. “No . . . They took his body.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to cry, but he was a tough little guy and even at a time like that, not the sort to let himself go. “You sure?” was all he managed.

  I nodded. I’ve seen death enough times over the years to be able to make a positive identification. “Yeah.”

  Don’t ask me why, but we both turned and stared into the smoke where the truck had disappeared, stunned by the brutal suddenness of it, I guess. Only minutes ago, a few hundred yards away, we’d been listening to Arturo telling us what animals he’d have as pets in the country. Now we couldn’t bring ourselves to walk away from the spot where he’d been killed.

  “Why did they take him?” Gordie asked.

  “I dunno,” I replied. I’d been asking myself the same question. Why did they?

  His bottom lip started to quiver and I wondered if he was going to lose it after all. “What’s Delilah going to say?” he wailed, as if he was only upset on her behalf.

  God, yeah—what was Delilah going to say? Jeez, I couldn’t begin to imagine . . .

  It was an irony, but just as we couldn’t bear to leave, soon we couldn’t bear to stay. With one last look at that pathetic pool of blood, all that remained of Arturo, we silently walked away.

  It was beyond all comprehension . . . Gone. Just like that. Arturo, everyone’s favorite, our mascot, our talisman, didn’t exist anymore. I found myself thinking about that transfer—Mickey Mouse—and the first of what I knew would be many tears came to my eyes. It’d been so typical of him: wanting to be a little hard man—at times having to be—but inside he’d been just a normal, everyday kid.

  Gordie was right: Delilah was the one who was going to be hit hardest. She loved that little guy more than life itself, and I can’t tell ya how much I was dreading giving her the news.

  Slowly we descended the stone steps of the crypt, our hearts so heavy it was all we could do to bear them. Jimmy had wound up a camping light, I guess ’cuz no one could bear to be in the dark anymore.

  “Clancy!” Lena cried, noticing the blood on my shoulder where I’d been winged.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Plaster’ll fix it.”

  Delilah peered around us, waiting for one more person to come trotting down those steps. When he didn’t, it was like these shadows started erupting out of her. “Where’s Arturo?” she asked, slowly getting to her feet.

  There was a long and deathly silence. I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

  “Clancy?” Lena asked.

  All I could do was to shake my head. I couldn’t say the words.

  “Dead,” Gordie told them, like he wanted to prove he was man enough to say it, but his voice cracked as the word left his mouth.

  Delilah just stood there, her mouth slowly falling open, her eyes filling with a pain that almost hypnotized me.

  “Oh no—” Lena moaned.

  “They got this new form of ‘entertainment,’” I told them. “Call it ‘Cleaning up.’ Looks like people pay to get drunk and shoot as many ‘undesirables’ as they can.”

  “Why did you take them?” Lena wailed, her restored sight fixing me with a look that cut right through me.

  “He didn’t!” Gordie told them. “We followed him.”

  But everything was lost after that: there was no more conversation, no more questions or answers; everything was drowned out by Delilah collapsing to the ground and weeping so loudly and with such pain it was all you could do not to turn and run from it. It filled that crypt to overflowing, and though there must’ve been all manner of grief expressed for the dead there over the years, I doubt any of it compared. Delilah howled with such force, such complete abandon, it made me fear for her frail old body.

  “Lile! Lile!” Jimmy begged, trying to get a hold on her as she writhed from side to side, but within seconds he too was crying—not so much for Arturo, I didn’t think, but ’cuz he simply couldn’t bear to see her in so much pain. Hanna started to weep too, as silent as ever, the very opposite of Delilah, just sitting in the corner, her head in her hands, not making the slightest sound as tears ran out through her fingers and fell to the floor.

  For a moment Gordie stood there, staring, then he turned and ran up the steps.

  “Be careful!” I shouted after him.

  Lena went to Hanna and squatted down, comforting her, all the while holding my gaze.
For the first time in our relationship we were able to exchange consoling looks, and I wished to God we hadn’t had such a reason.

  “I hate this place,” I told her, “more than anywhere I’ve ever known.”

  “Why don’t we go?” she suggested.

  “As soon as Dr. Simon gives the all-clear.”

  “I can see; it’s improving already.”

  I was tempted, but for the matter of a couple more days, it didn’t seem worth it, not with something so important. “Give it ’til Friday. Then we’re gone. No matter what.”

  Suddenly Delilah stopped wailing, raised her head and looked at me with strained and bloodshot eyes. “Where is he?” she asked.

  Jesus. That was the other question I’d been dreading her asking. “I don’t know.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “They took him.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “I want to see him!” she protested.

  “Lile!” Jimmy said, again trying to put his arm around her, but getting pushed away.

  “I want to see him!” she repeated, even more desperately.

  “He’s gone, Lile,” Jimmy told her, and she resumed her sobbing, though this time she did allow him to put his arms around her—or maybe she was just oblivious to anything else.

  There was nothing anyone could say. That was our world, both out on the Island and here on the Mainland; nothing and no one was permanent, anyone could disappear, just like that, and it was up to each individual to decide how to deal with it: keep everyone at arm’s length, ’cuz feeling for them was merely an invitation to pain? Or dive in and take whatever might be going?

  In a way, it was a bit like getting drunk. You could be the loud guy, laughing, singing, living every emotion to the fullest, pulling down the walls and saying all the things you always wanted—or you could just sit there, quietly sipping, never overdoing it, never willing to risk any kind of hangover.