by Lars Teeney
“Kesha! C’mon! The house is on fire! That fuckin’ bomb they dropped on us killed Johnny!” Jamal informed her in a fearful voice. Kesha stared at him for a moment, digesting what he had told her.
“Johnny Nubia is not dead. He can’t die for he is Christ reborn. How dare you lie about Johhny Nubia,” she replied coldly and calmly. Jamal held his shoulder, which had been wounded by shrapnel that was large splinters from the bomb blast.
“Kesha, there’s no time for this shit! We gotta go!” Jamal yelled and grabbed Kesha’s arm. She protested and then started to scream at him.
“Johhny Nubia is not dead! You hear me! He’s not dead, he can’t be—” she transitioned from screaming to sobbing violently—from hitting Jamal to crying in his arms. Upon seeing his mother breakdown, Birdie lost composure and started to cry as well. The other women and children, who by now were coughing violently due to smoke inhalation also became emotional. The other women wailed at the news that Johnny Nubia had been killed. The sound of the inferno consuming the upper levels increased. The scene was was one of pure chaos. The youngest child in the group, that had been named “Frog” Nubia ceased breathing. His mother tried frantically to revive Frog Nubia, but she too was also being slowly asphyxiated by the smoke.
Jamal knew he had to do something. He picked up a ‘two by four’ piece of wood laying in the water that had pooled on the basement floor. Jamal hurried over to a window that faced out to the backyard high up on the wall. He stacked crates of ammunition to reach the window and then smashed it out with the piece of wood. This action partially channeled the smoke out of the basement, but there was too much, and he know they would have to evacuate the house.
“C’mon everyone! Out now!” He yelled. Jamal ran over and directed Kesha and Birdie toward the window. Birdie proceeded to climb the crates to reach the window. Kesha Nubia followed him. Jamal rushed over to the other women and children. He noticed Frog Nubia, laying limp in his mother’s arms. She cried and rocked him, attempting to coax him back to life.
“He’s gone! We gotta get you out of here, now!” he tried to pull the mother to her feet.
“Let go of me! My boy is not—*cough*—dead!” she shouted furiously, and clung to her dead child. She would not budge for Jamal, so he turned to the other women and children. To his horror, another child had suffocated. The other women corraled their children toward the broken window. They climbed the crates and crawled out of the basement into the backyard. Several sustained cuts from the shards of glass. Coughing and hacking, the group of women and children looked up at the tower of flame their townhouse had become. The children had no more tears to shed.
Jamal climbed the crates after all the others had been evacuated. He turned back to the mother who cradled Frog in her arms, then he crawled out of the basement window, still holding the ‘two by four’ piece of wood in his hands.
Birdie could hear commotion in the alley on the other side of the brick fence that wrapped around the backyard. It sounded like police activity to him. Then, he turned his attention to Jamal who pulled himself to his feet. The man was dirty, sweaty and bloody from the wounds he had sustained and from all the physical activity.
“Alright everybody! Let’s get over that fence!”Jamal instructed. They looked up to see a P.P.D. helicopter hovering in the sky above the burning townhouse, watching their every move.
Kesha and Birdie were the first to reach the backyard fence. Kesha climbed to the top of the fence and grabbed Birdie’s arms to hoist him to the top of the fence. Jamal was the next to lunge onto the fence and pulled himself up to the precipice. Kesha jumped down off of the fence into the alley, right as a line of P.P.D. officers advanced toward the scene, from both directions through the alley. With weapons drawn they ordered her to lay on the ground. With Jamal still standing on the top of the fence, he realized that he still clutched the piece of wood, almost simultaneously as some of the officers took notice.
“Heads up! He’s got a gun! Take him out!” one officer yelled, the others just acted on instinct. Jamal, for a split second, tried to muster words of protest, and started to drop the wood, but it was too late. With shotgun, pistol and rifle the officers let a storm of lead fly, that riddled Jamal’s body. He fell backward off the fence, dead before he hit the ground. Kesha Nubia screamed in terror and outrage. Buckshot from a shotgun round struck Birdie in the side of his head. He lost his balance, falling back into the backyard. He felt the ground rush up to meet him. Everything went fuzzy, and the sounds echoed in his head. He heard the shouts and screams from his mother, Kesha,
”They killed my baby! The fucking pigs killed my baby!”
He could also make out the shocked screams and moans from the women and children who were in the backyard.
“They’re killing us! They won’t let us surrender!” the women yelled, “Back to the basement!” was the last words he could discern before he blacked out.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
“Sergeant Zhukov! Sergeant Zhukov! Sir, there’s been an incident behind the house!” a female officer waved down Zhukov who was in route to the surveillance outpost set up in a neighboring house. Zhukov stopped and turned to her.
“What is it, officer?” he asked, interest piqued.
“Sir! Several ‘Action’ members tried to escape the burning house! There was a shooting, one of the members was killed, they thought he had a gun. Women and children ran back into the house!” the female officer recounted with concern in her voice. Sergeant Zhukov thanked the officer and then he rushed off toward the scene in the alley to the rear of the burning ‘Action’ house. He rounded the corner of a yard and entered the back alley. Up ahead he saw officer’s who had formed a firing line, facing the backyard of the burning house. The officers had a woman restrained and lying on her stomach on the cement. She was screaming obscenities toward them at the top of her lungs. Zhukov reached the officers, slightly out of breath.
“Corporal! What has happened here? I heard that there was an altercation!” Sergeant Zhukov demanded a report.
“Sir! The bastards tried to escape. We had to put one down! He had a gun! The rest ran back into the house when they saw there was too many of us. Yellow punks!” the Corporal informed with spite apparent in his voice. Sergeant Zhukov looked the man in his wild eyes.
“My baby! They killed my baby, he was only six! Those fuckin’ cowards!” the restrained women screamed as she struggled to no avail, veins popping from her neck.
“Somebody gag that whore!” the corporal ordered. An officer approached.
“Don’t!” Zhukov stopped the man. Zhukov knealt down by the hysterical woman.
“What’s your name? What happened to you child? Where—” When Sergeant Zhukov laid a hand on her back it set the woman off more intensely.
“THEY KILLED MY SON, BIRDIE NUBIA! IN THE BACK YARD! GET YOUR CRACKER-ASS HANDS OFF ME!” she growled with guttural fury. She spat at him, but her head was too low, so her spittle just fell on the pavement. Zhukov backed away and looked to the Corporal.
“Is this true? You guys shot a kid?” Zhukov asked coldly, pointing a threatening finger at the Corporal.
“It was an accident. He took a stray bullet when we had to kill the guy with the gun. I think his body is still in the backyard,” the corporal said while shrugging.
“I’m going to check on the kid,” Sergeant Zhukov resolved. he started toward the fence.
“Sir! Don’t do it! It’s bait, they’re gonna kill ya once ya jump the fence! I fought in ‘Nam, I know how it works!” the Corporal shouted with frustration. Sergeant Zhukov scaled the fence and stood on top. He felt the heat from the dancing flames that were consuming the townhouse. He looked down at the ground on the other side of the wall. The corpse of a man with long dreadlocks lay on the ground. Zhukov could not count the number of wounds on his body. A piece of wood lay by him. Approximately five feet to his left was the body of the boy, bleeding from the head. Zhukov jumped
off the wall and rushed to the boy’s side. He checked Birdie’s pulse.
“He’s alive!” Zhukov exclaimed to himself. He picked the boy up, cradling him in his arms. Then he heard awful sounds coming from the basement. Guttural moans and cries could barely be heard over the roaring flames. Zhukov’s heart sunk as he realized people were burning within the house. He looked up and saw that the flames had spread to conjoining townhouses. Zhukov ran to the fence and flung Birdie over his shoulder.
“Hey! Help me here! He’s alive!” he cried. Two officers bounded onto the fence to take Birdie. Zhukov followed over the wall. Kesha Nubia saw Birdie being carried over the wall and carried hastily down the alley toward an ambulance behind police lines.
“My boy! Bring him to me! Get your hands off him!” she ranted and raved on. Officers picked her up and carried her off toward the rear of the police cordon. Zhukov took the time to catch his breath once more. The Corporal stood silently, glaring at him.
“He was unarmed,” Zhukov said matter-of-factly.
“Come again?” the Corporal asked with a furled brow.
“Your detail shot an unarmed man. It was a piece of wood. People burned to death in the house because you killed this man,” Zhukov yelled. The Corporal shook his head, denying the charge.
“No way, I know what I saw. He had a gun. His friends must have grabbed the gun and took it back into the house,” The Corporal waved a dismissive hand.
“There will be an inquiry into this,” he stated with finality, “Let’s get the hell out of here, people! That fire is spreading fast!” Zhukov ordered the officers back and out of the alley. Shortly thereafter firefighters began efforts to try to contain the rapidly spreading blaze.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The police line moved back and the firefighters had to shift positions and the fire spread to new structures. The fire engines roared to life and drove near to the perimeter in a vain effort to quell the fury of the inferno. Commissioner Rodrigo stood amid the chaos and shouting. He watched the towering flame lick the sky, which sent pillars of smoke to parlay with the clouds. The ‘Action’ house was now indistinguishable from the surrounding structures. A hint of a wooden frame could barely be seen through the hellish flame. Rodrigo folded his arms and made sure to take in the spectacle for posterity. He thought back over the years about how as a kid this neighborhood had been one of the most exclusive of Philadelphia. Then, in the Sixties the undesirables began to buy houses here. Many families, some being Oscar Rodrigo’s friends got spooked and fled to the serene, sanitary safety of the suburbs. Rodrigo recounted how he watched the neighborhood decline over the years, and now here he was. He though tabout how the situation was allowed to spiral out of control, and how it has culminated with today’s siege and subsequent inferno.
“Oh well,” he thought, “This neighborhood was well over due for ‘urban renewal’.” With that, Police Commissioner Oscar Rodrigo turned and strolled away from the city block that had been set ablaze.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Evan had finished reading the official police report of the siege of the ‘Action’ Organization townhouse, which included testimony from Birdie Nubia. His heart raced with anger and confusion. The bungled affair at best looked to have been run by completely incompetent officials and at worst was a concerted effort to eliminate the ‘Action’ Organization through the use of fire. Any illusions that Evan may have had about a long, lost golden age before the Schrubb Administration had been stricken from Evan’s mind. He pulled the photograph of Birdie Nubia and chucked the rest of the police report into the barrel fire near him.
“Sorry that happened to you, Birdie,” he said, talking to the photo. He put the photograph in his hiking pack. Just then, Consuela began to stir and soon woke. She pulled herself to her feet, stretched and yawned. She looked toward Evan and then approached his side.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, “Coffee?” he asked. She nodded and thanked him, then took a seat and gazed upon the mass of papers and files strewn about.
“Did you find what you were looking for? Your family name?” she asked as he poured her coffee and she took the tin cup from Evan.
“Yeah. It’s quite the story,” he said with a sigh.
“So what is it?” Consuela pressed.
“Nubia,” he said with some hesitation. She smiled.
“Evan Nubia? Got a nice ring to it I suppose,” she confessed, “Now what?” Consuela inquired, then slurped some coffee from the tin cup.
“There’s nothing left for me here. Let’s head south,” he said.
“I thought you’d never say that! Let’s pack!” she exclaimed. Consuela stood and then started on packing her bedroll. Evan picked up some unread files and placed them in his pack. Then, he piled up all the material he had gone through and dumped the papers in the fire. After, he turned his attention to packing up and moving out.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
THE SPIRITS GATHERED
The 1968 black, Dodge Charger with the ‘white cross’ racing stripe that ran down the middle of the body tore down old highway 87 through West Texas. As the car progressed on its journey it passed scorched husks of vehicles, and charred remains of bodies that littered either side of the road. The victims had attempted to have fled from the storm that the Charger was approaching. The fires were still burning so the events that took place here had not happened very long ago. The Charger swerved passed burnt-out shells in the road roadway, then it hit top speed once more, with the engine roaring.
At the steering wheel was Ayane Inoguchi. She guided the vehicle with her one, good hand. Ayane peered out of the window to observe the hellscape that surrounded the highway. Soon she could see a ravaged and burning compound on the horizon. As she travelled closer still, she could make out that it was a Regime military base that had recently been attacked and overrun. Ayane wondered if it had been “their” work.Soon,shespied a traffic sign that confirmed that she was close to her destination. The sign read,
“Welcome to Wainwright, Texas! Home of New Megiddo National Heritage Site.” The sun had gone down and night had set in, as she approached the town she could see faint lights among the repurposed buildings and shanties. Ayane marvelled at how drab and featureless this small town was, and she was grateful that she had not grown up in a place such as Wainwright, Texas. She steered her Charger onto the main drag of town, slowing to a more manageable speed. Outside, she saw that the town was in the process of being sacked. Armed men on horseback moved around the streets, going house-to-house, smashing down doors, looting valuables and forcing inhabitants out to the street. The odd gunshot, resulting in an execution, could be heard. The men, who wore no specific uniforms, appeared to be carrying antiquated firearms.
On she drove toward the center of town. Ayane came upon another group of militia who appeared to have just murdered ‘Remnant Regime’ soldiers in front of a warehouse that had been set alight. She paid the spectacle no more attention. At least, she found her destination as she could see the white, adobe spire that supported a golden cross atop it. The structure was surrounded by a timber and plaster palisade. At the main gate, she caught an unexpected site. On either side of the gate were numerous large crosses planted into the ground. Upon closer inspection, she made out figures hanging from the crosses in the darkness. Ayane willed the Charger’s engine off with her neural implant. She got out and sent a command for the trunk to open. Ayane then linked her neural implant to the contents of the trunk, which activated. Two disk-shaped drones rose into the air from out of the trunk, which then closed. The two drones hovered over to Ayane’s side, and she walked forward toward the gate. She sent a command for the drones to shine lights upon one of the crosses. Ayane looked up at one of the crucified corpses. The man had expired some time ago. Around his neck hung a roughly-hewn plank with a message carved into it. She surmised that the words were written in Latin, and it read,
“Recipimus Christi Vulnerum Peccatorum. (Sinners Receive the Wounds of Chris
t.)” Ayane pondered this message and determined that she had definitely found the group that she had sought. She approached the gate and it was opened by militiamen. Her neural implant broadcasted her identity to the men who had been briefed on who to expect so they let her pass. She walked toward the central fortified church, accompanied by the low hum of the drones at either side of her. Ayane’s eye was caught by a banner that was being flown above the from entrance, and just below the spire. It was a white fabric banner, and on it was blazoned a sloppily-rendered black, encircled pentagram. The pentagram had recently been painted as it was dripping black paint from the fabric. A militiawoman unlatched the heavy, wooden door to the sanctum of the church. Inside she saw that the pews that flanked the central aisle were full. They were filled with wretched looking people, many had looks of fear on their faces. Some quietly sobbed into folded arms, others stared out into space with blank, wide-eyed. Young and old, men and women all seemed to share in the sensation of dread.
At the head of the room was a towering wooden throne, and there appeared to be a woman that sat upon it, though Ayane couldn’t be certain because the figure was cloaked, hooded and wore a veil over the face. The cloak was all white, save for the black, encircled pentagram insignia on the front, that matched the exterior banner. Flanking the wooden throne stood others that wore a matching outfit. Clad in white, and cloaked, they all bore the mark of the pentagram. Another woman who stood silently was also veiled of face. Two other men were present, one tall of stature and the other, shorter and stockier. Ayane distracted attention from the proceedings as she entered with her humming drones, levitating by her side. She took a seat in a rear row pew and landed her drones on the floor beside her. The woman in the throne continued speaking to a wretched-looking man who groveled in front of the throne.
