United States Of Apocalypse

by Mark Tufo

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” he said as he wiped the blood on his sleeve. Mike gripped Tynes’ right arm and pulled, but the man barely budged. “What the hell, man. Do you eat bowling balls for breakfast? Fuck it. I tried.” He turned to leave just as a small fire broke out over the hood. “This shit funny to you, God?” Mike cried to the heavens. He turned back around and reached in, grabbing the officer’s duty belt with both hands. When that didn’t work, he placed his feet against the frame of the car and leaned back. At first nothing happened; it was as though Mike was trying to roll a boulder up a hill. Then Mike felt a slight release, and there was a second where he thought perhaps it was himself being stretched, like a prisoner on a medieval torture device, but it was Tynes shifting, finally.

  “Come on, you fat bastard!” he shouted as he savagely pulled backward, the blood in his hands cut off as the belt dug deeply into them. Adrenaline kicked in, and at a quarter inch to a tug, Mike figured he’d be done around the same time his body finished cooking. The flame had spread. Golden fingers licked up the face of the cracked windshield, desperately looking for a way in, and for the fuel needed to keep itself alive.

  Tynes finally showed some signs of life as he grumbled about the rough treatment he was receiving.

  “Yeah, so how’s it feel?” Mike asked through gritted teeth as he continued to yank the man free from the clutches of a car that desperately wanted the officer to go down with the ship.

  Tynes let out a hearty grunt as he thudded onto the ground. His eyes, which had been closed, began to flicker. Mike pulled him another twenty feet across the pavement, confident that he was now far enough away should the car become engulfed in flames. Mike thought about just taking off before he noticed a couple of guys about fifty feet away greedily eyeing the car. One was holding what appeared to be a large kitchen knife, the other a butcher blade. The crowd had rapidly dispersed with the onset of imminent trouble.

  Why? Why would they…that thing isn’t going anywhere. Then he realized it wasn’t the car they wanted. It was the shotgun that had broken loose from its locking device. “No way, assholes. That’s mine.” Mike sprinted for the car just as one of the men made a break for it. Unless he’s Jesse Owens, I’ve got this. Unless, of course, the stupid thing is stuck, then he’s going to stick me in the ribs with that knife.

  “One for the home team,” Mike said as he grabbed the barrel of the twelve-gauge shotgun and pulled it out of the car. He quickly ratcheted a round into the chamber and spun. The man coming at him with the knife quickly veered off.

  “Fuck you, honky. I’ll gut you,” the thug threatened.

  Mike’s heart was hammering in his chest. He’d been in a fight or two in his life, but it’d always involved fists and generally had regarded a woman. Mike had the distinct impression that, at this very moment, he was fighting for his life, and the shaking barrel only confirmed that for him.

  “Take the gun, Y-Dog; he ain’t gonna shoot you,” the man with the butcher blade said, wisely not coming any closer.

  “Yeah, Y-Dog. Come and get this gun. I’m not going to shoot you,” Mike said, echoing the other man, hoping his voice wouldn’t break as he said the words.

  Y-Dog began to circle to the side, making Mike look back and forth between him and the other man.

  “My homies are gonna be here in a minute. Just drop the gun, whitey, and move the fuck away.”

  “Homies? Whitey? You’re fucking white too, dumbass.”

  “Ooh, he just called you out,” the other man said, putting his non-lethal hand to his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up, Z-man.”

  “Z-man? Y-dog? What are you two idiots doing? Auditioning for Sesame Street?” He was trying to make light of the situation, but the gun was feeling heavier by the minute, and he did not know how much longer he could keep this brave charade up. “Fuck,” he mumbled as another of the threatening gang showed up.

  “Stick the cop!” Z-man shouted.

  Mike began to move closer toward the downed policeman. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Lookie, I think he’s going to cry,” the newcomer said. “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?” The man’s smile faded away as he pulled out a small revolver and pointed it in Mike’s direction.

  Mike spun and fired. A plume of blood arced out from the man’s chest, the pistol in his hand forgotten as he fell backward, blood coating his t-shirt. He gasped once as his back collided with the sidewalk. His left hand shot up and fell back down just as he took his final ragged breaths, blood pooling in the newly made concave in his torso.

  “You…you fucking shot Duckie!” Y-Dog said as he came closer, wildly swinging his knife back and forth. “Do you know who we are?”

  And right at that very moment, Mike did. He hadn’t been looking; maybe he should have. But then what? Could he have just turned his back and let them kill the cop? He could not for the life of him imagine what allegiance he had to Tynes. The guy was about to drop his ass in jail, maybe for the next year and a half of his life. And for what? The gangbangers no longer wore their colors on their head—it gave them away too quickly—but a black bandana shoved in a back pocket could only mean one thing, D Street Demons. Notoriously one of the most violent gangs the city had ever known. In fact, they were so vicious they’d either driven out or absorbed almost all their competition.

  D Streeters didn’t discriminate between gang members and their families. They believed if you were against them, then so was your entire family, and they would all need to be eradicated. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. They didn’t stop for the very old or the very young. They were as close to animals on two legs as could be. Mike had spent a fair amount of energy avoiding them at all costs, and in one fell swoop, he’d become enemy number one. He could only hope his anonymity would protect him. He had somewhat of a reputation on the streets, but he did not have a large sphere of influence.

  “Just get the fuck out of here!” Mike shouted.

  “Just gotta get your picture motherfucker,” Y-Dog said as he held up his smart phone and snapped off a series of shots to distribute among the entire gang citywide. The hunt would be on soon enough. “Gonna see you real soon, asshole. Duckie was my boy; we’ve been friends for years. Your death is going to be slow.”

  Mike had the gun pointing at Y-Dog’s head, but the man didn’t flinch. Mike applied some pressure to the trigger, his knuckle whitening as he debated between killing the man or letting him go.

  “See you soon.” Y-Dog turned and left, Z-man following in tow.

  Mike bent at the waist, getting in some heavy breaths as he fought back a rising surge of panic. He’d just made an enemy out of an entire city. Maybe now was a good time to go and make peace with his family. He wondered if Boston would be far enough away.

  “Maine, maybe?” he said aloud. “Although who the hell wants to live there besides moose and bears?”

  “Mike, put the gun down.”

  It took Mike a second to figure out who had said it. He knew Y-Dog would be back, just didn’t figure it would be that quick. When the man shouted “Now!” Mike put the pieces together. Sometime in the last minute, Officer Tynes had woken, saw at least part of what was going on, and now had his service revolver pointed at Mike’s back.

  Mike turned slowly.

  “Put the fucking gun down, Mike.”

  “You still plan on taking me to court?”

  “It’s my job. Now put the gun down, or we’re going to have a serious problem.”

  “Oh, I think we’re past that point. How much do you know about what is going on?”

  “I know there’s a dead man over there, and I’d say it’s fair enough to think you did it with my shotgun.”

  “Would it help if I told you that he was planning on killing you?”

  Tynes placed his left hand on the ground and began to push himself up. His eyes and his aim never left Mike.

  “He’s a D Streeter,” Mike told him.

  Officer Tyne
s took the quickest of looks over to the stiff. That was all he needed. He’d had enough run-ins with the lowlife to know who he was.

  “Doesn’t matter, you shot and killed him.”

  “Fuck you, Tynes. I could have walked away. They didn’t want me, they wanted your guns and your death. Now me and my whole family are on the hook.”

  “Then you’ll be safer in jail.”

  “You cannot be that naïve, can you? As soon as they book me, my name becomes public knowledge. Even if by some miracle, I make it out of county and go upstate, how long before a jailed D Streeter sticks a sharpened toothbrush into my throat? I’m not going out like that.”

  “I said put the gun down.”

  “Not a fucking chance. We can stay here and do this détente shit all day if you want. But sooner rather than later, we’re going to have a hostile audience, and I, for one, don’t want to end the day with my severed penis stuck down my throat while I’m still breathing.”

  Officer Tynes was all too familiar with this type of death. It was reserved for the D Streeters’ most hated enemies.

  “If you shoot me, Tynes, you’d better kill me, because it would be more humane. Otherwise, I’m getting the fuck out of here.” Mike lowered his rifle, looked around, and began to move away.

  “Hold on.”

  “I already told you I’m not going with you.”

  “Did you pull me out of that?” Tynes pointed to his patrol car that was a burning, smoking, smoldering ruin. The front seat had completely melted down to its spring coils.

  “I did, and it wasn’t easy. I think you weigh about five hundred pounds.”

  Tynes frowned at him. “And that man was going to kill me?”

  “Maybe not Duckie—but Y-Dog wanted to stick you. Duckie was just covering him with that gun over there.”

  “Y-Dog was here?”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “I busted his brother last year. He said he’d get me back sooner or later. He just about had his chance.”

  “I strongly suggest you get out of here as well.”

  Tynes grabbed his mic off his chest. He went to make a call for back-up until he realized the cord had been neatly severed. “I can’t let you go.”

  Mike stopped, barely containing the rage that surged through him. “Will you stop being a fucking asshole cop for just ten fucking seconds and try being a man? I just pulled you from a burning car and then, at great personal fucking risk to everything near and dear to me, I stopped a savage from stabbing you to death. How about a little fucking show of appreciation! A thank you! Something along those lines, I’m not greedy. I’m not going with you, Tynes, not now, not ever. You point that gun at me again, and I will shoot you. I’m in too deep now.”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  “You so sure of that?”

  “Yes, and exactly for the same reason you just said. You’ve saved my life twice, now. Why throw that all away?”

  “You’re welcome. Seems that is going to be as close to a thank you as I’m going to get. I’m leaving. Are you staying to see how many fuckers Y-Dog brings back with him?”

  “Where you headed?”

  “The garment district. I have friends there.”

  Tynes looked over when they heard sirens off in the distance and, almost immediately, the sound of multiple firearms expending rounds.

  “Shit went bad a lot faster than I thought it would,” Mike said. “Can you run? Wait, I know you can run, chased my damn ass all over the place. I mean can you now? Are you injured?”

  “My head hurts pretty bad, but otherwise…”

  “Let’s go.” Mike started off at a trot, hoping to hold on to as much energy as he could. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Parts of New York were already feeling the after-effects of panic; many believed there would be more attacks. Some were still holding fiercely on to normalcy, and as Mike passed holding a shotgun along with a policeman holding a pistol, people couldn’t get out of their way fast enough. Most New Yorkers were content to let the scene go on by; it was four German tourists that had not been able to secure passage home yet who wanted to take matters into their own hands.

  They surrounded Mike, putting their arms out to halt his progress so that the officer could get him. They were shouting in German. To Mike, it sounded like they were swearing about him and his as of yet unborn offspring. But for all he knew, they could be asking for directions to the Statue of Liberty.

  “I’m a cop, I’m a cop,” Tynes said as caught up.

  “Nice of you to show. Thought these bounty hunter wannabes were going to tackle me.”

  “Fed, he’s a Fed.” Tynes pointed to Mike. The Germans didn’t move, looking more confused than before. “Spy, he’s a spy.” Tynes tried a different approach.

  “Spion?” one of them asked.

  “Ja,” Tynes answered, when he figured that was close enough sounding to spy. He hoped he hadn’t just told them Mike was a bank robber.

  The Germans closed in and patted Mike on the back. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked.

  “No idea. Let’s keep moving. I’m not liking the way this day is going.”

  “It could get worse.”

  “I know that.”

  The closer they got to the infamous garment district, the more the crowds thinned out. Usually, this close to Times Square, and especially this time of day, there was plenty of foot traffic passing by. Today it was looking more and more like a ghost city, and their feelings of unease increased.

  Mike pulled up and waited for Tynes, who had once again slowed.

  “You look like shit.”

  Tynes could only manage a guttural grunt.

  “I can’t go to where I want to go with you. They’ll shoot both of us.”

  “No…can…do.” Tynes was getting his breath back. “Where you…go, so do I.”

  “We’re not playing games here, man. I’m going to talk to some of the seedier underbelly types, and you will not be welcome.”

  “I thought you said they were your friends?”

  “Business associates, friends, same thing.”

  “How do I know you won’t just take off on me?”

  “Listen, Detective Sherlock, I’ve been moving at about half speed, and you can’t keep up. If I wanted to lose you, you’d be talking to the wind.”

  “I could have shot you as you got away.”

  “While we were around people? You would have tried to shoot me? Really? What’s the range of accuracy on your pistol there? Would you be willing to shoot more than fifty feet with pedestrians all around while your head is throbbing and your chest is heaving for air? I’m sure that would make a great recipe for marksmanship. Listen, stone head, for good or bad, we’re in this together for the time being. I’ll get you back to your station, and then we’re done. I’m heading out of state tonight. And if you say you can’t let me go because of the fucking oath or some moral compass you have, then we’re through right now. Good luck trying to get us back in one piece. Your station is right past D Street territory. And I don’t think any of your brothers in blue are going to be coming to the rescue any time soon. Right now, I’m thinking they are hunkering down, coming up with a game plan, or waiting for the National Guard.”

  “You just have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I have all the fucking answers, that’s why I’m so successful. Listen, the last time we heard sirens, we also heard gunshots. I’m thinking cop open season has started. So, one of two things is going to happen: Either it’s going to get worse or the cops and the military are going to come in and things are really going to get fucked up. Whichever way, I don’t want to be on the streets.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Try to look inconspicuous.”

  “Yeah that ought to work.”

  “Maybe take your shirt and your belt off. Tuck your gun, and go over to that little Asian souvenir shop. They look like they’re still open. I’ll be right back.” Mike
walked off as Officer Tynes thought on his words. He’d always felt invulnerable in his uniform as if it were his super hero costume, impervious to all the evils of the world. This was the first time in his three years on the force he felt it a liability to be donning the blue.

  “Fuck,” he said as he stuffed his shirt, duty belt and vest into the nearest mailbox before crossing the street. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, happy to see that it still had some battery life in it. He was notoriously bad at remembering to charge it, and he’d had to suffer the wrath of his wife more than once when she would hear about a shooting on the streets and would then attempt to contact him via his phone only to have it go straight to voicemail.

  “Shit.” He’d missed twenty-six calls. He hit redial on his wife’s last attempt. A high-pitched tone and then a recorded voice came over the line.

  “All circuits are busy at this time. Please try your call again later.”

  “At least she’s in Florida. I’d rather her there with her family than here.” Although, he wasn’t so certain of that. What made Florida inherently safer during a crisis?

  * * *

  “Hey, hey, what do you say?” Juicy said as he watched the door to the Bridgeport Garment Factory. Mike could not figure out how the man had come by that moniker. That was about the last thing you thought about when you looked upon his gaunt, deeply pocked face. The man was six feet five and doubled as a scarecrow in the off-season. His long, jet black hair, his only remarkable feature, was coated back in a thick layer of oil.

  “Oh, I get it now. That really shouldn’t have taken me so long to put together,” Mike said as he looked upon the man’s mane and thought about his name.

  “Hey man, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to Pembroke.”

  “Pembroke don’t want to talk to you.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re practically family.”

  “Word is you were in jail. You wearing a wire?”