Sid smiled, rolling his neck. “They’re too stupid to see that things have changed, that’s what’s good. For us, at least. It’s why I left UBN. They might have been organized, but they were blind. The leaders were too old school. They wanted to keep attacking our old enemies. They didn’t see the true enemy.” His voice trailed off as he scanned the horizon. They were fifteen stories up.
Asher stepped up beside him, the bright fall wind whipping his braid. “And who’s the true enemy?”
Sid turned, his eyes clouded. “Everyone, Asher. Everyone’s the enemy now.”
He’s Afraid of Me
It turned out to be quite the tour, once Asher stopped resisting the idea of learning something from Sid. By the time they’d finished, he was exhausted by acronyms, symbols, colors, and tags. There were at least six Latino gangs, three white gangs, four black gangs, all within a twelve block radius. It was boggling. Oh, and Irish gangs and Italian gangs. It seemed impossible that there were enough survivors left to break down that way, but Sid wasn’t shocked.
“Big groups won’t survive. It’s small groups only. Stick to who you know….who you trust.” He turned to him. “Like someone who saves your life.”
Asher turned away. “I only came for them. Not me.”
“You mean, the fluffy bunnies.”
“I wish you’d stop calling them that.”
“Whatever. They left your ass. I don’t know why you care.”
Asher seethed in silence. He scanned the alleys and avenues, trying to commit what he’d learned to memory. Some territories were large, or a single gang had several pockets. Then there were others who controlled only one building or block, often the one in which they’d lived prior to the Famine. The projects were an impossible mess by now, but what else was new, Asher thought.
The sun was setting, the shadows growing icy fingers that wound their way under his collar. He shuddered. In the past hour he’d had to accept many things he’d never wanted to accept…things he’d pushed away as long as he could. But he’d been a fool to think there were choices. Or a future for that matter.
In this world someone like Sid had just proven to be the most useful person he’d ever met. He might as well be my Beatrice, Asher thought ruefully, running his mind over the sore spot of what he’d lost…the person he had been. Now the Inferno was his lot in life, and his Beatrice was deeply scarred.
He squinted as the setting sun lit up a glittering tag in the distance. It caught his eye, the gold spray paint turning crimson in the dying light. “What’s that?” his breath caught, but he knew even before the words left him. His heart pounded. The characters were complicated, the sweep of each stroke mesmerizing. It was Chinese. It was home.
“That’s some freaky Asian Triad shit,” Sid said, his jaw clenching. “I dunno…”
Asher’s heart fluttered as the characters swam before his eyes. “I know what it means.”
“Oh yeah, genius? Whuddoes it say?”
“Uh,” Asher cleared his throat, unnerved. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “It basically translates to ‘Helpful Flying Dragon’”
Sid hooted. “Fuck that! Helpful? Those dudes are definitely not helpful. But they do fly, I’ll give ‘em that.”
His tone grew pensive and it was Asher’s turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?”
Sid shrugged. “I’ve seen ‘em in action. All of them are right out of a Lucien Long movie. No guns. Just a few weapons a lot of fists and feet…and a lot of other gangs getting their asses kicked.” He took a deep breath, turning back to Asher with an eyebrow cocked. “So tell me. From what those two fluffy bunnies you had with you said, you nearly decapitated a guy who was trying to…enjoy himself with the girl.”
Asher’s skin crawled. It took every ounce of his restraint not to back-kick Sid right off the edge of the building. He licked his lip. His mouth tasted of sand, a perpetual symptom of hunger that he’d come to accept. He waited for his leader to make a point, but he’d stopped talking. Finally, Asher couldn’t take it any longer. “And?”
“And…you don’t seem like the type. I can’t understand what a pretty thing like you is doing with a fucking sword.” Sid shook his head, suppressing a laugh. “I gotta tell you, if I hadn’t seen you in action for myself, like those ‘Helpful Dragons,’ I wouldn’t have believed it. But you really are some crazy ninja or something.”
“Ninjas are Japanese.”
“Fuck you. Same difference.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you the God’s honest truth.” He pointed at the Dragons’ tag. “Those Asians are scary as hell. Not surprising really, since they basically invented warfare.”
“As in, ‘The Art of’?” Asher mused.
“You’re a real showoff, you know that, Ashhole?”
Asher sighed and scratched at his neck where the wool scarf rubbed at his beard. “Really, is there a point to this? I thought we’d already figured this all out. I fight for you. The Lobos eat. End of story, right?”
“You see, that’s the part that you don’t get about being in a gang.” Sid pushed his face to within an inch of Asher’s. “You don’t get it at all, ASHER. You don’t fight for me, you fight with us.” With that he whirled and, grabbing the railing, hurled himself over the edge.
Asher gasped, rushing to the edge expecting to see Sid’s brains splattered on the pavement. Instead he saw his retreating form headed down a fire escape.
“Sid!” he called, his head ducking instinctively at the echo. His voice was so loud! He didn’t want to call so much attention to himself. “Sid, man, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me! How will I get back?”
Sid turned, flipping him the bird with both hands, his face electric. “You know the symbols now, Helpful Dragon, find your own way!”
When he ducked down an alley, Asher sunk to a crouch. This wasn’t good. He was trying to think of what to do when fluttering dust landed on his eyelashes. He blinked and the dust melted. It was snow. Shit.
He looked up into the grey maw of another winter pounding, resigned. Now he was stuck. He was deep in the warren of the City’s gangs with only a primer to guide him back to the so-called safety of life with the Lobos. Though the cloud let loose, he sat where he was, head in his hands. The snow fell in heavy splats, building inside his collar and soaking into his cargoes. He knew he had to get up before the snow started to melt and water penetrated the multi-Ziploc nest he’d built around his precious journal, but the truth was, the break felt good.
The entire city had been a sickly summer soup, made infinitely worse by the stink of rot on the streets, in the buildings, even on the people. Another snowfall was the closest thing to a cleansing that the City was going to get.
He roused himself and made his way back onto the first floor of the apartment building and found a relatively clear area to settle. He needed to write down everything that he’d learned on Sid’s little tour of what he now thought of as, “The Inferno.”
Scribbling furiously and cursing the melting snow that found its way to his pages, he listed signs, names, turf, and favorite ambush and killing techniques and tendencies. As his pen flew across the page the calm of focus settled over him, the centering sensation that came with information synthesis. He scratched out maps, locating symbols and practicing writing them over and over, so he would remember them in an instant. By the time he got to the last bits of his recollection, the snow was abating.
He looked up. “Time to go.” He said a little thanks to the universe for the snow. It had bought him time. Critical time. He scribbled his last few notes with a flourish.
Screw you, Sid, he thought, staring at the words triumphantly.
He’s afraid of me.
Tucking his journal back into his cargoes with a new sense of purpose, he drew his sword and made his way carefully down the stairs to the streets. For the first time that he could remember since “Foodmageddon” began, he felt confidence.
He needed to keep writing, he knew. It was his heartbeat, the last shred
of who he was. I can still be that guy. Somehow.
He slunk into the street, the snow still heavy enough to provide decent cover. His eyes found the Dragons tag and instead of feeling fear, he found himself standing straighter. He stopped in the shadow, eyeing the symbols. Sure, they were a gang. They probably weren’t good guys, but it had to mean something, didn’t it? That the very last thing he saw were those characters…were HIS characters? He hadn’t been much for signs in the old world, but these days, he’d take it.
When he went back to the Lobos, things would be different, he thought, because he would be different. He might need some time to learn a little more, but he knew the time was coming. He could feel the itch in his sword hand, the sign that with change would come conflict. But it didn’t matter. Because even in this fucked up world, he was determined to find some way to be a helpful dragon.
Succession
Asher spent the next few weeks biding his time. Their raids mostly went without incident. It seemed that the UBN boys and Northside Hustlers were too busy killing each other to search every inch of the west side of the Harlem river.
He learned his way through the Territory like it was the back of his hand, volunteering for extra patrols, even at night. He’d been dependent on Sid and the Lobos for too long. Since Virginia and Cassie’s departure there had been an increasing exodus of the “good” and “weak” from their ranks, leaving Asher wondering who, exactly, he was feeding and protecting with his blade. If he wanted to preserve a shred of his personal dignity, he was going to have to do one of two things: leave, or take over.
He’d considered leaving seriously, reading and re-reading Virginia’s letter until he knew every scratch of the pen by heart. She was right, he didn’t belong here, but where did he belong in this world? Was there still a place for him? Every time he thought of leaving his mind went to his parents and stuck there, just as paralyzed as he. If he left, then if they lived he might miss them, because he knew they’d look for him…if they could…if they lived…
The circles drove him mad and pushed his mind away from the decision. He couldn’t leave, he knew. New York was his fate now, for better or worse. But maybe, just maybe, he could control if it was “better.” He had to take over.
Sitting before the fire pits with his breath coming in puffs, it didn’t seem like the time. Still, the fires in the pits weren’t the only ones sparking. There was one burning in his chest, gathering strength, ever since he’s seen those symbols wink in the sunset. There had to be a moment. A turning point when the remaining men would be tired of games.
That moment turned out to be four weeks after Asher’s “lesson” on the territories. They’d heard that there were supplies in the basement of a Harlem brownstone that had once doubled as a food bank. The only problem? It was in the Kings section of the Territory.
Things had gone well initially. They’d located the site and found no one stirring, but when they’d made their way into the basement, all hell had broken loose. Asher’s blade had found its mark too many times, leaving a river of shrieks in its wake. Blood pooled in his mouth from a blow that had sent his teeth digging into his tongue. It ran down his throat and he gagged and coughed. A spray of blood shot from his nose and he sank to his knees. This was it. This Asher had to die…or the real Asher had to live.
He turned, his mind finally sensing the whoops coming from the darkest corner of the room. Over the din he registered the high-pitched shrieks of the girl being pinned.
“Stop!” Blood joined Asher’s spittle as he shouted. The room froze as he wiped his mouth, all eyes fixed on his blade. He approached the man who’d pressed the girl to the wall with the length of his body – the man with a garishly tattooed scar. “Let the girl go.”
Sid turned, snarling. “You don’t tell me what to do, Ashhole, remember? Besides, don’t you remember what I taught you? This is a Queen.” He dragged the girl to the floor by her long raven hair, immune to her curses as she kicked. Not another soul moved.
Asher held his sword steady, leveling its point with Sid’s right eye. All I’d have to do is dig the scar deeper, he thought, his palms itching. For the first time since life fell to pieces, he truly wanted to kill. He ached to kill. It wasn’t the calm silent prowl of his first kills. It was a wailing siren of NEED. “I said, ‘Let. Her. Go.’” His grip tightened.
Sid stepped forward until the tip of Asher’s sword was pressing into his cheek, the blade making the slightest indention in his tattered face. “Yeah?” he grunted. “I don’t think so.”
Asher didn’t move. The resolve flowed through him, the familiar calm replacing the ache. It didn’t matter how much he wished to kill this man. The only thing that mattered was taking him out of power. “One way or another.”
“What’s that, Ashhole?” Sid said, leaning in so that Asher’s blade nicked him, and a dark bubble of blood welled. The girl sobbed behind him as TinMan kept her pressed to the floor.
“Don’t touch her, TinMan, man, I’m telling you,” Asher warned. “I officially challenge Sid’s leadership. Fair and square. I’ll fight for it.”
Sid’s eyes widened and from the corner of his eye, Asher saw TinMan hesitate. The girl caught the motion and punched him in the balls. He doubled over as she sprinted out the door.
“Fuck!” Sid yelled, whirling away from Asher and then turning back, his face twisting. “What the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”
“Your rule is over, Sid. I don’t need you. We don’t need you.”
Sid laughed, his eyes darting to the others. “What, you think this is a democracy now? If you recall, I saved your worthless life.”
“Maybe that was a mistake.” Asher held his ground, his every nerve tuned to the Lobos around him. It could go either way. They could accept his challenge and then, if he lived, Sid would be done. Or they could jump him right now. He was good, but six on one wouldn’t work out in his favor, he knew. Sweat trickled down his back. “I’ll say it again. I officially challenge your leadership. Do you accept?”
The others were silent and Sid’s eyes ceased their dance, settling on him with a keenly focused hatred. “Alright,” he hissed, “but no weapons.” He pushed Asher’s sword away with faux nonchalance. “We do this like men.”
Asher turned to the Lobos eyeing them cautiously. “Agreed?” They exchanged glances and then nodded. A few sniggered in anticipation. Asher’s gaze found Eliot in the shadows and his stomach twisted. “Fine.” With a step back, he set aside his sword. His heart pounded as Sid turned toward him, his fists hovering expertly before his face.
Asher took a deep breath. He’d seen Sid’s style of fighting. It didn’t include mercy. He sank into his stance, his core tightening. This is for you, Father.
The others circled them, hooting and trading bets about how long it would take Sid to take Asher down and vice versa. For a split second Asher was hit with the impression that it was just another Lifer fight, until Sid’s right hook missed his jaw by an inch and he was whirling away from the follow up jab.
Sid was quick, but he favored his right-left combo so heavily that he could be caught leaning. Asher shifted, dodging the next punch and ignoring the shouts and jeers. His only thoughts were the big targets: torso, head, and thighs. He kicked at Sid’s lower leg and was rewarded with a wild right. He connected with Sid’s jaw in a powerful hook as Sid’s own energy plowed into him. Sid fell back, scrabbling on the floor, his mouth dripping blood. The jeers stilled and stuttered, unsure.
Sid jumped to his feet. “You may be some wacko ninja, but I guarantee you, Ashhole, I’ve been in more fights than you.”
With this last word, he lunged forward, but this time his attack was balanced. His first right caught Asher’s ribs, sending a flare of pain shooting through him. The following hook glanced off his arm as he threw a block, but he was thrown off balance and had to shuffle back. Sid shrieked and lunged for Asher’s torso.
Asher’s head hit the concrete and the sound of th
e others’ shouts faded into a muted blur. Dazed, Asher grabbed Sid’s leg before the next kick and yanked him down. Sid grunted as he hit the ground and the two wrestled, rolling toward Asher’s sword. Sid’s eyes slid toward it and Asher jammed his leg into the ground to stop their motion. “No!” he yelled. “We do this like men.”
“Fuck that,” Sid kneed Asher in the groin.
Asher buckled, collapsing as Sid grabbed his sword. Asher writhed, the agony between his legs nearly as great as the agony of staring up at the tip of his sword, now in his enemy’s hand.
“I win!” Sid reveled, grinning, before his face fell. “Shit. Now I have to kill you, Ashhole. That sucks. You were my best fighter.”
Asher stared up at Sid, heaving, his eyes fixed on the hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His father’s sword and his grandfather’s sword before him. A sword that had only known honor…that had been a symbol of the hand that is stayed rather than loosed. Rage boiled in his veins and his fear melted away.
He grabbed the sword with his left hand, gripping the razor sharp edge with all his strength, and tugged. The blade bit him against its will, sliding into his flesh and releasing his blood, but he felt only triumph as Sid dropped it, stunned.
It was a rip in time so small, and yet so wide – just a gasp between breaths as Asher grabbed the hilt and jumped to his feet. His blade swung, finding Sid’s throat, stopping just atoms from his jugular. “I win,” he declared. His hand was on fire, the blood streaming down his wrist, but he held firm. “And to signal the official changing of the guard, I give my first order.”
Sid’s eyes closed, waiting for the end.
“I banish you.”
Dragon Rising: The Untold Story of Asher Grey (Eden's Root Trilogy Book 4) Page 6
