by Adam Drake
Casket held it out daring Wyatt to get closer. “God damned Ninja-Hobo, huh?” he said with sneer.
Scarface and Toothless had recovered enough to stand, and they hobbled over to hover behind their leader. Neither looked as if they wanted to keep fighting.
Casket glanced at them and then to the determined look on Wyatt's face. He came to a wise conclusion.
“This isn't over, shitheads,” Casket said, then slashed at Ethan's side. The razor-sharp blade easily cut through Ethan's shirt and made a deep gash. Blood gushed from the wound.
Ethan shrieked and peeled away from Casket to fall to the ground.
Wyatt saw red and took a step closer to Casket, but the knife kept him at bay.
“We'll finish this later, Dopey.” Casket said, then the three of them turned and fled down the alley and vanished around a corner.
Wyatt knelt beside Ethan. “Are you all right?”
Ethan's face was cinched up in pain. “No, I'm not all right! That bastard cut me!”
Wyatt looked at the wound. “He got you good, it looks deep.”
“Feels pretty deep to me!” Ethan howled.
“Just a sec,” Wyatt said and went to his cart. He fished around for a few moments then came up with a small first-aid kit.
He returned to Ethan and opened the kit. Inside was a roll of gauze and some cue-tips.
Ethan managed a laugh. “Great. You can clean my ears as I bleed out.”
“You are not going to bleed out,” Wyatt said. He rolled up the gauze and gently pressed it against the wound. “Hold this here a second.”
Ethan sputtered some curses as he held the gauze to his side.
Wyatt grabbed a long thin scarf from his cart. “Sit up, will ya?”
“Sheesh,” Ethan said as he leaned forward. “All these commands you're giving me. You're gonna have me moving cinder blocks next.”
Wyatt wrapped the scarf around Ethan's stomach. “Okay, exhale.”
Ethan blew out an exaggerated breath then grimaced in agony as Wyatt tied the scarf over the gauze, holding it in place.
“Oh, sweet Jesus that hurts,” Ethan said, sweating profusely. “Where did you learn to do this? Were you a combat medic in a former life?”
“Everything I know I learned from tv,” Wyatt said, avoiding the other man's gaze. Everyone had secrets. He leaned back and looked Ethan over. “That should do for now.”
Ethan wiped at his face, smearing blood over it. “Okay, now what, Ninja-Hobo?”
“I'll go get you some help,” Wyatt said. “Find a phone and call for an ambulance.” He turned to go.
“No, don't leave me here!” Ethan said, wincing in pain. “What if those idiots come back?”
Wyatt considered this for a moment. He'd hurt two of them pretty bad and were probably looking to get some medical help themselves. But Casket was unscathed. He might have only left to get reinforcements, then would come back looking for revenge. Which meant Wyatt couldn't leave Ethan here. Not with the slight chance of Casket returning.
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “Let's get you up.”
“Where we going?”
“Back down to the street,” Wyatt said, putting one of Ethan's arms over his shoulder. “We'll find someone with a cellphone.”
“No, no, wait!” Ethan said.
“What?”
“We're not leaving our carts here.”
“Can't take them with us. God only gave me two hands.”
Ethan gave the carts a forlorn look. “Okay, but at least hide them and lock them up. You still got that bike lock?”
“Yup,” Wyatt said, easing Ethan against the fence.
He quickly moved the carts behind some nearby bushes and locked them together with the lock. Then he grabbed a small backpack which held his water bottle.
“Don't forget my bag!” Ethan said through gritted teeth.
“I wouldn't dare forget your man-purse,” Wyatt said snatching a small brown purse hidden in Ethan's cart and shoved it into the backpack. Whatever the purse contained was of grave importance to him.
“Happy now, you old goat?” Wyatt said as he hoisted Ethan into a standing position, again.
“Never been happier, buddy,” Ethan said as they hobbled down the alley. “Least I got myself some new shoes out of this deal.”
“They are nice shoes,” Wyatt said. His grin hid his concern. The wound was deep and Ethan was losing a lot of blood.
He needed to get his friend to a doctor, and quick.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nate
“What?” Nate asked, trying to get a better view of the cop who stood before him. The morning sun crested the rooftops of the houses behind her, blinding him.
“I wanted to know if everything was okay, Nate,” the woman said.
Nate blinked at his name. She knew him? He felt a claw of ice grip his heart.
“Do I know you?” he asked, a little befuddled. He kept his expression neutral, calm. But inside he roiled with alarm. The situation had gotten much worse. Here he sat in a stolen vehicle, armed with an illegal weapon that could be linked to a trio of nearby bodies, speaking to a police officer who knew him by name.
Crap.
The cop stepped closer, blocking the sun and revealing her face. High cheek bones, a dusting of freckles, piercing green eyes.
The claw of ice tightened even more.
“Vicky!” Nat said, cavalier. “Long time, no see.” He was still reeling inwardly at this rapid turn of events. He was screwed. Really screwed. He needed her to go away or things would get bad.
Very bad.
“Officer Lang to you,” she said with a poisonous tone. She glared down at him.
Nate nodded. He shouldn't push it but he couldn't help himself. “So, how's life as a flatfoot, again?” he said. He scratched his cheek then dropped his hand to rest against the open door, positioning it closer to his pocket.
Officer Lang continued to glare at him for several moments, then said, “I'm a flatfoot because of your boss.” She hitched her thumbs into her belt, the left hand next to her holstered pistol.
Nate knew the gun. A standard police-issue held fast in its holster by a leather snap-strap. He did a rough calculation on her potential speed to unsnap the weapon, draw it, and fire versus him pulling his own pistol with its long silencer from his deep pockets.
The odds came out about even.
Nate shook his head. “That's got nothing to do with me, Vicky. You know that. We're both flunkies in our respective organizations. Bottom of the ladder as it were. Well, I make more money, of course.” He smiled at her.
Officer Lang's face contorted into a scowl and Nate thought she would draw on him right then and there. He tensed.
Lang made a visible effort to relax and her left hand shifted away from her pistol. “Quite the mouth on you, Nate,” she said, fixing him with her stare. “Word is you've used it to stay out of jail more than once. A regular fount of information when the squeeze is put to you.” The ice claw tightened more. This bitch was trying to get him to make a move on her. She's got nothing on him right now. He's just sitting here, minding is own business, but she wants him to screw up so she could, what? Arrest him? Shoot him? God knows she had reason enough.
Years earlier Victoria Lang was a homicide detective. One of the best. When her old partner retired she was assigned a new stiff, a guy named Brad Fletcher. Only problem was, Brad Fletcher was in deep with Unger and his crew. Owed him big money, too. Much to Unger's delight.
I gotta cop in my pocket, Unger used to boast. I say dance and he dances a little jig. I say lose that evidence and evidence disappears.
But all good things must come to an end as it did for Fletcher, who got caught trying to hide a bloody knife at a murder scene on the southside.
Fletcher was raked over the coals and broke so quickly as to not even be dignified. Then he shot himself in the head, and Victoria Lang's career got caught by the same bullet.
Her partner had been on the
take and she didn't know it. You can never get that stink off you, especially as a detective. Her hate for Unger and any of his associates were legendary. Associates like Nate.
Now she was a lowly flatfoot and probably would be one for the rest of her days. Or at least until she made Nate shoot her.
Nate counted to five, then said in a calm voice. “That ain't true and you know it, Officer.” He emphasized her title. “Anyone with real information, like currently active detectives, knows I don't say nuthin about nuthin.” Someone shouted from the north about half a block away. Officer Lang looked, but Nate kept his eyes locked on her. What the hell game was she playing? All these accidents right nearby and she's taking time to hassle him? Had to be emotion that drove her to confront him. Pulled her away from those in direct need just to piss in his face.
Was this bitch crazy?
The pistol weighed heavy in his pocket. His hand itched for it.
Officer Lang frowned then unhooked the radio mike on her chest. She squeezed at its button but the device didn't make a sound. Not a squawk or hiss of static.
“Damnit,” she said. “Still dead?” She pressed at it a couple more times. Click-click-click.
Nate found this very interesting. “Radio not working today, Vicky? Might want to get that checked. Never know when you'll need backup to save your skinny square ass.” Officer Lang's eyes flared, but another shout drew her attention. Again, Nate thought she was about to draw her weapon. Instead, she leaned in close and pointed a finger at him. “Stay right here. I have more questions for you.” Nate shrugged and held up his hands. “No problem, Vicky. I await your return.” She glared at him, then another shout, this one for help, pulled her away. Nate watched her square ass wiggle in her uniform trousers as she hustled down the sidewalk.
He let out a sigh of relief. But now he was faced with a dilemma.
Of course he wouldn't just sit here and wait for little miss square ass to interrogate him, maybe even get into a shoot-out with her. Yet she could now place him in the immediate vicinity of a triple murder. Even the drunkest homicide detective would have no problem linking Perry to Unger's crew, which Nate was a known member of.
Or he could simply leave. Walk away and go to ground for a while which was standard procedure after a hit, anyway.
There were no other direct witnesses here. Too much chaos was going on. Only Victoria Lang and her broken radio could place him near the scene.
This was intriguing. Phones were dead. Cars were dead. That plane was dead.
And her radio was dead. Which meant she hadn't called Nate in. Yet.
Huh.
Nate stood up from driver's seat and slammed the door. He turned slowly around, taking in the immediate area. Past the children in the park were a large cluster of trees. Beyond that was Greenside avenue. That would do.
He slipped on his nylon mask, withdrew his pistol and walked in the same direction Officer Lang had gone.
He found her a couple of houses down in a yard surrounded by high hedges. Lang was hunched over, giving CPR to an elderly man on the ground. An old woman, presumably the man's wife, fretted next to them.
“Maybe it's his pacemaker?” the old lady said. She turned to look at Nate walking swiftly toward them and gasped in surprise. No electricity, then a dying husband and now a masked man on her property. What next?
Officer Lang turned at the woman's gasp and her eyes widened as Nate aimed his pistol. “You shouldn't have been here,” he said and shot her through the temple.
The old woman was to stunned to scream. Nate thanked her for her silence by shooting her, too.
Then, as an afterthought, he shot the old man. Nate figured he was actually doing the guy a favor at this point.
He immediately moved to the backyard which he accessed through an open gate. He climbed over several fences and in a few minutes emerged near the park. Slipping off his mask he walked to the trees at the rear.
His heart hammered in his chest, but the ice claw's grip had vanished.
No one screamed at him. No signs of pursuit. No direct witnesses to his presence.
Flush with the success of not one, but six murders, Nate felt like skipping along like one of the playing children.
He'd never done six before. Not all in one day, at least.
As he stepped through the trees and onto Greenside's sidewalk he was confronted by dozens of stalled-out vehicles. Up and down the street, across four lanes, were cars, vans and trucks as far as he could see. At least eight blocks of dead metal and fiberglass. People were everywhere, confused, angry, some even crying.
This is big, he thought. But how big? How many more blocks were like this? City wide? And for how much longer? No cars, no planes, no phones, no sirens or police radios.
He felt himself getting excited at the prospects, almost to the point of being aroused.
There is opportunity in chaos. Someone important said that, but he was clueless as to whom. Maybe it was him, right now thinking it.
He looked at his phone, still dead, the screen black. Maybe this would go on for a long time.
How long would he need?
He'd turned left, to face north. His post-job instinct was to take his out – his escape route to a farm Unger controlled at the far outskirts of the city. Hole up. Stay low.
But, instead, he turned south and his feet carried him forward. Into town.
There is opportunity in chaos.
As he passed bewildered people, he smiled to himself. If Unger wanted to know if the job was finished, then Nate would tell him.
Face to face.
CHAPTER SIX
Wyatt
Wyatt helped Ethan carefully walk down the alleyway back to the street, trying not to let his anger show.
It was his fault his friend had been hurt. If he'd kept his mouth shut and simply gave Casket what little money they had, Ethan would not be bleeding all over the place right now.
Wyatt's temper had always been his curse and scars marred his skin to prove it. Rage issues. That's what he had. But then didn't everyone? Avoiding alcohol was key to him not beating the ever loving crap out of anyone who got on his bad side. But alcohol was the hobo's mana, their gateway to a different reality, one where they could forget about their awful existence. And everyone Wyatt knew lived for a bottle of the stuff.
“Could really use a drink right now,” Ethan said as if reading Wyatt's mind.
Wyatt chuckled. “You need a doctor. The sauce can wait.”
“I need a pretty nurse. Think you can call one up and get her down here, pronto?”
“Forgot my Rolodex of hot nurse numbers, but I'll see what I can scrounge up for you, you old goat.”
Once they made it to the street, Wyatt paused to look around. Cars were still parked all over the place in messed up locations, with even more people standing about. Everyone looked agitated and confused.
“What in the hell is up with everybody today?” Ethan said, looking pale. “Can't they just get their shit together and move on?”
Wyatt glanced down the street in both directions. Vehicles jammed the roadway but none were moving. In fact, not one had its engine on that he could tell.
“You hear that?” Wyatt said.
“What? The sound of my spirit leaving my body?”
“No. The cars. They aren't even idling. They've all been turned off.”
Ethan winced, again. “Screw the cars, get a damned phone!”
“Okay, but let's set you down first.” He helped Ethan over to a bus stop.
A chubby teenage girl stood waiting for the bus, scowling at her smartphone. As Wyatt eased Ethan onto the stop's bench she turned her back to them.
“Miss,” Wyatt said as he walked over to her. “Miss, can I use your phone?”
She didn't respond. The girl was either completely deaf or ignoring him.
“I need to call an ambulance. My friend is hurt.”
The girl whirled to face him. “My phone isn't working right now. See?�
� She held it up so Wyatt could see its dark screen.
Wyatt blinked with confusion. Was she messing with him? “Can you turn it on, please? My friend needs an ambulance.”
“It's not off, moron,” the girl scoffed. “The battery is dead or something. Expensive piece of crap.” She glared at the blackened screen.
“But-,” Wyatt said before she cut him off.
“My phone is not working!” she suddenly shrieked, causing Wyatt to take a step back. “Why can't you understand that!”
“Ah, for Christ's sake,” Ethan said from the bench.
Before Wyatt could ask again, the girl stepped out onto the street and looked eastward. “Where's the stupid bus? This traffic jam is screwing with my schedule!”
Scoffing in frustration she turned away and marched down the middle of the street, navigating around stalled vehicles.
“That there is wife material,” Ethan said with a weak grin.
Wyatt made a herculean effort to control his temper. Every fiber of his being demanded he run after that bitch and take the phone from her. But that would only add to their dilemma.
“Try that guy,” Ethan said and pointed at a man standing next to a car in the opposite lane.
“He better not be wife material,” Wyatt said as he marched across the street.
At the middle of the road, he paused. Both directions appeared to be cluttered with vehicles as far as he could see. None of them were moving or running their engines. Even the street light at a nearby intersection was dead. Very strange.
But there was something else he noticed, perhaps even stranger still. The quiet. No car engines or garbage trucks in the distance. Other than the occasional shout, or profanity spewing driver, it was incredibly still, almost peaceful.
I could get used to this, Wyatt found himself thinking. But whatever oddity that had killed the cars would be fixed soon, he was sure. Good things can't last forever.
He approached the man standing next to his car, who was glancing from his phone to Wyatt.
“Hello, sir,” said Wyatt. “Can you help me? I need to use your phone. My friend needs an ambulance.”
The man arched an eyebrow as he glanced over at Ethan on the bench. “Ambulance? You want 911?”
