Revolution: A Red Dog Thriller (The Altered Book 3)

by Blou Bryant

“And the explosion?” asked Hannah, not buying it. “You said he’s broken. What did you mean by that?”

  “You shouldn’t worry,” was Teri’s only reply. She stared at Hannah, and the two locked eyes for a moment. Wyatt felt a familiar energy to the moment.

  Then it passed, and Hannah nodded agreement. “Teri is right. We shouldn’t worry.”

  Trix was already there and had moved on. “We’re going to the funeral, so get dressed, if you’re able.”

  Wyatt didn’t want to go, didn’t like funerals, not that anyone did, but he generally didn’t enjoy any events that required him to socialize with others. It wasn’t that he didn’t mourn. The death of Ezzy weighed on him, but he saw no purpose standing out in the cold with a crowd. Staring at a box, at a hole in the ground, wouldn’t bring her back, nor would it bring him any peace. Everybody would be there, however, and he’d be expected, but the societal norms didn’t concern him. The need to keep moving did, and the people he needed to talk to would be there as well.

  “Give me five minutes to get ready. Teri, can you stay with me for a minute?”

  With the other two gone, he picked out clothing that others would find appropriate and had Teri turn around while he changed. “Thanks for lying for me.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  He sat on the bed to pull on his socks. “You said I was fine.”

  “No, I said they shouldn’t worry.”

  “Because I’m fine.”

  “No, because their worrying won’t make you better, it’ll just make you angrier, and you’ll ignore their help even more.”

  He grunted. That was likely true. He tucked in his only dress shirt, a black one, and buttoned it to the second top button. He never liked clothing that was too tight, constricting. As he dressed, he reflected on how quickly Trix and Hannah had moved on. It wasn’t like either of them to not badger him. “Did you do…” he asked, not sure how to describe her ability to convince others, “you know… the mind thing?”

  “My Jedi mind trick?”

  “Ugh,” he replied, tucking in his shirt. “You can turn around now,” he said, and turned around himself.

  Turning, he was about to tell her she could look… only to see her smiling on the other side of the bed, watching him. “How long…”

  Teri smiled and pulled her hoodie up over her head. “You don’t need to know how long I was watching you change.”

  “What?”

  She waved a hand at him. “You need to remove your shirt.”

  Wyatt stared at her in confusion. What the heck was she doing?

  With a broad grin, she waved a hand again. “Those aren’t the pants you’re looking for.”

  Oh. “Jerk,” he said, and threw the shirt he’d changed out of at her.

  Teri laughed and got up from the bed. “I don’t know how it works, and yes, I influenced their decision to not make a big thing out of it.”

  “That’s weird,” he said, following her.

  “You can glow like a red, radioactive hamster and you blow things up, but I’m the weird one?”

  Chapter 11

  The procession drifted through the Zone, collecting cars as it went. Wyatt was in the second one, tasked with protecting their dead friends, carried by a large Honda cube van two cars behind. Sandra sat beside him, clutching at his hand like a buoy. Tears streaming down her face, which otherwise betrayed no emotion. She focused on the road and the houses as they passed.

  Wyatt hoped someone would try to interrupt the chain of vehicles, would intrude on the grief of the Zone by disrupting the funeral. The catharsis he hungered for wouldn’t come from the planting of bodies in the ground or sweet words spoken over dirt. He clenched his free hand into a fist and allowed himself the solace of a violent daydream.

  The Zone filled a little over forty blocks, an old-fashioned neighborhood built in a time when communities meant something. Like many others, it was centered by a church—three of them. A few blocks into the trek, the group passed the smallest of them, built by Wesleyans when the area was mostly farmland, settled by former slaves and New England Methodists before the Civil War.

  Wyatt was pulled out of his reverie as two police cars approached from a side street. Sandra gasped, not at their arrival but at the pressure from his hand tightening on hers.

  “Pull over, I’ll deal with them.”

  “No,” said Sandra, as the cars pulled out in front of the procession. Their lights were on, but they drove slowly, in silence, mirroring the chain that was now behind them. “Let them lead.”

  Aziz’s hand tightened on the gun and the wheel, but he kept pace with the cars in front.

  At the sight of the police, his vision blurred, and everything turned red, as if blood had leaked into his eyes. He let Sandra’s hand go and wiped the sweat from his palms on his jeans.

  It took another fifteen minutes to arrive at their destination. The biggest of the three churches was Catholic, built by Poles and Italians who’d emigrated after the First World War. Even before they’d had roofs over their own heads, they’d laid the first cornerstones, and the priest’s home was large and opulent, in a community that didn’t see other homes of its ilk for another two decades. It looked out over an almost equal Anglican church, which was their destination today. Each of the two had a graveyard to one side, the dead keeping vigil for each other across the thin road that separated them.

  The first police car didn’t stop. It continued up the block and turned right onto the street that edged the graveyard. The second stopped once the make shift hearse was at the entrance, but left its lights on and the officers remained inside the vehicle. Wyatt got out and started towards it.

  Trix got out of the lead car and stopped him. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t want them here.”

  She stared him down and kept her body between him and his target. In a rough whisper, she said, “Get back to the entrance and help with the caskets. I’m not doing this with you, not today.”

  “I’ll just be a moment,” he said, the anger bubbling inside him.

  She grimaced and grabbed him by both shoulders. “I’ve had enough of you and your attitude. This isn’t about you. Turn the hell around or I’ll tell my guys to bundle you into a car and drive you outside of town. Don’t make a scene.”

  Wyatt stepped back as if struck by the righteousness of her anger. “But…”

  Tears streamed down her face. “No, no buts, no arguments, no discussion. This is about them,” she said and pointed towards the cube van. The first casket had already been pulled out and was being carried towards its destination by as many people as could get hands on it. “Go help.”

  Wyatt glared over her shoulder at the cops. They were still hiding in their car, but under her gaze, he turned around. At the van, he tried to get close enough to help carry a casket, but couldn’t get through the throng, so he contented himself with following close behind the third. Hands reached out and touched him, mistaking his anger for sadness.

  The old graveyard had fallen into disrepair over the years. Only months earlier, Wyatt had hidden here from Watchers that had pursued him through the Zone, before it’d been taken over by residents. He remembered the place as dirtier, uncared for. It wasn’t anymore. Scanning the graves, he found the one he’d sat against, rallying himself as he prepared to confront the leader of Jessica’s dealers. He even remembered the name, the dates of her short life etched in crumbling stone. Mary Elizabeth Hamelin, born 1882, died 1883.

  ***

  Holes had been dug in the cold but as yet unfrozen ground. No hired hands did this work, the volunteers lived in the Zone. They stood off to one side, shovels at their feet, still dressed for the work. Wyatt scanned the crowd. Many wore shirts inside out, the emblems and mottos of metal or punk bands turned away from the graves their wearers faced. There were a few scattered through the crowd in suits or dark dresses, but they were the minority. Expensive changes of clothing were an unaffordable luxury, just something mor
e to carry and care for.

  A crowd surrounded the graves, and to his dismay, Hannah had saved him a space at the front. He was one of the Dog leaders and the man who—according to the crowd—had destroyed a drug gang, freeing the Zone in the process. Wyatt had been in the center of the fight against the Watchers and had been there when the deaths occurred. As he passed, hand after hand reached out to touch him, console him, or perhaps to take some comfort from his presence. He didn’t like any of it, and wanted nothing more than to fade into the crowd, to stand at the back and watch.

  “How are you?” Hannah asked, concern evident in her tone and sideways glance.

  “Ugh,” he replied, searching for the right words. It was a solemn occasion, and he didn’t know quite what to say. “It’s tough, being here.”

  “I feel the same,” she said, leaning into him, one arm around his waist, placing her head on his shoulder.

  Wyatt stayed silent as Trix stepped forward. She put a hand up, but didn’t need to. The crowd went silent, waiting.

  “We’re here to remember and say goodbye to three friends we lost too early.”

  “Murdered!” someone shouted. Wyatt nodded vigorously. Others in the crowd murmured agreement.

  Trix scowled briefly, and then the corners of her mouth turned up into an unexpected smile. “Danny, you’re right, that’s how they left us. But we’re not here for that, we’re here for them.”

  “Sorry, Trix,” said the same man.

  “It’s okay, we’re all angry, aren’t we?”

  More shouts of agreement.

  “And we want vengeance, don’t we?”

  Nods through the crowd, and yells of “Damn right,” and “We’ll make them pay.”

  “We will, but not today,” she said sadly. “Today is about us and our friends. It ain’t about them.”

  People nodded agreement, and there were a couple quiet “Amens.” Wyatt still felt a red rage inside, but the crowd around him didn’t echo it.

  “Don’t let those bastards take this moment from us. Today isn’t about them.”

  The crowd silenced.

  “We’re here today for Azalea Stanford, Josh Kolinski and Marko Nico.” She paused and wiped tears from her eyes. “I remember Josh, I first met him… oh, four years ago. That’s a long time now, isn’t it? He was selling junk on a corner off Beechcroft. Remember that little Filipino deli, God, they had the best pork sisig. Did you ever try that?”

  Wyatt saw a few people in the crowd smile and nod.

  “That fool dressed like a refugee from the sixties, his shirts tie-dyed and his pants better fit for a pirate. I swear he was the worst hippy I’ve ever met.”

  More smiles now, and someone said, “He never did learn how to dress,” at which a man nearby laughed and then broke out in tears.

  “Anyhow, that was my corner back in the day.” Someone chortled. “And he simply refused to leave. I’d beat him, and two hours later he’d be back. And it’s not like he was making money, nobody bought from him, not even white boys from the suburbs, and those dumbasses will buy from anyone.”

  “I used to buy from him,” a woman in the back shouted out.

  “Gina, you’ve always been desperate, haven’t you?” said Trix with a spirit that belied the situation. There was agreement through the crowd, and Gina smiled.

  “He sold crap, I think it was re-rolled Indian tobacco.”

  “It was. He was an awful scammer. Eventually, I tired of beating on him and we would sit outside that deli, drinking some awful Filipino orange drink he liked.”

  Wyatt phased out as she continued to share her memories of a man he’d never known, instead watching for police, or better, Watchers. He wanted nothing more than to leave, and go find his own revenge. When she stopped talking, he looked over at her, hoping that it was at an end.

  Overcome with emotion, Trix put her head down, crying. Eventually, two people walked forward and pulled her into a loving embrace. The two were followed by others until she was at the center of a mass of people, all huddled together in the rain, sharing their pain, and in sharing it, relieving it.

  Thanking them, Trix raised her voice again. “That was Josh, son of Marta and Stanzek. He was our friend. Now, I’d like to invite Wyatt up to share his memories of Azalea.”

  Wyatt stared at her in shock, not moving. Hannah gave him a tight hug and then gently pushed him towards Trix. He stumbled forward. Ezzy hadn’t been a friend; he’d never tried to get to know her. He took a few more steps forward and stared at the crowd, trying to find something to say.

  Ezzy had mentioned something about a boyfriend. Did she have parents? He could have slapped himself. Of course she did, but if she’d talked about them, it hadn’t been to him… had it?

  As he reached Trix, she pulled him into a tight embrace and turned him to face the crowd. “Ezzy told me on quite a few occasions how much she admired Wyatt, how he and the Dogs had saved her from drugs… well, the bad kind, anyway. She’d been on the street, like most of us. She’d been lost, and he turned her around, made her forget that dark life.”

  He had? Wyatt searched his memory for any discussion with her that was so deep, so personal that she’d changed her life. She’d joined, what… a couple years earlier. He’d noticed, offhand, her hanging out with some of the tweekers who used drugs to adjust themselves, and maybe with that crowd of painters, covering their body with tattoos, piercings and brands.

  Regaining his equilibrium but still unprepared—couldn’t she have warned him she was going to do this?—Wyatt walked forward as confidently as he could.

  Leaning in for a hug, Trix whispered, “You’ll be fine. Share a memory or two.”

  Wyatt tried to smile and failed. Given the circumstances, nobody could fault him a morose expression. My memory of her will be of a woman who trusted me, who listened to me, and her dead eyes staring at me. “Thanks,” he said.

  His head down, seemingly in remembrance or sadness, he searched for something to say. On the other side of the caskets, Teri was in Marylyn’s arms, and she gave him a small nod, her cloudy blue eyes never leaving him. You can do it.

  Perhaps she used her ability to influence, perhaps there was something deeper in him than he believed, because a memory came to him. “Ice cream,” he said. The crowd of hundreds was silent, waiting, anticipating.

  “It was… oh, a year ago.” I’d been unhappy one night. Nothing new, nothing different than usual, feeling sorry for myself. “I had a craving and raided the kitchen when Sandra wasn’t looking.” There were smiles.

  “Sorry, Sandra, I know the rules, but damn if I wasn’t hungry.” It wasn’t hunger that drove me that night though, it was self-pity and boredom.

  “I spent twenty minutes looking through the kitchen for something to eat. And we had nothing, you know how it is. Or how it was before Trix got the kitchen running again.”

  “Hungry sucks,” someone said.

  “Amen,” replied another.

  “The Dogs were hiding out… hell, I can’t even well remember… I think it was at the abandoned paint factory, and we had this stupid little fridge that someone’d left behind. Rocky fixed it up, but it was locked in the main office and I didn’t have a key.”

  Remembering the moment, Wyatt smiled at the memory of the small woman surprising him in the dark as he’d tried to pick the lock. With a flick of her hand, she’d shooed him out of the way and made short work of the door. Unable to sleep… Wyatt racked his brain for why… because of worries for her mother, who was sick, and who she didn’t have the money to go see… she’d gotten up with the same goal as he had.

  “She was worried about her mother. I remember that she came from a broken family, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a mama’s girl, didn’t mean she didn’t care.” Voices were raised in agreement and understanding, many of the people watching him were in the same situation, estranged from but not indifferent to the parents who’d raised them.

  “We sat at the counter and ate all of San
dra’s ice cream. She was so angry the next day, but she never found out who did it. Sorry, Sandra, but that was the best butterscotch ice cream I’ve ever had,” he said with a wry grin that was returned.

  “Ezzy was a good woman, a good person. She died trying to protect us.” He paused at this. That wasn’t entirely true. Her death was a waste; she hadn’t protected anyone, much less herself. He didn’t know how to continue. The bastards had killed her, and her death was a waste. That’s all there was too it.

  The faces in the crowd all watched him, listening attentively for something meaningful, something that would make sense of this mess. He felt his face flush as he struggled for words, no, not words… struggled even to find the ideas, the concepts that would take this group and bind them together in their shared sorry. He failed.

  Trix had remained at his side as he spoke, and when he hesitated, she pulled his head up for a kiss on his cheek. “That’s enough,” she whispered. In a louder voice, she continued, “Ezzy died trying to stop violence. She was protecting us, but also the bad guys. She was a good woman. I hope we can live up to her example.”

  Live up to her example? What the hell did that mean? She’s dead now, all three were. Her example would get more people killed. Wyatt turned to Trix, his breath coming faster, his skin flushed. She didn’t give him a chance to say anything more. “Sit down,” she whispered.

  He heard her whisper, “Father?” A woman that he vaguely recognized stepped forward and Trix introduced her. “Many of you know Father Sam. She will share some thoughts about Marko and has offered to lead the rest of our remembrance.”

  As she introduced Samantha Hurst, Wyatt went back to his place on the other side of the caskets, and retreated into himself as he walked. He knew the woman; a conflicted Anglican priest whose church had closed years before and who found herself on the street. She’d ministered in the park, then in homes converted into flophouses and finally, in the HUC at Trix’s urging.

  “I remember when I first met Marko, years ago, he was just a little boy, came with his parents, God rest their souls.”