No Light Beyond

by L. Douglas Hogan

  Ebony Pistols Territory

  East Cook County

  The sounds of a screaming woman lured Mason to a building that sat on a corner lot near the exterior of the Ebony Pistols’ perimeter. Under the cover of darkness, he moved from cover to cover, utilizing mostly the stripped-down shells of old vehicles that sat in the streets. The trees had lost their leaves long ago and provided little camouflage. He took his pack off and fixed a silencer to his .45. He then hid his pack beneath the car he was using for cover.

  It was near dusk, and soon there would be zero light in the area. Mason could faintly hear the voices of men here and there, most of which were far off. He had spotted some lookouts that had assumed spots on top of buildings and from upper-story windows. The woman’s screams had subsided, but he was close enough to give him a pretty good idea where he could begin his investigation.

  The evidence he had so far was enough to give him a lead into gangster territory, where he hoped he could find someone willing to assist him in finding his daughter. If not, he would have to enter into aggressive negotiations, which, for Mason, meant the possibility of causing someone great bodily harm and/or death.

  Mason entered the building that was within the vicinity of where he heard the woman. He could hear men talking, but mostly it was getting eerily quiet. He could no longer see anything, so he slid under what felt like a bed, and waited for first light.

  ...

  Mason was startled awake by the screams of a woman being brought into the room where he was hiding. “No, please don’t. You don’t have to do this,” she cried. Mason couldn’t see anything, but he heard the feet of at least two people. One was the woman, who was actively resisting another.

  Smack , Mason heard. “Shut your mouth or I’ll gut you here,” a man’s voice said. He threw the woman onto the bed that Mason was hiding under, but the woman continued to cry. Mason waited.

  When the man lifted his feet from the floor to get on top of the woman, Mason quietly slid out from his hiding spot and removed the Ka-Bar from his side. He grabbed the man by the head and drove the knife deep into his throat. The man gurgled as he tried to cry out. Mason pulled him off the woman, dropped him onto the floor, and said to the woman, “Shhhh, you’re safe. I’m looking for a little girl, nine years old. Her name is Lydia.”

  The woman was frantic and scared. “Your attacker is dead,” he said, trying to reassure her. She was sobbing heavily and trying to catch her breath. Mason, realizing he was being insensitive, sat quietly on the bed and waited for her to calm. After several moments, the woman spoke up.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “No problem. Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

  The woman didn’t answer. Mason reached out his hand to touch her and to check on her position. It was pitch black, so all he had for a set of eyes were his fingers. Each of them felt as if they were blind people feeling around in the dark. Mason touched her and she startled. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m looking for my daughter. She was taken from me.”

  The woman sat still long enough to let him feel her face. Her entire face was scarred with what felt like knife wounds. Her hair was cut short and patchy, as if cut by a knife rather than scissors. “I’ve got to get you out of here,” he said, realizing that she was more likely to assist him if he could prove himself a little more.

  He grabbed her by the hand, and together they felt their way out of the gang’s territory and into an old storefront, where Mason fell fast asleep again.

  Entry Two

  “Dear Lydia, I rescued a woman tonight. I have no idea what her name is or where she’s from. I don’t know anything except for the fact she’s horribly scarred. Her face is littered with old slash marks like she had been held captive by sadists.

  “I killed a man with a knife last night, too. That man was the first time I’ve ever killed with a blade. I stuck it clean through his throat. I figured it would be more difficult running a blade through the neck than it was. It’s not the same feeling that comes with shooting a man. It’s more intimate, much more intimate. In fact, it made me feel a little dirty, like I had crossed a line that I could never pass back over.

  “I can’t say I trust this woman. I don’t know her. I’m going to try to stay awake, just because. Maybe tomorrow some light can be shed on this woman’s past, and perhaps she can help me get to you.

  “PS, I’m sorry that I journaled that knife kill. I’m hoping you don’t read this until you’re much older. I’m sure you’re much too young to know what a sadist is. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  ...

  Mason’s plan to stay awake failed. He fell asleep sometime in the night.

  The next morning, Mason slowly opened his eyes and immediately looked to his side for the woman he had rescued. She was gone, and his backpack was nowhere to be seen. He quickly rationalized that the woman must’ve headed west, away from her captives, so he made sure his knife and pistol were still latched to his sides, and he left to seek her out.

  ...

  Several hundred yards west from Mason’s position, the scar-faced woman was wearing Mason’s backpack and had removed a 9 mm pistol from among its contents. She was traveling west, as Mason had suspected, when she stumbled across a patrol of three Scroungers. She took a defensive position before they spotted her, but they were now just on the other side of the bus stop.

  Mason caught up with the woman and saw her from his position across the street. The worst thing that could have happened to her was to be caught by gaunt man-eating Scroungers. They almost always lived in larger groups, so to see two or three was to know that there were plenty more around somewhere.

  Mason lowered himself behind the wall of the bus stop that was on his side of the roadway and peered around the edge at the woman. He caught her attention and held his finger up to his mouth, telling her to remain silent. Mason waited for the men to close the gap between themselves and to break the line of sight between them, and then he ran to her side and quietly leaned beside her against the wall that shielded their position.

  Mason leaned in next to her and whispered, “Follow my lead. When I shoot, you shoot. We have the element of surprise and there’s only three of them.”

  He stayed crouched and walked along the wall of the bus stop until he reached the edge. He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was right behind him. Mason held up three fingers and quietly counted down to zero. Both he and the woman jumped out from the side of the bus stop and started shooting at the Scroungers. Seven shots in all rang out, and all three of them were now lying on the sidewalk, yelling in anguish and fear. Mason took his Ka-Bar out and stuck each of them in both lungs to soften their cries and then wiped his blade off on the last man’s shirt. He then looked at the woman and extended his hand.

  “My backpack, give it to me.”

  The woman hesitatingly handed him the pack.

  “The pistol, too. C’mon, now. That’s mine, also.”

  “I need something to defend myself with,” she said.

  “You should’ve thought of that before you jacked my gear.” Mason started to walk away.

  “Wait a second,” she said, interrupting his departure.

  Mason turned around to entertain her request.

  “You’re not going to just leave me here?”

  “Why not?” he responded. “You had no qualms about taking my stuff and leaving me alone.”

  “I didn’t take all your weapons, only your backpack.”

  “Yeah, my backpack with ammunition and food. What good is a gun without ammunition?” he argued.

  The woman conceded.

  Mason could see the look of desperation in her eyes, and it was that look paired with the scars that littered her face that moved him to concede as well.

  “Look,” Mason said with a sigh. “I found you last night because I’m desperately searching for my nine-year-old daughter. She was taken by two or three gangbangers. One was called Smoka and an
other Slasha. I have no idea what they look like. When I found you, I was hoping you could help me find them and, in so doing, find her.” Mason could see the woman’s expression change as she heard the names of the two men. “Do you know them?” he asked, grabbing her by the arm.

  “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  Mason realized he was gripping her tightly; not out of anger towards her, but because he was feeling a surge of adrenaline that was accompanied by a rush of heat in his face and ears. “I’m sorry,” he said, letting go of her.

  “I can’t help you,” she said, pulling away and walking westward.

  “What do you mean you can’t help me?” he responded, following closely behind her.

  “Mister, I was held captive for months in that place, and they did unthinkable things to me. Ain’t no way I’m going to take you to the gangstas that sold me into slavery so I can go back into that life of hell.”

  Mason looked deep into her eyes and saw deep wounds and pains that he didn’t want to touch upon.

  “Mason,” he said to her. “My name’s Mason Loss.”

  “Shemika,” she said. “I’m Shemika Young.”

  Shemika was a lovely African American with green eyes that beautifully contrasted her dark caramel-colored skin. Her facial scars were from months of being cut by her captors. Their fear tactics and intimidation techniques were enough to make most females submit. Shemika wasn’t the only scarred woman in the territory, she was just the lucky one that crossed paths with Mason.

  “Where are you headed?” Mason asked.

  “I have family west of here,” she said.

  “I don’t think there’s much west of here.”

  Shemika bowed her head with a sorrowful expression.

  “We need to get away from the city and the suburbs. There’s nothing in these parts but trouble.”

  Shemika was silent.

  “What family do you have west of here?”

  “A brother.”

  “Help me find my Lydia and I’ll help you find your brother.”

  Shemika looked up at Mason and he was handing her his 9 mm pistol. She gladly accepted it and responded, “Deal. Tell me again what information you have on the men that took your little girl.”

  “One of them had a squeaky shoe.”

  “A squeaky shoe?”

  “What, that’s not a thing to have a squeaky shoe?”

  “What else?”

  “One of them was called Smoka and the other called Slasha. One of them was wearing this.” Mason pulled the pendant out of his pocket and handed it to Shemika. She turned it over and saw the engraving. “Yeah, I remember this guy. He was with the group that took me. I was visiting my auntie when the Flash happened. I clearly remember this necklace.”

  “So you’ll be able to ID him when I find him?”

  “I think so, yes. I can ID Smoka, too. He’s the leader of the trio.”

  “Are they in a gang? How big’s the group?”

  “I’m not sure. I only saw three of ’em.”

  “Who’s the third one? Do you know his name?”

  “They called the other one Frenzy.”

  “Where can I find them? Are they back there at the Ebony Pistols plantation?”

  “No, they traded me and some others to the Ebony Pistols. They wouldn’t be there. I don’t know where they’d be.”

  “I need to go back in there,” Mason said, standing up and heading towards the territory.

  “You can’t be serious?” she asked.

  “I’m more than serious. I’m dead serious.” Mason stopped to look at Shemika. “If they know where those punks went, that’s where I need to go.”

  “They’ll kill you on sight.”

  “Not if they don’t see me coming. You stay here and hole up in that store right there. Don’t leave without me. I’ll be back before dusk. If not, then you can have that gun because I won’t be needing it. I’ll be dead.”

  Shemika left for the store Mason had pointed her towards while Mason turned to head east.

  ...

  Shemika realized she had dozed off to sleep when she was startled awake by the sound of an automobile horn blasting through the air. It caught her off guard to even be hearing a horn. She was certain that all electronic devices, including automobiles, had been rendered useless.

  She sorted herself then ran outside to see a 1970s model Chevy Blazer traveling towards her at a high rate of speed. In the distance, other vehicles could be seen, and they were shooting at the Blazer.

  The old Blazer pulled up next to her and the door flew open. “Get in,” Mason yelled.

  Shemika jumped in the passenger-side door and pulled it shut as Mason sped away. It was a bumpy ride at the speed they were traveling.

  “Did you get what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “Yep,” he answered, pointing to the rear of the truck. Shemika looked over her shoulder and saw a man tied up with a sock in his mouth bouncing around in the rear compartment.

  “He’s no use to us dead,” she said.

  “If he dies, I’ll get a new one,” Mason bantered.

  Mason kept on the accelerator until he saw the Ebony Pistols give up on the chase in his side mirror.

  “Ha! They’re giving up.” He laughed.

  “Or retreating,” she added.

  Mason looked back ahead and saw a company of roving Scroungers kicking up ash in the far distance. “We’re not going to make it out of this alive if we don’t head south now.”

  Mason cut the wheel left and headed south until they reached Bridgeview and he was confident there were no Scroungers or Ebony Pistols in pursuit. Then he pulled off the road, near I-294, at a random home and hid the Blazer in the garage.

  Mason went to the back of the Blazer and pulled the man out of the cargo area and threw him over his shoulder. Shemika assisted him into the house and along the way asked, “I thought vehicles broke down when the Flash happened?”

  “Most of them did. The older carburetor types don’t run like the newer computer-based systems.”

  Mason and Shemika cleared the house to make sure there were no persons present, then dropped the man on the floor.

  He looked at Mason with a combination of hate and rage in his eyes, but Mason was unaffected. He pulled his Ka-Bar out of its sheath, grabbed it by the dull side of the blade, and pounded the gangbanger in the head with the heavy-ended handle.

  “You’ve got some talking to do, big boy,” Mason said, turning the knife back around to point the sharp end at the man’s face. When Mason was done intimidating him with the knife, he used the tip of it to pull the sock out of the man’s mouth.

  “Man, whatchu think yo doin’?”

  Mason thumped him in the head again. “Play nice or I’ll end you right here, right now.”

  The gangster looked up at Shemika and smirked. “I know you the Bible way,” he said in a condescending tone. She responded by kicking him in the face.

  “I’m guessing you’re on her bad side,” Mason said. Blood was coming from the man’s lip. “Let me get that for ya,” he said, using his knife to scoop up the blood. He wiped it on the man’s pant leg.

  “I’m looking for three men that I think you and your boys do business with—Smoka, Slasha, and Frenzy.”

  “Yeah, I know ’em, but I ain’t no stool pigeon.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. I guess if you’re not gonna talk, I don’t have any further use for you.”

  “If you kill him, you won’t find your daughter,” Shemika said.

  “If I kill him, I’ll replace him. These guys are less than a dime a dozen.”

  “What about yo daughter?” the man asked. “We don’t be deal’n in no kids, man.”

  “Then you saw her? Did you see a little brown-headed girl; she was seven when they took her from me. She’s nine years old now. Have you seen her? Her name is Lydia.” Mason was realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to get the man to talk unless he upped his game or reasoned wit
h him. “Lydia’s all I have in this world. Isn’t there something you have in this world that means everything to you?”

  The man remained silent.

  “What’s your name?” Mason asked, trying a different angle.

  The man hesitated, but reluctantly answered. “They call me Little Jay,” he said, then paused to think it through. “If I tell you, you won’t kill me?”

  “You have my word. Tell me what you know and I won’t kill you.”

  “Smoka, Frenzy, and Slasha work for the Order. They have grounds in the barrens near old Joliet. They be like Scroungers except they be doin’ mo’ dealin’ with the people. Ain’t no Scrounger gonna do nuttin’ but dealin’ in meat.”

  “So if the Ebony Pistols didn’t take my daughter, where do you think those punks would have taken her?”

  “Man, I don’t know. I ain’t yo daughter’s keeper an’ I ain’t in the Order’s business, either.”

  “Well, I guess we’re heading to Joliet, then,” Shemika said.

  Mason agreed with Shemika and told the man, “Well, your time has expired, my friend. It’s time to die.”

  “Wait a minute, man… you said if I talked, you wouldn’t kill me.”

  “I’m not going to, but Shemika here made no such promise, and I’m pretty sure she’s serving up some revenge tonight.”

  Mason stood up and handed her his silenced .45 caliber. He walked towards the kitchen and had barely left the front room when he heard the pht sound followed promptly by the thud of the man’s body falling onto the carpet.

  Shemika walked into the kitchen, where she saw Mason was looking through the cupboards and cabinets, searching for food.

  “Whatever used to be in here was picked clean a long time ago,” he said, dropping his backpack onto the kitchen table. He unzipped it and pulled out two small cans of sardines and slid one over to Shemika, who opened it like she hadn’t eaten in days and wolfed it down.