by Jeff Altabef
Pity, I really wanted to reach three weeks.
I check to make sure my Smith and Wesson is firmly holstered to the small of my back and march toward the four young men, who haven’t seen me yet. One is totally wasted, while a second staggers a bit less than the first, but he’s still compromised. The other two walk confidently, as if they own this alley, which is probably true. All four wear leather boots with steel tips meant for kicking defenseless people. These guys are exactly the type to do just that—kick defenseless people.
The group strolls under another light less than a block away. They wear black jackets with Red Dragon patches on their chests. I scan them from left to right: the drunk, a steroid-induced hulk, a thin sneaky-looking guy with a nervous gait, and a tall fellow who swings a baseball bat like a nightstick.
The sneaky-looking guy stops under the light and taps the hulk next to him. “Look, George. We have a visitor.”
I pause ten paces before the gang. I could turn and run like the old-timer suggested. Still can, but I won’t. Caesar’s voice rumbles inside my head. He wants me to punish, to cause pain, to hurt these thugs. The sound escalates with other voices that join his.
It starts to get crowded in my mind, but I fight hard against the noise and the building pressure and offer the four a chance. They deserve that, and I can still offer it. Maybe the Fates will shine on them.
“I’m just passing through. It would be best if you step aside. I have no beef with you fellas, and I’m in a hurry.”
Sneaky grins and pulls a Glock from under his jacket. Hulk grabs a six-inch blade from a sheath on his belt, and the slugger with the bat taps the barrel menacingly in his hand. The drunk, too wasted to do anything, shakes his head and sways from side to side.
My training kicks in. I need to disarm the leader with the gun first, then the hulk and finally the guy with the bat. I can ignore drunk guy until later. The worst he can do is vomit on me. My only problem: the distance that separates us. Ten steps are seven too many. Three would be ideal.
I stumble a bit forward on purpose to act like an uncoordinated buffoon. I lift my hands in the air to put them at ease and offer one final chance for them to save themselves. “I really don’t think you appreciate what’s going to happen next.”
The leader points the gun at my chest horizontally, gangster style. The barrel shakes a bit and his stance is all wrong. He’d be lucky to hit the side of a barn at thirty yards, but I’m only five paces away now, which makes me a hell of a lot easier to hit than a barn.
He waves the gun at me. “Stop right there, asshole. I know exactly what’s going to happen. You’re going to hand me that duffel and then we’re going to search you for anything else we might want. And if you’re lucky, you’ll survive with just a beating. Otherwise...”
The slugger grins and swings the bat in a looping arc. His eyes twinkle. He likes to cause pain; dried blood streaks the barrel of the bat as a warning. At least it’s an old-school wooden one. He deserves points for that. I hate the new titanium ones. They don’t sound right when they hit someone.
I adjust the strap on my duffel so it won’t swing too much and get in my way, take two steps forward, and stare at the leader. I know what he’s thinking. He sees an easy mark, an unarmed man, not particularly tall at just under six feet and not particularly wide. Sometimes appearances can be deceiving unless you look closely enough.
There’s an easy way out of this mess for me. Even though the leader has his Glock aimed at my chest, I’m still too fast a draw for him. I can pull out my Smith and Wesson and blast him in the chest before he’d squeeze the trigger. After he goes down, the other three would likely run, or in the case of the wasted guy, stumble away. I’d take one step to my left just in case the leader is quicker than I think he is. That way, he’d miss me, even if he manages to fire a round. My chance at success is so close to 100 percent, it’s not even worth doing the math in my head.
There’s only one problem with the easy way out. I don’t want it. Not tonight. Not in my old neighborhood looking for my mother, so I work out a different plan. My only question—will the Glock actually work? I create two scenarios to overcome the uncertainty, both equally effective. My chance at success drops from nearly 100 percent to a manageable 96.
I smile a goofy grin to put the leader at ease. “This is your last chance. I don’t have a problem with you guys. Move aside or you’ll regret it. I’m wasting too much time already.”
The leader laughs, but it sounds forced. The gun barrel shakes a little more than a moment earlier.
My confidence unnerves him. Deep down, he knows he’s in trouble. His intuition is barking at him. It’s not his fault he doesn’t understand what it’s trying to tell him. He’s only a product of his experience, and he’s never met anyone like me before. If he has any sense, he’d pull the trigger — but he won’t. He’s the type who needs the last word. A thin guy like that uses his tongue as a weapon to move up the ladder.
So, he throws out a barb. “Can’t you count, or are you simple-minded? There’s four of us and only one of you.”
I point to the drunk on the far left, whose head sags against his chest. “You can’t count the lush. Look at him. He’s about to fall down.”
The leader flashes his gaze at his friend. An easy-to-predict involuntary response. It takes no longer than a heartbeat, but that’s enough.
I dart forward, grab the Glock, twist, and yank. The gun comes free, and in one smooth motion, I shoot the hulk in the thigh. In the alley, the gunshot sounds like an explosion. The other three guys freeze for a precious second.
I chop the leader in the throat, which drops the thin man to his knees. A knee to the forehead knocks him out.
The slugger grins at me. The twinkle in his eyes turns crimson and blazes with hellfire. “Welcome home, Stevie,” he says in a deep voice that sounds like it’s risen from hell itself.
He flies forward, moving faster than he should for his size, and jams the end of the bat into my stomach. The shot bends me over, and I drop the Glock. He hits me with a right cross that staggers me backward.
My head swims. I didn’t count on fighting a demon. This throws off the math and not in a good way.
“Why are you fighting us?” he growls. “Join us, Stevie. You’re so close to turning into one of us now.”
“Never.”
“Too bad. He has big plans for you.”
The demon swings the bat in a vicious swipe at my head. I duck under and kick his knee. His leg buckles. I grab him by the shoulders, and ram him into a wall, head first. Brick chips flake off and fall to the ground.
He drops the bat.
I roll my shoulder and smash a fist into his kidney. The punch would have crippled a linebacker, but it barely registers on him.
He grabs my neck with both hands and squeezes.
I try to pull his arms off, but he’s too strong.
Lights flash in front of me. His face changes, his nose turning into a snout and teeth extending into fangs. Another minute and I’m dead.
I reach for my handgun. My fingers slip off the grip and my lungs ache. I try again, close my hand on the handle, pull it free from the holster, and shoot him in the chest.
His face goes taut, and he reels backward. Blood, as black as night, seeps from his chest, and the sulfur stench burns my nose.
He scowls at me. “You’ve ruined my jacket. Now I’m going to play with you before I send you to hell.”
“Man, you stink.” I grab the bat from the ground, spin, and crack him in the head. The blow knocks him to his knees, and I start swinging. Four swings later and there’s nothing left of his head but bone fragments and tar-like sludge.
I check my phone to note when I ended my streak and freeze. Does killing a demon count? After all, he wasn’t human. No, demons don’t count, so I put my phone away.
Wasted guy vomits. “What the fuck just happened?”
“You’ve got to upgrade the people you’re hanging out with.
Demons are not good company.”
“You killed Doug.” He wobbles backward. “Who the hell are you?”
“Good question. I’m having problems with that one myself. How did he know my name?” I step toward him, bat still in my hand.
“I don’t know, man. I didn’t hear him say nothing.”
“He called me by my name. Explain.” I take another step.
He starts to cry. “I don’t know. We were just coming back from a party. No big deal.”
He looks honest, and he’s too wasted to put on a convincing show. I think about killing them all anyway. I’d snap his neck (three seconds), shoot the sneaky-faced leader in the head (two more seconds) and finish off the hulk with my knife (ten seconds). I prefer using my knife. It’s more personal than shooting someone and lets me be creative. It’s important to be imaginative. I have so few outlets to express myself otherwise.
Murdering the trio would take me a total of fifteen seconds, but killing the demon has satisfied the voices in my head for now. Only Caesar’s voice barks at me, and he’s not insisting I kill them. He’s intent on making fun of me for hesitating. I focus my energy, clear my mind, and his voice fades away.
The muscle-bound thug moans. “I’m bleeding. You shot me. It really hurts.”
He sounds a bit like a bleating sheep, and I rethink my decision as I step over to him.
“No kidding.” I stomp on his head to shut him up. The giant bends backward to the ground, unconscious.
“What’s your name?” I ask the drunk.
“Griffin.”
“Like the magical creature?”
“Huh?”
“I’ve got to be honest with you, I don’t see it, Griff. You’re young still and admittedly not at your best, but I think your parents placed unreasonable expectations on you.” I point at the hulk. “He’ll bleed out if you don’t take him to a doctor.”
“Fuck him. Listen man. Just don’t kill me.”
“You see, that’s not exactly magical thinking, Griff.” I point the Smith and Wesson at his chest. “What type of gang are you guys running anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be a brotherhood? All for one and one for all. That type of shit. You’re giving gangs a bad name.”
“You’re a fucking maniac. You caved in Doug’s face.”
“He left me no choice.” I holster the Smith and Wesson, retrieve the Glock from the pavement and slip it into a jacket pocket. “You saw what he became?”
Griffin shakes his head. “I don’t know what I saw.”
“Well, that’s what drinking and drugs will do to you. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson here.”
“All I saw was you swinging that bat.”
Griff must have grabbed the knife the hulk dropped. He waves the blade in uncertain swipes, tottering back and forth on his heels. “Stay away from me.”
Whichever Fate is governing his future is closing the shears on his heartstring.
“Seriously. Okay, Griff. Put it down, and I won’t hurt you. You haven’t pissed me off yet, but you’re starting to annoy me. Besides,” I slip the Glock out from my pocket and point it at him, “my gun outranks your knife, Sparky. You have three seconds to drop the knife, and I’m not doing any cheesy countdowns. The decision is yours.”
He drops the knife.
“Good decision,” I say. “Frankly, I was a little worried you were going to make the wrong choice. Can you get him some help before he bleeds to death?”
He nods, and it looks like some light has returned to his eyes. I doubt there’s too much wattage when he’s stone-cold sober. I’m not working with Einstein here.
“Good, give me your belt.”
He fumbles with the buckle and can’t seem to yank the belt through the loops in his jeans.
“Come on, Griff. You don’t need a master’s degree in engineering to remove a belt. Just pull on it. I’ve got somewhere to go.”
He finally pulls it free and hands it to me.
After I’ve fastened it to the hulk’s leg to slow the bleeding, I say, “That’ll buy you a little more time. Try to be a little smarter. You’ve got to make better choices, Griff. You’re not representing the Red Dragons well. And keep the demons out of the gang. It should be a simple rule. No demons allowed.”
My phone pings a special tone I set up for exactly four people. If any of them needs me, they can message me, and my phone sounds with three distinctive chimes.
A one-word message flashes across the screen: Help.
I send a simple reply: Where are you?
202 Elm St, Apt 322B. Near Maloney’s Pub. Do you remember where that is?
Be there in 20.
Mother will have to wait. Of the four people who can summon me with that special tone, this one hits me in the gut harder than Doug’s bat.
Kate! Sixteen years of silence and she has no way of knowing I was back in town. She must be desperate.
I shift the duffel to a comfortable spot on my shoulder and jog away. By the time I reach the side street, dawn has announced itself with a sliver of blue and purple that burns away the darkness.
How much trouble is Kate in?
I run faster.
The air feels greasy, like the inside of KFC at lunchtime, and it smells like an unhappy marriage between a dumpster and a toilet. It’s probably coating my lungs as I run through the mostly empty ghetto streets. Those who can afford them use air filters in big cities. Not me. I don’t imagine I’ll live long enough that it’ll make a whole lot of difference.
A few hopeless prostitutes walk the streets, looking for their last john of the night, and a couple of drug dealers lounge against cars, hoping for one last deal. They’re both selling a brief escape from a bad situation. I can’t blame them. Everyone needs a way to survive.
No one pays attention to me. The only real sign of life comes from one of those new virtual reality life centers. This one’s called Otherworldly Experiences. I slow my pace and glance at the well-lit storefront. It’s crowded with customers. An armed guard stands outside and another just inside the door—a lot of security for a virtual reality joint.
The new craze, these VR places are popping up everywhere. According to a screen out front, this one promises experiences that are “Better than the Real Thing.” I’ll never go into a place like that. I wouldn’t mind dialing reality back a few notches. But I understand why they’re popular. They’re selling the same things as the ladies and the drug dealers—escapism.
I show my identification card to the armed Homeland Security trooper at a checkpoint who has a long, sad face. He must have pissed off someone important to get such a shitty detail. He mans the gate between the ghetto and the better district, District 12. During the day, this checkpoint is open. At night, a guard with an M18 protects it. He scans my ID through the reader and logs me in. Everyone needs to be logged in or face jail time if they’re caught in the wrong district. Red posters with white block writing litter the place. They tell us to report “Un-American” behavior—it’s our duty and the government will pay monetary rewards.
Thanks to my prior employer, my identification card permits me access to all the districts in the country. I’ll get some strange looks at the top tier ones, but none of the Homeland goons will turn me away because I don’t belong. I find Elm Street and check the building numbers until I locate my destination mid-block, a ten-story apartment building, made with new, steel construction.
It’s been twenty-three minutes and twenty seconds since Kate called. I’m late and, for some ridiculous reason, I think about bringing her flowers. She likes red carnations best. Once I gave her a dozen roses, and they all died two days later. She banned me from ever bringing her roses again. Said it was a tragedy for something so beautiful to die so quickly, and she wanted no part of such pointless waste.
It’s a stupid idea, this idea to bring Kate flowers. First, there’s no place open to buy them and second, boyfriends bring flowers. I’m not her boyfriend and this is not a date. She needs help an
d contacted me out of desperation. That’s all this is, a plea for help. I need to keep that in mind or I’ll make a fool of myself.
The directory lists a dizzying number of apartments for the size of the building. I trace my finger to Apartment 322B, press the buzzer, and look into the security camera.
The door clicks open. The lobby is clean with a gray-tiled floor, plain steel walls, post office boxes to the left, mirrors to the right that add light and make the space appear bigger. Video cameras record everything. An elevator and a staircase are off to my right. I take the stairs two at time and enter the third-floor hallway.
Designed as a new “communal” living space, the floor holds one large kitchen and two bathrooms for tenants to share. The owners bill it as the latest in “enhanced living,” the old-fashioned community center in one building. Total crap. The new design adds to the number of rentable apartments in the building, which adds to their profit.
I’ve seen places like this one before, massive apartment complexes in the manufacturing districts in upstate New York—vast structures, crammed with people. The factories own the buildings and deduct wages directly from paychecks. They attach or subtract boxes to floors as needed with giant cranes. The residents call the places Meat Packers. The name fits.
At least this place looks better than those—not so many apartments crammed together and the air smells clean—none of the rotten stench from the Meat Packers. I reach Kate’s apartment and stare at the door with my knuckles poised to knock.
Even though I returned to Philly, I didn’t intend to see Kate. It’s not fair to her. I made my decision a long time ago, and we’ve lived separate lives since. I can’t go back and change it now, but here I am. She reached out to me, so what happens is on her. I steady myself, rifle my hand through my short black hair in a failed attempt to smooth it down, and knock softly against the metal door.
The door swings open a heartbeat later. Kate looks almost the same as when I’d seen her last. A little heavier perhaps, but in a good way, muscle added over time.
Long, straight, blonde hair frames her pretty, oval face. A few fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead are new. A couple of freckles dot her nose and cheeks. She used to have more. A small, diamond-shaped scar marks her left cheek near her ear. The toll the years have taken on her do nothing to take away from her good looks, and her eyes smolder as intense as ever, a deeper blue than the Caribbean.
