Gunsmoke Blues

by Balogun Ojetade

  The Axeman rushed at the nearest passenger, a young woman, and savaged her to death with his teeth. He sprang to her companion, an older man wearing glasses, and ripped his gut open with his claws. A tall man at the back of the bus reached to open the emergency exit, but the Axeman got to him first. Blood sprayed across the windows of the bus.

  The Axeman danced from passenger to passenger, young and old, men and women alike. By the time he had finished, the inside of the bus was painted as red as its shiny exterior. The Axeman paused to feed on the corpses.

  Outside, the Brothers were killing on a grand scale, cutting down rioters and constables alike. It was carnage, just as he had expected.

  A sudden sound made him turn away from his feast—a loud crack followed by several more in quick succession.

  He ran to the front of the bus and looked out. Three horse-drawn carts had pulled up at the end of the road and constables in brown padded leather armor were pouring from them. The constables carried odd-looking carbines and were advancing up the street toward the bus, shooting. Bolts of lightning erupted from the muzzles of their weapons as they came. A streak of electricity shattered the window next to the Axeman, bringing it down in a shower of glass.

  The Axeman ducked down and ran to the buckled doors of the bus. Corpses and the dying littered the street outside where the Brothers had cut them down. The surviving looters and vigilantes ran for cover as the constables opened fire. The rats would need to run too, if they were to survive.

  The Axeman leapt from the bus. “Run, Brothers!” he screeched. “Save yourselves!” He dropped to all fours and ran himself, dashing from side to side as bolts of lightning followed him up the street.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Ida fell backward under the blow of the cudgel, still cradling the unconscious driver in her arms. She landed badly, the man’s weight forcing her down heavily. She clutched at her side where the white teenager in the checkered mask had struck her. A sharp pain stabbed at her, and her hand came away from the wound smeared red.

  The teen stood over her triumphantly, the cudgel held high in his hand. Ida tried to reach for her black-light blade, but the driver was lying on her arm. The teen gripped the cudgel tightly in his fist and lifted it high, ready to bring it down on her a second time.

  Before he could strike, a flying kick from behind knocked him off balance. Dabney. He kicked the thug again behind his knees, bringing him to the ground. “Come on,” he said to Ida. “Let’s get you out of here.” He helped her back to her feet then lifted the body of the unconscious driver in his arms.

  Ida stood uncertainly. The fall had winded her and blood trickled down her face from where the rock had struck her head. More blood continued to flow from the wound at her side. The light from the fire burned brighter than ever, and she had to squint to see through the sticky yellow glue that covered her eyes. “Where to?” she asked.

  Rioters and looters blocked their way to safety, spreading fire and mayhem as they smashed their way along the street. The young man with the cudgel was back on his feet, and three more teens had gathered around him, cutting off any chance of escape. Ida could barely stand, and Dabney was struggling to walk with the injured man in his arms. He had lost his shield and mace in the confusion.

  Ida looked around for a way out. “Follow me,” she said.

  She lurched down a side street, the pain from her head wound and the blow to her side competing to drop her to her knees. But she staggered on, one step after another. Dabney carried the injured man beside her. After a minute she stopped beneath a streetlamp to regain her breath. “I can’t go any further,” she gasped. Dabney laid the driver on the pavement while he rested, too.

  They found themselves in a narrow back alley cut off from their colleagues. “It’s a dead-end,” Dabney said. The lane ended with a brick wall. High walls and windowless buildings lined each side. The only way out was back to the burning steam car and the riot.

  The four teens had followed them into the alleyway. Along with the young man wielding the cudgel were two other thugs wearing green wool derbies and green masks. Both carried knives. The fourth man wore a brown leather apron over a white jumpsuit and a porcelain doll mask. A metal pole was slung casually over his shoulder.

  Ida turned her attention to the gang. The teen with the cudgel seemed to have appointed himself as their leader. He smacked the club against the meaty palm of his hand as he led the other thugs down the alley. The two with the knives spread out across the narrow alleyway like hunters, the blades of their knives clearly visible under the single streetlamp. The man in the porcelain doll mask waved the steel pole menacingly as they advanced.

  “Put the weapons away, boys,” Ida said. “Don’t make more trouble for yourselves.”

  “We ain’t making trouble for ourselves,” the teen with the cudgel said. “We’re making it for you.”

  “We have an injured man. He needs urgent medical treatment,” Ida said. “Let us get help for him.”

  The teen laughed cruelly. “That uppity nigger got what was coming to him. You gonna get it, too.”

  The four thugs crept forward. Dabney kept his position, standing between the advancing young men and the body of the injured man. He was bigger than his opponents but weaponless.

  Ida stood by a brick wall. She strained to breathe, every inhale a sharp agony, every exhale a dull ache. Everything had turned yellow and she shielded her eyes from the light of the streetlamp they had gathered beneath, almost blinded by its glare. She could still hear noises from the rioting on St. Bernard Avenue and see people rushing past, but down that deserted side street it was like another world. They would have to face the men alone.

  Behind her came a sudden noise. She whirled about, ignoring the fresh stab of pain in her side. More people had entered the alleyway from a back door in one of the buildings. They ran toward her, before stopping as they took in the scene.

  The new arrivals—two boys and five girls were also teenagers. None looked older than eighteen, and they were clearly not rioters as they were all Black. The girls were dressed for a night on the town, in short dresses and high heels. One of the girls screamed when she saw the men blocking the exit.

  With a start, Ida realized that she knew some of the teenagers—Anton Sardis; Smokey Donaldson; and Ava L’Esperance. They clearly recognized her, too. She beckoned to them. “Stand next to me.” They flocked obediently to her side.

  “Well, well,” the teen with the cudgel said. “Look who we have here. If it ain’t my old friends from the tavern.”

  “We ain’t no friends of yours, peckerwood,” Smokey said.

  “Let them go,” Ida said, wheezing. “They’re just children.”

  “Sure,” the young man said mockingly. “We don’t want them to get hurt, do we?”

  The four thugs moved closer, surrounding Dabney and blocking any escape route for the others. Ida leaned against the brick wall for support. The gash in her side continued to bleed steadily. She covered it with her hand, pressing at the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

  The teen with the cudgel spoke directly to one of the girls. “Come over here, bébé; I promise I won’t touch you.”

  “Everyone stay close behind me,” Dabney told the children. They didn’t need to be told twice.

  Porcelain Doll kept coming forward, the two men with knives following closely at his heels. Their leader urged them on, slapping his club against the palm of his hand. They came to within a few yards of Dabney.

  “Stop,” Dabney said. “Don’t come a step closer.”

  “Or you’ll do what?”

  “You don’t want to find out.”

  The leader gave a signal to the other three. They continued to advance from all sides, knives weaving in their hands, metal bar swinging dangerously, cudgel raised to strike.

  Dabney stood his ground as they approached. There was nowhere left to run.

  ***

  Dabney had lost his riot shield and mace during th
e rescue, but he was trained in unarmed combat. He still wore his helmet, and his long, thick leather vest would give him some protection from the knives. But his best defense was perhaps his will to live. He thought again of his wife and daughter, Iris and Lenore, waiting at home for his return. And he thought of his unborn child. A girl or a boy, he didn’t yet know, but he was determined to find out. No white boy with a crowbar or knife was going to rob him of that.

  He had a canister of chlorine gas, too.

  He pulled out the can and gave it a quick shake.

  One of the young man came for him, knife in hand.

  Dabney popped the top on the canister, pointed it toward the charging teen then squeezed a tiny red button on the canister’s side. A line of smoke surged from the canister’s top.

  The young man gagged as the gas assaulted his nostrils, and reeled away, doubled over.

  The others hesitated, circling warily.

  He aimed the can at the second knife-wielder, but before he could use it, he saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye and felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. He whirled around just in time to see Porcelain Doll lifting his iron bar to strike again. Dabney swung the can in his direction, but he was too slow. The cold steel struck him right in the middle of the forehead and he fell backward, arms flailing. The ground crashed against him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Anton watched in horror as Dabney stumbled backward and collapsed on the ground next to the injured man he’d been trying to protect. His helmet had been knocked aside by the blow from the metal bar, and a crimson stream leaked from a gash in his forehead. He lay motionless, his eyes closed.

  The canister he’d used on one of the thugs rolled over to Anton’s foot. Anton eyed it uncertainly for a moment.

  Porcelain Doll whooped in victory and spun the iron bar in his hands. He turned toward Anton. “You want some, too, nigger?” he said.

  Anton shook his head.

  “Then get out of here,” Porcelain Doll said. “But leave the girls behind.”

  To either side of Porcelain Doll was another thug, one armed with a long knife, the other was the youth they’d first encountered in the tavern, checkered mask, steel-toed boots and cudgel swinging menacingly. They circled around, trying to separate Anton from the others. He didn’t know what to do. He took a step to the right and his foot brushed against the canister of gas, sending it spinning.

  Smokey appeared to his left suddenly, the broken beer bottle still in his hand. The sight of the bottle made the knife-wielder pause. Smokey waved the jagged glass weapon in front of him and the young man jumped back.

  But Porcelain Doll wasn’t fazed. He raised the metal bar and jabbed it at Smokey.

  Smokey dodged to avoid the blow, but the man swept his weapon sideways, catching Smokey on the shoulder. The broken bottle smashed on the ground.

  Anton ducked down and grabbed hold of the canister. He rose up in front of the man with the knife and pressed down on the button. Smoke billowed right into the thug’s face.

  The young man fell back, dropping the knife as his body was wracked by a fit of coughing. He fell to his knees, struggling to find his breath.

  The young man with the cudgel didn’t wait for Anton to turn the canister toward him. He rushed at Anton, swinging the club hard. It hit Anton’s arm just below the elbow with a hideous crack. Anton screamed and stumbled backward, tripping over Dabney’s prone body. The canister of spray fell to the ground with a clatter.

  Smokey leapt at the thug, but his injured shoulder had put his right arm out of action. The cudgel connected with his jaw, and he fell back against the brick wall with a howl.

  “Grab hold of the girls,” the cudgel-wielding thug said to Porcelain Doll.

  “No!” Anton struggled to get up from the ground, but it was impossible. His injured arm dangled helplessly by his side and the slightest movement felt like he was plunging his arm into fire. He lay still on the ground, watching helplessly as the two remaining thugs seized hold of the young women.

  Porcelain Doll came for Garcelle from behind, pressing the metal bar to her throat.

  “Garcelle!” Anton shouted.

  The ringleader treated him to a twisted smile. “She your girlfriend?” he snickered. When Anton said nothing, he smiled again. “Your sister, maybe?” He laughed and walked over to Garcelle, shifting the wooden cudgel to his left hand. She stared back defiantly as he looked her up and down, but Anton could see the fear below her defiance.

  With his free hand the thug grabbed at Garcelle’s dress, pulling it from the neckline. The thin fabric ripped all the way to her waist.

  Garcelle struggled in the grip of the man who held her from behind, but the iron bar was still at her throat. She squirmed helplessly as her attacker reached out to her again.

  ***

  Ida watched the fight unfold through yellow eyes. The blood still trickled from the wounds on her side and her forehead, and her strength was slowly seeping out of her. She tried to move, but her legs folded beneath her as soon as she let go of the supporting wall. She dropped to all fours, gasping for breath, feeling the last of her energy slip away. She watched the scene with dismay but was powerless to help as the thugs subdued first Anton, then Smokey, then turned their attention to the young women.

  This was the second time she had let down those children—first, when they had told her about the principal, and now, when they needed her protection the most. She had failed to protect Scobell, and she had failed Dabney, too. He and the driver she had pulled from the car lay unconscious by her side. She had no idea if either man was still alive. She imagined Wilguens at home, and wondered what would happen to him if she died, too. Her father couldn’t possibly cope with an orphaned child. It was only a matter of time before he was arrested, or ran off, and then Wilguens would be orphaned a second time. Ida would fail the boy just as her own father had failed her. And she could do nothing to prevent it.

  The action in the alleyway became dim as the life left her. Her eyes were thick with gunk, and everything had become a yellow monochrome. The streetlamp casted a strange golden glow over the scene. Her head lolled back like a heavy weight as she slumped against the wall of the alley. High above, the sky slowly lightened, a colder light adding its silvery sparkle to the lamp’s gold. There was beauty there, even among the horror. The papery clouds drifted aside to reveal the circle of the full moon looking down on them serenely.

  The cool glow bathed her face gently, like a healing balm. Up there, in the heavens, all was at peace. As Ida watched, she felt some of that tranquility permeate her own thoughts. Unlike the lights that had dazed her over the past days, the cool moonbeams soothed her eyes. The gash on her forehead tingled under the frosty rays, almost as if the moon was healing her wound. A feeling of calm began to fill her, as if she was floating free. Her head slowly cleared and her senses came back into focus. She brushed her forehead and found that the cut had stopped bleeding. She touched her hand to her side, expecting to feel a sharp jarring. Instead, when she removed her hand, her palm was clean. The wound bled no more.

  Ida stood up, tentatively at first, using the wall for balance. But she didn’t need it. Strength returned to her limbs; not just normal strength, but a power she had never before experienced. She felt it pulsing through her veins like pure energy. She wiped the yellow film from her eyes and surveyed the scene. Whether because of the light of the moon, or a surge of adrenaline, or some other power, her vision had reached a new level. Every detail was picked out in high relief. Every move and sound came to her amplified.

  Two of the thugs lay writhing on the ground, their hands over their faces, the after-effects of the gas rendering them immobile. The two others were assaulting one of the young women. One held her from behind while the other tore her dress.

  They moved so slowly, the man’s hand reaching out and grasping the dress in his fingers, closing his hand around the mat
erial and pulling down, inch by inch, all so slowly. He stood back to admire his work, and the young woman’s face drooped in shame and dismay. So slowly they moved, every moment dragged out for her to inspect.

  Had time slowed, or had Ida sped up? She moved before she even knew it, rushing the nearest of the thugs, the one who had torn the dress, a chattering rising in her throat, her fingers reaching out like weapons.

  She slashed at the cudgel-wielding thug, grabbing his thick neck from behind, spinning him around to face her, and tearing the smirk from his face with her fingernails. His eyes widened slowly in shock, the blood spurting in dark droplets from his cheeks, his insolent mouth opening and closing in dumb astonishment. She struck him again so hard he dropped straight to the ground. It was like swatting a fly. He lay there, groaning and clutching his head. The young woman in the torn dress stared at Ida in awe.

  The last of the thugs—the man in the porcelain doll mask—stayed frozen, the iron bar pressed to Garcelle’s throat, his hands gripping the weapon so tightly his knuckles stood out ice-white, just like the cold light of the moon. His face was inscrutable behind the mask, but Ida smelled fear leaking from his pores like sweat.

  She wrenched the bar from his fingers before he could use it, simultaneously raking his exposed neck with her nails. She watched as the iron pole fell, spinning harmlessly to the ground.

  The man twisted away, stumbling and sending a fine spray of blood flying skyward, like a sacrifice to the moon.

  Ida whirled on the balls of her feet then kicked Porcelain Doll in the chest, sending him reeling backward the entire width of the alleyway. He struck the ground with a thud.

  Garcelle stood inert, awe now turned to terror.

  Ida stopped. The reckless force that had animated her ebbed away as quickly as it had come. Her arms went limp. Her sight and hearing returned to normal. She gasped for breath and dropped her hands to her hips, suddenly desperate for air, as if she had emerged from beneath the ocean and almost drowned. She panted heavily through her mouth until the urgency for oxygen abated.