by Ginger Booth
“That’s none of your –”
“None of my concern. Yes, you’ve mentioned. Tell me, Nacky, do you have any white teens in your association? Orphaned white children?”
Nacky scowled rather than advise him again to ask no questions.
“Are you delivering a threat?” Frosty pressed.
“Yes!”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. A threat of what, exactly? No, first, let’s get back to the white children. You misunderstand the mission of my group. We are a mutual aid society of middle class white orphans. Just getting by.”
“You’re a gang!”
“So are you. Let’s not trade insults, Nacky. My point was, if you have white kids, they are welcome to join us. Provisionally.”
One of the others leaned forward to murmur in Nacky’s ear. “And what do we get in return?”
“Absolutely nothing!” Frosty assured him sunnily. “Why, were you offering me something? I’m simply saying, you appear to be non-white. So you probably don’t give a rat’s ass about white orphans. I do. So if you have some, send them my way. And if you have nothing to offer except threats… Well, you could be more explicit about the threats.”
“I’m warning you! If you take one more building, there will be consequences!”
Frosty nodded thoughtfully, then strolled along the line of the delegation, looking each of the other men in the eye. None appeared healthy enough to pose a threat. “Anything to add? No? Well, thank you for dropping by. We won’t keep you any longer.”
The men stood confused.
Frosty lunged at Nacky. “Boo!” He flapped his hands in their faces. “Scat! Go away, get lost!” Jake’s crew stepped forward to flap hands at them as well, laughing and hurling dumb catcalls.
Frosty stepped back toward the building with Jake to confer. “Did you get a damned thing out of them, what they want? Haggle?”
“No, just more of the same. Guess they were easy. Shouldn’t have bothered you, sorry.”
“Nah, Jake, this isn’t over. Watch your back.” Frosty thumped his shoulder, then strode to rejoin Panic. Maybe the woman actually made it down the stairs, he hoped. But no, she lay broken at the 4th floor landing, relieved of her purple quilted bag. At least she wasn’t bleeding. Frosty sighed and grabbed her by the shoulders to drag her the rest of the way down.
“Frosty, wait! I’ve got cardboard!” Panic called from above. He waited for her to scamper down to help. Sledding the corpses on cardboard was much easier, as well as two strong people instead of one. “So what did the asshole committee want?”
“They didn’t say. Well, they want no gang closing in on them. They didn’t haggle.”
“Sorry. We knew this was coming.”
“Yeah.” He thought it through as they navigated the body another floor or two. “How could we invite all the white kids on the block to come to us?”
“We could paint it down the middle of 23rd Street in letters two feet high. White kids welcome. Arrow to us. Do it in the middle of the night, maybe.”
“How would you see to paint?”
January 19, E-day plus 42.
As birthday party games went, Frosty found this one pretty amusing. Twenty of them roused at midnight for the mission. Six of the guys carried paint cans, mostly from the dojo superintendent’s stash. Others served as armed escort. The barest glimmer of moonlight danced through pregnant clouds to dimly light their way. They traipsed mostly by sound, following each other’s breathing and soft footfalls, marching in a line toward 6th Avenue. Jake led the parade and chose the spot to halt, about 60 feet short of the intersection.
Then the eleven chosen, half bearing paintbrushes, spaced themselves at arm’s length. They stepped forward, trying to kick large debris like heads and flowerpots and glass shards out of the way. Then they turned and spaced off again, Jake walking along to dress the line. They cracked open the paint cans. And sharing the cans and brushes, each of them painted a single letter three feet high – except for Frosty and Panic, who painted the arrow pointing toward the dojo.
WHITE KIDS =>
No one stirred in the black buildings which loomed to either side. If any guards watched, they elected not to shoot. Which was wise, because Jake’s gunners stood ready to open fire on any telltale muzzle flashes.
Jake continued pacing the line to keep track of everyone, though none but him moved by more than a few steps. When they were all finished, and the paint lids back on, Frosty marched them back to their own turf.
“Hold a minute,” Frosty told them softly. Even a low voice seemed to ring out in the silent windswept canyons of Manhattan. They should do night ops more often. He walked to the far end of the line to consult with Jake. “We could do the other end.”
“That invites an invasion of kids all at once. Training problem.”
Frosty considered that. The gang didn’t work very hard at training. Someone showed the newcomer the ropes, suggested a worthwhile apartment, introduced the kid to new people his age, or jobs she could join in. Beginner self-defense classes would swell, but advanced beginners made good trainers. About the worst of it would be potty infractions, he figured. “I can live with that.”
“Security,” Jake suggested. “They might send a spy.”
“Nah. Let’s do it.”
So they marched to the other end of the street and painted again. And returned unscathed to the dojo, depositing the paint cans outside. Most of the crew would bed down in the dojo rather than wake their apartment mates tonight, though the leadership clique would head up to their solo places.
“Good job, everybody!” Frosty praised them. “Let us grow!”
“Wait, Frosty! You never told us how old you were!”
He couldn’t tell who asked in the dark, not that it mattered. “Frosty the Snowman was born on December 8th. The day Ebola broke out. I’m 40 days old!”
The group chuckled, but Panic corrected him. “That’s 42.”
He hugged her close. “Clever girl. Good night, everybody!”
As the five karate friends set up the stairs, Panic asked, “Now what?”
January 19, E-day plus 42.
Ava’s first attempt to get the car door open set off a car alarm. Be that way! She selected the next tool in her car-management kit, as she liked to think of it – the sledgehammer. She bashed in the driver’s side window, wrenched open the door, and cut the alarm.
Well, that was a smooth start to her new career as ‘6E border captain,’ for 6th Avenue East, as Jake dubbed her role this frigid morning. Her forces included about 25 kids aged 8-13, having left another 10 of that cohort behind to do their chores. The youngest several were coloring a White Tigers welcome sign – Apply Here!
What to do with her assignment was up to her. Jake hated that. But Frosty believed in her. She wasn’t sure she shared his confidence, but their gleaning teams were in the buildings to either side of the street, with Kat and Maz left to manage the home turf and 7W.
She pointed to a kid to sweep out the broken glass and advanced to another car, hopefully without car alarm.
“Hey! Rotten kids! Get away from there!” An old man yelled from the building above. After a quick glance to check that he had no weapon, Ava left it for her team to respond with middle fingers, mooned butts and catcalls. She’d assigned most of them to a morning workout, running zigzag and bouncing off each other back and forth across the street. She intended this as evasive action practice, but hoped it looked like playing.
“Teach me.” Switch, Germy’s best buddy, came up to her as she tried to jimmy the door lock with her limited tools. She explained what she was trying to accomplish with the paint scraper, to push down the window.
“Panic!” Germy was her lookout, leaning against the north building. He pointed to two kids sneaking toward them along the south side.
They looked like middle school girls, white, under 20, and not shooting. So they passed the criteria. Ava debated her options and decided to greet their first c
ustomers herself, leaving Switch to try to figure out how to open the car on his own for the moment.
She sauntered over to the south side, clicking some broken glass out of her way. This particular storefront was some kind of Zumba class, like Caribbean belly-dancing. She made a note to raid it for its workout equipment to expand the dojo sometime. Looters made away with its protein powders long since.
“Hi, welcome to White Tigers turf,” she began in a friendly way, when the girls reached within 10 yards of her. They held hands, clearly terrified to be out here. “They call me Panic. You know, street handle.” She waggled her shoulders and smiled.
“We saw the sign on the road, white kids,” the older replied, checking nervously over her shoulder. “I’m Mia, she’s Zoey. What about white kids?”
“That’s who we are. White kids, banded together for mutual defense. Find stuff to eat. My boyfriend Frosty runs the gang.” She inquired their ages and their story, only because it seemed to soothe kids to explain themselves. They didn’t trust some creepy guy on their floor, and they were out of food, rest of the family dead, the usual story. Ava asked if they knew any other kids they might want to go back and invite, or any food to go fetch, but no. “Well, join the throng for now. If you want to stay, cool. You’re provisional members. Make yourself useful if you want to stay.”
“How –?”
“No,” Panic cut Zoey off. “When I give an order, you follow it. Join the others to get ideas.”
“But I need a drink –”
Ava turned her back on the whiner to walk back to Switch. She made it only a few steps before shots rang out from a building beyond the 6E frontier.
15
January 19, E-day plus 42.
Ava ran zig-zag the rest of the way across the street. The kids scattered for shelter. They knew duck and cover long before she met them, trained by the schools in active shooter drills. None of her team could shoot worth a damn, including herself.
But Frosty’s could. A window opened above, and shots poured into the offending open window up the street, and a half dozen unfortunate windows near it. A few of the shots were off by more than two floors. She chuckled amusement.
“Panic,” Germy called, and pointed. Several prospective new members huddled a few buildings up.
She shrugged back to him. They’d either have the guts to make it the rest of the way, or not. The original shooter wasn’t firing anymore. “Clear!” The regular kids bounced up and resumed what they were doing. “No luck, Switch?”
The 12-year-old was still trying to work a car window down with a paint scraper. “Can I just hammer it?”
“I know the feeling. Go for it.” She allowed him the visceral satisfaction of smashing the next car window. He was quick to brush out the broken glass. Then she scooted in to kill the alarm. “You know how to siphon gas?” He nodded enthusiastically. “Pick some help and harvest the gas.”
By now the next group of applicants screwed up their courage to make it across the imaginary finish line. “Mia! Go tell them what I told you.” Ava sighed. Clearly it was going to be that kind of interrupt-driven day. “I want that sign! Finish up!” What else? She looked to Germy, who signaled six more incoming. A hand held above his head suggested at least one of them was a big instead of a small.
I should handle anyone big. But they weren’t here yet. She unlocked the far side of the car, and climbed out.
“Panic!” Frosty called down. “Gimme five!”
Kids pressed forward, silently begging to be chosen. In theory, a gleaning team split the spoils evenly. In practice, they ate the first mouthful they found. She selected five, including the one who took charge of whiny Zoey. It was up to her whether she brought the new girl. Apparently her choice was no, which surprised Ava not at all. Ava brushed Zoey off again.
Germy was welcoming a new guy, maybe Ava’s age. “Panic! A Jew is white, right? He asked.”
“You’re welcome!” she called to the new guy. She picked another runner, an 8-year-old, to guide the teenager to Maz for assignment.
This three-ring circus continued for a couple hours. Kids who’d seen the new sign on the road seemed to wait and watch. When they saw others make it through, and nothing bad seemed to happen to them, they worked up their nerve and packed their stuff, then braved the trek. She was hoping the dumb sign painted on the street might make a dozen or so kids curious. But that turned into a flood, over 40 and not stopping yet. And only the upper floors on the street side of the buildings ahead could read the message on the street. Or so she assumed. She couldn’t see it. Her runners informed her the other end, Kat’s 7W, was busy too.
All this foot traffic and supervision hampered Ava’s progress with job one. She wanted to arrange cars into a border barricade, one they could hide behind during shoot-outs, and shift toward 6th Avenue as the gang turf expanded. Finally she had two cars athwart the traffic lanes, an arrowhead pointing toward 6th Avenue. She backed another car perpendicular onto the north sidewalk, bumper about 15 inches from a brick wall. She didn’t have a license, of course, but Tata started teaching her during summer vacation on Cape Cod. Her father favored lots of parking practice and other 2 mph maneuvers. Now she backed a large SUV onto the south sidewalk. This one she couldn’t get started, so she steered in reverse while a throng of kids pushed.
Her rear guide called out for them to stop. Ava put the vehicle in park and got out to look. She left an 18 inch gap this time, but close enough. She dismissed her flock to go play. A couple kids from the coloring committee ran up to tape another welcome sign on the far side of the SUV.
Job one finally accomplished, she took a seat on the hood to think what next. Frosty came out and perched beside her. “Nice work, baby. Status?”
She reeled off an estimate of new members, maybe 90 so far from the two ends. That was a whopping 60% increase in their membership, mostly arriving without food or water. The kids found an alley with access all the way to 24th Street, and fire escapes, just their side of the barricade. They’d collected glass bottles and rags and gasoline to make Molotov cocktails if desired. But she’d sent most of the gasoline back to the center to use for cooking. They boiled the pasta for last night’s birthday bash that way. Pasta they found in abundance, but cooking it was a challenge, and expensive on potable water. “How was the gleaning?”
Snow flurries began to fall, dry and small. Frosty caught a couple on his tongue. “Lean. Did they see what’s going on at 24th Street?”
“I told them to watch for a while, but not open the gate. They came back bored. No one’s out on the street.”
“Interesting. I’m getting uncomfortable with all these grown-ups behind our lines. Oh.” Frosty handed her a little plastic mint dispenser, a quarter full. “Figured you could use them as prizes or something.”
She smiled at him, and winced as her chapped lip split. She slathered it with more chapstick. “Could we march grown-ups to 24th Street? Tell them to get lost there?”
“It’s an idea,” he allowed. “We can march them all to the barricades and tell them to take a hike, but then we’re just adding forces against us.”
“Most of our adults are useless,” Ava pointed out. “No strength to fight, no food, just hungry mouths we refuse to feed. More like making them the adults’ problem instead of ours.” He looked sad, so she added, “Frosty, it’s not supposed to be the kids’ job to take care of adults. They should be taking care of us.”
“We didn’t really give them the option. But you’re right.” He kissed her quickly, and hopped down from the hood. Today he wore a much grubbier commuter coat instead of the flamboyant white, as did she. “Do we need lunch?”
Her stomach gurgled eagerness at the thought. But they scored a bonus half supper of spaghetti last night. “I’m OK. You eat.”
He shook his head, and asked for a guide to the alley. The kids who’d scouted the alley hopped to it, delighted to be singled out for attention from the gang king. Ava could relate. She was pretty
pleased with his attentions herself. She rattled the little box of mints in her pocket.
“Panic!” The current watch-stander, Candy, pointed.
A half dozen adults emerged from a red brick building, and jogged to other edifices. Keeping an eye on them, Ava strolled slowly to Candy’s position to congratulate her on a good job, and bestow a tiny mint. “Keep count. Hide if anyone starts shooting.”
She returned to the center of the car arrow, and called her team in for a huddle. “Remember, we aren’t here to fight. We’re here to make the adults feel like assholes for attacking us. Anybody starts shooting, you scatter into the buildings to hide and let the older kids fight. New kids, you should head back toward the dojo now. Anyone scared can go now too.” She’d already given these instructions to her regulars, but reminders were good. “The rest of you play here in the middle for now.”
She settled in to watch the opposition across the street from Candy. Yes, men emerged from the buildings, more than went in. A couple dozen were on the street, collecting a hundred yards up. No one was shooting at them yet, but a few brandished rifles. She dispatched another 4 runners to find and update Frosty, Jake, Maz, and Frosty’s team on break in the south building. Ava nervously glanced to the alley. What are you doing, Frosty? He and his guides hadn’t returned.
She wondered what to do personally if this turned into a firefight. She decided she ought to stay and deploy Molotov cocktails, with whichever kids had the bravado to stick with her. Did she have the guts to do that? If Frosty was up here risking himself? Maybe. Then again, windows were gradually opening above on both sides. She wasn’t at all sure the fighters intended to expose themselves on the street, except for her. Maybe I should just herd the kids away.
But not yet. Playing children were a deterrent only so long as they kept playing. And busy with that, they were probably less scared than she was. Good point. “Hey, who wants to review their fighting blocks with me?” She took a horse stance, hands ready on guard, and warmed up with speed bags, to center, left and right. Several kids fell in to play along. “For ten! Paint up!” She modeled blocking up with her right for 10 repetitions. Most of them hadn’t seen the old Karate Kid movie, but she’d told them about it, the hand thrusts for paint up, paint down, wax on, wax off, and so forth. She made up leg blocks and lunges to go with it. And the grown-up throng was up to 30 or so.