Feral King

by Ginger Booth

  “Honor. Is the topic,” he reminded them. “My point of integrity for the gang, my honor. I want to give us every chance to survive. I don’t hate our enemies. They want to live, and I don’t blame them. But my honor as king of this merry band, is to find us an edge, a chance. Any way I can.”

  Jake nodded. “And survival overrides any higher abstractions. It has to.”

  “But as a leader,” Frosty thought out loud, still working this out. “I sacrifice my personal chances for the good of the whole. If I need to.”

  “Not so fast, buddy,” Maz interrupted. “Glory, huh? To die a hero instead of writhing with dysentery? No. You don’t get to give up. That’s cowardice, not leadership, not honor.”

  He kept at it, too. Frosty sat amazed as Maz demanded a vow from each of them to be the guardians of each other’s honor. None could give up unless the others agreed. They would live, no matter how unpleasant that prospect got, and they’d lead the others through this. Frosty bowed to the consensus.

  Actually it was a relief to surrender the option of suicide. What Mom did – Don’t go there.

  “Corollary, guys,” he added apologetically. “We put the people we lead ahead of our personal friendships. Maz, Panic, if it comes down to you or the gang, I have to choose the gang. Is this true?”

  “It’s true,” Maz agreed emphatically.

  Panic didn’t appear comforted by philosophy. “Understood,” she whispered.

  19

  February 14, E-day plus 68,

  Valentine’s Day.

  Ava and her team froze at the alley door to 24th Street, and watched through eye holes they cut in the cheap painted plywood weeks ago. The gang had evicted plenty of adults through this gate, hundreds by now. And they’d observed well enough. Their quarry today lay beyond, to see if they could find a way to scout through to West 25th.

  Dawn was still an hour away. They couldn’t see a damned thing, and didn’t really expect to. Still, they waited a full three minutes or so, listening. Nothing stirred.

  She unlocked the gate, and her 5th and 6th grade lieutenants slipped through. She called them lieutenants, anyway. Kat had a dozen, including her. Ava had preteens, but they were cunning and skilled, quick learners. She debated whether to lock the gate again. But a holdup on their retreat could cost them their lives. She debated leaving one of the kids here for the sole purpose of opening the gate, but decided against it, only looping the chain so the lock stayed on the other side. She moved in ultra-slow motion, to soften the clinking sound and because her fingers were cold no matter what kind of gloves she wore.

  Though it wasn’t so cold anymore. The bitter arctic cold was done as the extra minutes of daily sun began to compound. The world smelled worse, unfortunately, especially in the garbage-strewn alleys that didn’t rinse into the storm sewers. But they were used to it.

  She grasped hands on the nearest two, and gave them a moment to grasp the next two. Then scampering silently, they made it in a straight line across 24th. Ava kept to the curb. She’d checked in daylight yesterday – the sidewalks here were still furred with broken glass. No one wanted 24th Street.

  Across, then two buildings to the right, was the alley they planned to try this morning. Most were dead ends. She led them to about the right spot, then stepped cautiously through the broken glass, with the inevitable tinkling. She paused to see if anyone above was concerned, but the buildings stood silent, black holes against a sky lightening enough to lose some stars. This alley had a chain link gate, with padlock cut. They slipped through leaving it exactly as ajar as they’d found it.

  Once they were a few yards in, Ava halted her team. She tapped their heads in turn, and in a voice barely above a breath, gave them separate assignments to investigate. She’d walk to the back of the right-hand building and meet them there, five minutes tops.

  One of the kids was assigned to inspect this wall, but she ran her hand along it as she walked anyway. Some snow still heaped in here despite a few days well above freezing, the sun having no path into this narrow defile. Nice fridge. The slush was damp, though, and seeped in through glass slices in her sneakers. Sneakers didn’t last long around here.

  Her fingers recognized angle iron as they swept past, and she stepped back to look closer. Fire escape. Good to know. But this fronted 24th. She wanted 25th today. The left building ended early, yielding a good 30 feet or so to the building it backed against, full of assorted clutter. The first to arrive, she continued to the end of the building on her right. Alley gap, fire escapes, good… Alleys through to 25th Street didn’t align with their 24th Street counterparts, of course. She stepped right just a few more yards. Yes! She’d found alleys the whole way through. The light was rapidly improving now. She could see well enough to tell that the alley was open to the street, no gate.

  A rodent squeaked and she stomped in reflex. To her surprise, she caught its tail. The little beast must have been sniffing at her toes. She reached down to grab it, and deftly wrung its neck before depositing the carcass in her goody knapsack.

  Today would be a good day. She could feel it.

  She made rendezvous with her scouts. In near silent whispers all reported their finds. An embarrassment of riches, Ava had two alleys to choose from, and three buildings fronting the next block, all three with fire escapes. She looked up to the heavens to choose. Middle one. It was the shortest, at about 10 stories. They hustled up the alley to the fire escape, and found nothing handy to climb to the first landing. Ava and Candy made stirrups of their hands for Germy to scamper up. Following a brief struggle against rust, he slid the ladder down with a screech of scraping metal that outraged the night.

  They scurried up as fast as they could. With no hiding the sound, their only hope was to be gone before anyone looked. Yet Ava halted them above the 3rd floor landing to stand still on the steps between floors to catch their breath. She never wanted to begin a fight already gasping for breath, and everyone tired easily now for want of food. She’d lost maybe 15 pounds, and she’d never been overweight.

  While they waited, a window opened below, and a guy stuck his head out to look. When he craned his neck their way, their feet pelted upward as fast as they could go. At the 5th floor, a window stood open onto the fire escape, onto a hallway instead of a single apartment. Ava dodged inside, and helped the rest in.

  They’d become connoisseurs of Chelsea architecture. Confidently she headed to mid-building, where the main staircase awaited exactly where she expected it. They ran up two more floors, as quietly as possible.

  And Ava relaxed somewhat. No one wanted to live on the 7th floor of 10, too high to climb, yet three more to the roof. Four kids peeled off as before into four directions to check the apartment doors. Ava killed time by strolling to the far end of the hallway from where they began. What a nicely equipped building, with fire escapes on both ends. Other than that, it was a moldering low-rent absentee-landlord sort, with lumpy wallpaper peeling at the seams. She could expect archaic plumbing, dodgy appliances, elderly corpses, and plenty of rats.

  If they caught enough rats, she could give Frosty one for Valentine’s Day. Still pissed off at him hitting her a couple weeks ago, that might send the wrong message – too honest. As your lover, I owe you a gift this Hallmark holiday. Here, have a chance at bubonic plague. Bastard. Her real gift was considerate, pragmatic, and domestic, and cost her hours of hard labor, dwelling on her grievances all the while.

  Germy was last to regroup, still fidgeting with his bag. “Condiments! Old hoarder.” He pulled out a packet of ketchup. They each eagerly thrust forth a bared finger for a share of the treat. All these places had long since been stripped of the real food. But in horrific smelling refrigerators, the kids still found these little packets of ketchup, mustard, soy, duck sauce, and those fast-food chicken dipping sauces.

  The world disappeared as Ava savored the drop of rich tangy sweetness, felt the slight pulp with her tongue, and breathed in clean vinegar and spices. She sucked the inside
of her mouth to enjoy every last bit of flavor, then sighed and opened her eyes. The kids already finished. The rest of the haul would keep for them to split later.

  They found no one except the dead on this floor, perfect for Ava’s purposes. Candy volunteered to begin surveillance from a front-facing apartment. She’d simply sit in the window and observe, while the others investigated the building further.

  Floor 8 was much the same as 7, their packs slithering nicely with condiments, a few cans of unloved vegetables, overlooked gravy mixes and such. Switch caught another rat. The 9th floor proved to be the last, so they trod more carefully. Ava already noticed from below that someone kept a water trash can on the east fire escape, with a hose down from the roof. That clever idea she meant to suggest to Brawnda. Especially if they could rig it so the overflow failed over to the floor below, all the way down, for automated water delivery to each floor. That might not work on the dojo building – too tall, too much screwing with hoses. Sure would be handy, though, and the gang spread over multiple buildings, some shorter.

  As she paused before the top step, a snarling dog peeled around the corner and leapt into her face, slavering teeth first.

  20

  February 14, E-day plus 68.

  Frosty swallowed and gazed out onto the broad intersection of 6th Avenue and West 23rd. The current guards said it was quiet today, no attacks here in the last 24 hours. He’d sent scouts to check out adjoining blocks, including Ava with a team of kids, which left him twitchy. How quickly he’d gotten used to waking with her in his arms, how icy the apartment seemed with her gone on a mission this morning.

  He shoved that thought aside in annoyance. She’s fine. I wouldn’t let her go if she couldn’t handle it.

  Checking on the neighbors at the avenues was his job, more diplomacy than spying. Assorted gang rats tested their barricades, of course. The Tigers beat them back, or killed them. But for a week now, they’d rested in detente, bottled into their block by forces at both ends, strong young gangs instead of the weak grown-ups. Confident there was no more food to be found out there than right here, Frosty welcomed the reprieve.

  But it was time to know the new neighbors and come up with a plan.

  He climbed onto the roof of one of the cars and waved a once-white dish rag, trying to catch the eye of the four black dudes who stood chatting in the middle of the broad intersection with AK47’s. “Want to talk?”

  One of them slung his rifle over his back and strutted over. Like most of his ilk, he wore a hoodie drawn up to shadow his face, under a grubby grey winter parka and sagging pants. The flame-painted sneakers probably cost somebody serious cash. “Whatcha want, white trash?”

  One of the other guards headed uptown on 6th, probably to report this exchange.

  “I’m Frosty the Snowman, leader of the White Tigers. And you are?”

  “We know who you are, Nazi skinhead pig! Call me boss.”

  “Why, are you the boss of your fine block association? I’d love to speak with your leader.”

  “He too busy for scum. You talk to me first!”

  “Fine. What is the name of your mutual aid society, by the way?”

  “You talk shit! We Hip-Hop.”

  Because of course you are. “I’m curious. The grown-ups we kicked off our block. I don’t see them around. You know where they went?”

  “We got no use for seniles. Sent ’em to Raul.”

  Through tiresome exchanges like this, Frosty gradually gleaned that Raul was an adult gang boss. He held maybe a dozen blocks beyond 9th Avenue, stretching diagonally across the street grid from the block-sized Chelsea Park at West 27th, across the High Line park, converted from an elevated train bed, to the Hudson River Park and Chelsea Piers. This probably accounted for half the unpaved dirt in Chelsea. Frosty made a note to touch base with this Raul. Maybe another runner mission was called for.

  “So tell me about Hip-Hop, friend. What makes you proud to belong to your club?” How many fighters do you have and what’s your turf?

  “I ain’t your friend,” Hoodie reminded him. “We takes what we wants. Ain’t nobody stands against us!”

  Frosty ignored the tedious posturing. “We never see your girls. Are you all gay?” Hoodie lunged forward and half-pulled his gun forward with a snarl. Frosty raised his gloved hands peaceably. “Just saying. No girls.”

  “Yeah, we should steal some of yours! You got lots of little ass. I like me the 10-year-olds when they squeal. ‘Oh, no! Don’t rape me, mister!’ Ha! That shit’s hot.”

  Frosty stared at him for a moment, face carefully schooled. Keep your cool. Mind the edges. And he tilted his head to literally look past the animal at hand. Someone lurked across the intersection, also wearing a hoodie layer, but his was NYU royal purple. His winter white knit hat bore pompoms and a Nordic stitch pattern of rainbow-splashed yarn. His features were light brown, maybe Caribbean. Frosty waved to him. He waved back, extracted a red greeting card envelope from his coat, and waved that.

  “I think the gentleman across the way has a letter for me. Mind if I cross and collect it?” Frosty held up his hands to display he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He had a pistol thrust into his back waistband, hidden by his coat. He had no intention of drawing it.

  “Frosty, don’t!” Maz interrupted. “Send Smiley.”

  Smiley’s name hailed from a scar that pulled his upper lip into a permanent snarl. He laid his gun on the ground behind him and raised his hands to step forward. “I’m Smiley. How do you do.”

  Hoodie saw no reason not to allow this. But Frosty already knew Hoodie was stupid. Smiley jogged over and collected the envelope. The second it changed hands, Rainbow Guy sprinted toward 5th Avenue. Frosty wondered how long he’d spent lurking beyond the avenue deciding how to make delivery.

  Smiley walked back at a normal pace, but missed a step, glancing north on 6th. He finished his crossing much slower, and handed over the red envelope. “Frosty, a couple guys are carrying a white chick’s body this way. Long red hair. Lots of blood.”

  Frosty’s heart pounded. “Not Panic?”

  Smiley frowned at him, perplexed. “Panic has brown hair.”

  Frosty blew out, long and slow, and bopped Smiley on the shoulder. “Thanks.” He slipped the greeting card into an inside pocket unread. He should cut this visit short, but he was too curious about the girl. He waited until the trio were visible from his spot and stared. Mercifully, Hoodie had rejoined his buddies, stealing glances and snickering at him.

  The new guys dumped the girl’s body onto the hood of his car, face down. The seat of her pants bore telltale blood stains. “Greetings from our king,” one of them explained. “For your harem.”

  “Tell your king thank you for the gift,” Frosty managed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were all exchanging Valentines today. I didn’t bring him anything.”

  “Not ‘our king,’” he was corrected. “Like his handle is R-period-King.”

  Maz checked the girl for life, then hoisted her in a fireman’s carry, and started jogging to their medics.

  “Did R-period-King have any further message?”

  “Yeah. Fuck you. We’re going to do that to all you fuckers!”

  “Do you have enough people to do that?”

  “What you got, defending chicks and babies? We got nearly 200 fighters and four blocks of 6th Avenue! You’re penned in! You’re dead meat!”

  Thank you for that. “I see.” Frosty sprang off the hood and landed lightly. “Have a nice day.”

  He forced himself to walk away casually, and breathe. He stopped by the ‘hospital,’ more like a hospice a rare few managed to escape alive, to wait for Maz. One of the duties his best friend assigned to himself was lieutenant in charge of the dying place. Frosty wasn’t allowed in. He dawdled quietly by the low flat corpse cart, cobbled from doors and shopping cart wheels. The hospital secretly transfered their dead out at night for morale. Kat maintained a membership roster and kept him apprised of how fast t
hey were dying.

  Maz was right. The hospital wasn’t good for his head.

  Oh, yeah! Frosty drew out his peculiar valentine. The sealed envelope was addressed in tidy block capitals.

  Frosty the Snowman

  Blond Kingpin

  100’s block West 23rd

  Someone did their homework. He pulled out a card with cover inspired by the Rocky Horror Picture Show, the transsexual doctor licking his lips in excitement. Cute. Inside, the pre-printed greeting featured the matching innuendo, with a handwritten message.

  We should talk.

  Your secret admirer, Elon, Madison Sq.

  P.S. Don’t shoot the messenger.

  Madison Square sat across East 23rd from the landmark Flatiron Building at 5th Avenue, the dividing line between East and West for street numbering. The square probably offered the largest parcel of dirt nearby, an avenue block wide and three streets tall, full of trees, a resource treasure trove. Sparklers shot off in Frosty’s brain as he considered the prospects for alliance. Or even two, if he could make friends with Raul of the grownup turf. Then again, this Elon could be a clown, or worse than Hip Hop.

  Nah, they didn’t come worse, just more or less potent a threat. Violent, hostile, and depraved was rock bottom, mad dogs. Anyone with the class to send this card was light years ahead of R-period-King. Kringle, Frosty dubbed him. And Elon was organized enough to hold a piece of prime real estate, knew who Frosty was, and sent a cheerfully dressed messenger with quick feet and a brain. He liked this Elon already.

  His best friend emerged from the hospital as he contemplated the possibilities. “Thanks, Maz. She gonna make it?”