by Ginger Booth
“You seen Libre?” he asked Polack. He ducked behind the captain to check in on the next, farther out on the avenue.
“Defense, blocking their side of 22nd. No one’s attacking them. But they’re holding position.”
Dammit.
25
March 4, E-day plus 86
Another fragile piece of furniture shattered on the pavement. Ava and Germy, the only ones staying below, turned their backs and protected their heads from flying splinters. A cacophony of pots and pans followed. “Hold up!” Ava called. One more colander clattered down, apparently too late to abort. Then her hurlers waited for her to gauge progress.
She shone her narrow flashlight around her trip hazard. “Very nice! No more here.” She waded across the debris beneath the first fire escape and tidied the 25th Street side.
The goal was for people to run through a clear alley, then trip to fall on their faces directly below the invisible middle-school menace. They held a few more iron skillets and such in reserve, but their prime ammo was stoneware and Pyrex, piled and ready. A dinner plate, or a nice chunky mug or casserole dish, dropped from the 4th floor fire escape landing, could inflict some serious damage, especially the shards. This would be the children’s fighting debut, so she needed to keep their tasks simple.
Killing was optional in this alley. She only needed to make it wholly not-worth-it to pass through, except for her own forces.
She hopped back across to rejoin Germy, who finished tidying his side of the pile. She hooked a broken chair leg with her toe, and set it upright as a stake through one of the colander handles. Germy grabbed another and kept it.
They’d already completed the trap under the other approach to the back alley. Now they settled in to wait. “Silence,” she murmured up to the 2nd floor grating, and barely heard the word get passed upward.
Standing still in the pitch black drizzle, cold, was not great fun. Ava got Germy to play isometrics against her for a while to stay warm, pushing against each other’s hands or feet. The kids upstairs took turns slipping into the buildings for more freedom of movement and soft conversation.
Her first customer stepped into the alley, but she recognized his gait. “White.”
“Supreme,” Frosty replied.
She warned him to stop where he was or he’d mess up her trap. She considered wading over so she could touch him, but opted for professionalism.
“We’re headed south on the avenue,” he told her. “Then I hope to take up position on your 24th side, but we’ll see what happens. You can fall back to Butch’s position if you want.”
“Does this position still make sense?” Ava was sure Hip Hop scouted this block as thoroughly as she had. She’d played peek-a-boo more than once. They knew this alley.
“Yeah, we’re sure to have some Hip Hop behind our lines. But the Libre captain is pushing forward, so we have to go. But you stay safe. If you need to run, go for it. If you’re cut off, hide.” He said that part a little louder, so the kids heard it came from him. “Take care.”
“You, too.”
She heard his sneakered feet recede, echoing slightly in the narrow stone alley, 40 yards to emerge onto 25th. Then Frosty and his group jogged away into the muffled shooting and shouting on 6th. Ava swallowed.
After 10 minutes of quiet, the next solo pair of feet failed to provide a password, and jogged straight into her trap. His muttered swears and imprecations were clearly ebonic in accent, not white or Puerto Rican. Ava waited to see what he’d decide to do.
He lit a flashlight to gauge the unexpected obstruction. Wrong move. Plates and mugs hurled down on him. None hit him directly, but they shattered with a terrifying noise. He swore and withdrew to the street, apparently to report. Ava listened carefully, but couldn’t hear what he said. There was more than one, though.
Minutes later, another clatter came from her other alley opening to 25th. Both alleys let into the same back corridor where she and Germy waited. This time they all came in, shining a light to check for traps. When they found the same sort of pile, one of them started shooting upward to discourage the kids above while they kicked a passage through.
Ava considered sticking with the first alley in, or hiding to waylay them in the middle alley out to 24th, but decided it sounded like at least three guys. Better to attack them at the trap. As she crept forward, the Hip Hops started screeching death threats at the kids. Apparently they’d deployed the gallon jug of piss to splatter the enemy.
Their flashlights pointed up in aid of their aim – Ava trusted the children fled into the building. Ava and Germy could see the attackers perfectly well, but they still hadn’t noticed anyone was at ground level with them. Ava’s toe hit a sauce pot. She grabbed it and hurled it at the guys. Germy pursued the same idea only a moment later, confusing the Hip Hops as to where those throws were coming from. They ducked behind opposite building corners as a frustrated Hopper opened a burst of fire into the back alley. A couple flashlights jerked across the back wall, hunting in vain for their opposition.
“They got more fighters back here.”
“Armed with piss pots? Come on, let’s go!” That brave Hopper waded forward, kicking debris out of his way in frustration, his flashlight steady on his path. Well-lit and predictable, he painted himself a target for more stoneware from above. The kids could hurl plates from relative safety in the windows.
Ava gathered from the swearing that several of them now suffered stoneware lacerations, and lost one of the flashlights. So considerate of the enemy to supply feedback. One opened up with another spray of bullets upward into the fire escape.
“Fucking stop firing!” One of them swore. “You hit me with a ricochet, dumbass! Come on, there’s another alley down the street.”
“What are you, a coward? Ain’t nothing here but some rotten kids!” That was Brave Hopper again, in the lead. But at least the trio conceded that shooting the fire escape tended to backfire on them. The other two, unwilling, followed him into the seemingly vacant back alley.
Ava picked up a couple of nice jagged chair legs they kicked her way, still sheltered behind the corner from their cautious advance. The Hoppers had the upper hand with their rifles and flashlights. They also had three man-sized guys versus two rather diminutive black belts. Time to even the odds a little.
The moment the gun’s mouth crossed the corner threshold, Ava slammed it downward with one chair leg, and stabbed at the flashlight with the other. Brave Hopper lost his hold on the flashlight, which clattered to the ground to light an empty path across filth. His gun was on a strap, and harder to dislodge. He brought it up with two hands now and lurched forward, trying to shoot around that corner at Ava.
Seeing no viable option to counter that, she leapt over the flashlight beam, then kicked it loose into the back alley, illuminating nothing helpful. Brave Hip Hop tried to pivot fast enough to shoot the man attacking him, but the short girl crouched to her mittens, then kicked him in the balls from below, with her powerful roundhouse. Clutching at his injured privates, he let go of the rifle, which she lurched up to wrestle sideways. One of his companions, confused, shot a couple rounds past his ears, but he shielded Ava from them. The children contributed a few more plates to add to their disorientation.
Ava kicked his kneecap, weakening the side away from the corner. Then she wrenched the gun into the back alley, and rammed his face with the end of it. If only the damned thing wasn’t strapped to him. She couldn’t see any easy way to get it off him. Or…
She chopped his knuckles with the side of her hand, the blow Sensei taught them to split a block of wood. He cried out in anguish, no longer capable of holding the gun. She twisted it around to point in the general Hip Hop direction, and pulled the trigger, surprised when it fired three rounds on one push. Brave Hopper gurgled, and sloughed toward the ground. Losing her cover against the other two, she yanked the rifle behind her corner. This time it came free with a couple tugs.
The other Hoppers weren’t so
brave. They’d had enough of this alley. Ava wasn’t a very good shot, but she fired into their receding backs. One fell, one escaped.
She retrieved the flashlight and stooped to check Brave Hopper for signs of life. She’d caught him at the base of the throat. He clutched the wound still, bleeding out through his fingers, unable to get air.
“Germy?” She didn’t want to shine a light on him in case anyone saw from the street.
“Here,” he murmured from up the alley, where the other Hopper fell.
“This one’s a goner,” Ava reported.
She heard a brief struggle, then Germy replied, “Cut his throat.”
Ava hurried up to him. “Good job. Let’s drag him to the entrance. Discourage visitors.”
Once their warning was situated, leaving a trail of blood along the alley, she sent Germy back to tidy the trap. For herself, she slipped along the wall to the 25th Street opening to gauge progress on the fight. A brief flash at 6th told her little. She heard no footsteps anywhere nearer. Heart in her throat, she slunk out onto 25th and followed it to her first alley, as silently as possible, then hugged a wall there for a few minutes. No consequences, no activity on the street. So she faded back into her lair.
Germy had already moved on to restoring this trap to tidy condition. “Unless you want to drag the other corpse.”
She touched his shoulder in reassurance. “You alright?”
“We saw the girl they raped, Panic. I’m fine with killing the lousy animals.” The slave Hip Hop gave Frosty never regained consciousness. The condition of her body, displayed on the corpse piles, did much to rile the gang for this fight.
And ‘lousy animal’ was all too literal. Ava stuck a thumb in her side to scratch at the incessant itching. “Everybody OK upstairs?” she called up softly.
“Some brick cut me,” one girl offered. “I washed it with soap.” No need to carry soap with them. Every apartment offered a variety, and usually antibiotic ointment and band-aids as well.
“Good job. You did great! All of you. See? This isn’t so bad.”
Germy accompanied her to the other alley, where the kids on the fire escape reported they were unscathed. “Don’t get cocky up there!” They giggled in the dark.
She and Germy settled for staging Brave Hopper’s corpse on the first alley’s trap pile. Torn, she decided to hold onto his rifle, minus its binding strap, though she hadn’t planned to wield one this morning. They collected weapons of course, but in the narrow confines of the alley, ricochets could hurt her own children. Options were good. Germy claimed the flashlight, a heavy steel model perfect for blinding a guy, then braining him.
And they settled in to greet their next customer.
26
March 4, E-day plus 86
Frosty almost stumbled on a sudden curb in the bike lane on 6th Avenue. He cast around with a foot to find a bollard sticking up to about crotch height. Those hazards came in pairs. He located its soul mate and slapped it to clue in Maz.
They gave up on the sidewalk at 25th, buried in shattered plate glass from the modern commercial space fronting the whole block. The east side of the block, Libre’s side, was similar in usage, though built of more attractive brick. His team collected Knuckle’s group from their modest 4-story hidey hole, and loped down to here, just above the intersection with 24th. A few people ran past them, bent low, more on the Libre side. Ahead of them, only 10 yards or so, the fighting throng massed in earnest.
Frosty crouched to rest his chin on the bollard. The short pillars of steel filled with concrete were intended to protect the bike lane. Good a place as any to think.
A rare light strobed the crowd like a dance club from hell, maybe a captain taking stock, or a sniper taking aim. A little patience, staring straight ahead, and he identified his Water Tigers. Pistol and Waldo and their teams fought here, harrying the rear of what looked like all of Hip Hop, massed at the entry to 23rd.
Frosty shifted a little to observe the Libre side of the avenue. That was a little harder to interpret. Parking lot, he finally recognized in surprise. An entire building foot-print of empty lot, wasted on cars. That was uncommon for Chelsea. More to the point, it was full of fighting, Libre on Hip Hop.
He had two teams. Should he reinforce the Libres? What he wanted to do was kill Hip Hops. What the plan called for him to do was chase Hip Hops down 24th, away from 23rd. But Pomelo’s message was right. That wasn’t going to happen.
Given their odd and unmoving silhouettes, a black guy ran into Maz and bounced off. Maz pulled out his pistol and shot him in the back as he fled. Then he swung around his post to watch up 6th Avenue, the opposite direction from Frosty. “Waiting on orders, Frost.”
“Keep waiting,” Frosty muttered. What he needed was a better idea of what was happening at the front of this melee. “Be right back.”
Bent double, he set out into the middle of the avenue. No one was running at him just yet, except Maz hustling to keep up. The guy took his bodyguard role too seriously. Then again… “Give me a hand up.”
“Piggyback,” Maz supplied.
Frosty climbed onto his back and strained upward, Maz lifting his thighs to his armpits. That added an extra foot or more to his vantage. Not good enough – no. The crowd shifted, pressing back in waves the way it did during a riot. In the White Tiger intersection, a few figures danced on fire, screaming from the pain.
Frosty hopped down. “Distraction. Good time to kill Hoppers from behind.”
“Those our orders?”
“Knuckle’s maybe.” He ran back to his double team, 30 guys hanging back by the diminutive biker’s traffic island. They’d lost a few along the way, whether misplaced or dead Frosty didn’t know. “Knuckle, your guys forward on 6th, kill Hip Hops. Fire escapes to the right, if anyone can get upstairs to shoot. My team, let’s reinforce 6E from inside. Go.”
He briefly considered sending a runner to find Pomelo. But – I ain’t telling Pomelo nothing. Pomelo loco, said the Libre messenger. Besides, he didn’t think a runner could find some crazed dude called Pomelo. His force was rear-guard reserve, and it was up to him where to commit. He doubted 6E could handle what they were up against.
Frosty trotted diagonally toward the south side of 24th, also debating whether to send a runner to Panic. Then he stopped dead as a fire escape ladder rolled down in front of him. A box thudded to the sidewalk, and someone clambered down. Frosty fingered his nunchucks, and drew them from his coat pocket, two tubes of steel connected with a chain. Normally the pipes wore a protective sleeve of foam rubber. He’d sliced one of those off.
Time to dance.
On silent feet, he ran at the ladder. His ears reported the guy’s progress climbing down the rungs. He held the rubberized pipe of his nunchucks and spun up the bare pipe, then loosed it where he pictured the guy’s face and hand. A whir, a meaty thunk, a clang as he connected with the metal ladder, and a short shriek, then a thump as the guy fell to the ground and rolled, trying to escape. His sobbing breaths betrayed where his face was. Frosty kicked his chin up as though launching a soccer ball. A soft crack suggested something broke on that kick. His opponent no longer made noise, just lay there prone. Frosty didn’t bother to check him.
“Ammo,” Maz called softly from the dropped box. “Must be their armory.”
“Two,” Frosty replied. “Android, Toaster. Head upstairs. Kill Hip Hops, guard their ammo. Shoot down on 6th if you can.” Those two started climbing.
Frosty waited to see if they needed reinforcement. He sidled back to the 6th Avenue corner for that. A couple more Hoppers wandered within striking range. This was almost comical. With everyone in motion, on the pitch dark avenue, he merely needed to stand still to be completely invisible. He waited until the Hoppers passed, then grabbed one by the rifle strap and yanked it back with his left hand. With his right, he hammered the guy’s fingers with his doubled nunchucks. The rifle slipped over his head easily while the guy spun to face his attacker. Frosty pocketed his wea
pon and instead used his hands and feet. Uppercut, cross-punch, straight kick to the solar plexus, exactly the spot he used to lay the standing dummies flat.
People were far easier to kick down than a standing dummy.
He whirled for the second one, but Maz had already laid him out. Maz preferred to render unconscious first, then secure the rifle. A few more Hoppers tried to rush them, firing first. Frosty rolled to the ground and somersaulted into the advancing guys. Then he bounded up off one arm and kicked Hopper 1’s feet out from under him. Once the guy was down, Frosty grabbed his head and smashed it into the pavement. He rose and added a sharp kick to the ribs. Judging by the guy’s lack of reaction, he wasn’t conscious.
Frosty’s approach to a gunfight sorely puzzled Hopper 2, who kept clutching his rifle seeking to intimidate, or maybe hide behind it. By then, Frosty was within a yard of said rifle, and simply shoved it aside, then grabbed it. Because the rifle strap bound the opponent to his weapon, Hopper 2 was helpless to defend himself as Frosty used one end, then the other, to batter his face. Then Frosty got a foot up to kick the guy in the gut to push him away, bent double, still holding onto the rifle, which slipped over his opponent’s head. Frosty cracked the gun across his temple.
“Maz?”
“I’m good. Who’s carrying spare rifles?”
Another group of Hoppers headed for them and they opened up in quick bursts of fire. The best friends spent July every year with Maz’s dad, at his survivalist camp in New Hampshire. They could shoot very well indeed. It just wasn’t their preferred fighting style.
Frosty stood still, breathed deep, and ordered his heart to stop pounding.
“They’re in,” Hotwire reported softly. “OK upstairs. You were right. Ton of ammo.”
“Good,” Frosty breathed. “Go.”
They stumbled across two more skirmishes before they reached Butch’s alley, though his fighters handled those instead of Frosty. Panic and her kids were safer where she was. Butch offered to send a runner to update her.