Out a Order

by Evie Rhodes

  He didn’t want to do a repeat performance, only to again relive the same nightmare. If Mrs. Davenport was dead and then they killed Jazz’s daddy, that meant their whole family would have been wiped out.

  The little boy just couldn’t handle the thought of another call for help that would go unanswered. Little did he know that on this day it would be different, on this day the walls in the hood would come tumbling down.

  He still didn’t understand what he had seen the day Jazz had died, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t right. Plus he hadn’t told anyone that he daydreamed of that sound he’d heard on that day over and over again, and he actually heard it in his sleep as well.

  It was a weird keening sound. The trees had shook, and from the corner of his eye he had thought he’d seen black wings.

  Maybe not.

  But if not, then why was he seeing the same exact thing in his sleep? And to add to that, somebody’s baby kept crying.

  He didn’t know what it was, but he knew they had to fight back whatever it was because you couldn’t just let somebody hit you and not hit back.

  So Marcus figured it was time for the law to arrive before something happened this time instead of always after it happened. Besides he was tired of watching people dying. He had been checking out the black police officer, and he seemed like he could be trusted, so Marcus took his chances.

  That Lombardo cop was a real creep and Marcus wouldn’t have talked to him, even if it meant the whole block dying on the same day. In fact he had insisted that he would only talk if Campbell was alone. The black cop had obliged him.

  He knew in the world he lived in, even at the age of ten, that talking to the cops was a no-no and like having your death warrant signed. But he felt like they were the living dead anyway, so what did it matter? Nobody rushed when Jazz was lying in the street dying.

  He might not live through this anyway. At least he would go out stand-up and trying.

  For his part, once Shannon had received the information from Marcus of where his wife was being held, tunnel vision had claimed him. At first he was shocked that Marcus had even been able to obtain the 411 on the spot.

  He had to admit that little nigga had heart.

  But then he decided he didn’t have time to dwell on it, nor did he care as long as he knew where his wife was.

  There was only one thing on his mind, and that was getting her back alive. By any means necessary. The story that Mama had shared with him, as well as the vision that had locked them together, faded from his mind as he surged forward in the power of what he knew best, the flesh.

  Shannon had just stepped onto the curb when he heard his name. The sound of it was like frozen icicles. “Shannon! Freeze, nigga!” Rico’s voice seared through the air like a steak sizzling on a grill.

  A shot rang out.

  It hit the gas tank on Shannon’s car. A line of gasoline poured from it, trickling down the curb.

  Marcus watched the line of gasoline from his hiding place. It trickled in slow motion, but a steady stream it was.

  Papers with the name of Jesus slashed across them in red now fluttered in the air over Aisha’s head as though helium were holding them up. The child’s eyes were squeezed shut, and sweat was pouring from her brow. Her right hand trembled, and she kept on writing.

  All she could do was write the name of Jesus. She ripped off another sheet that fluttered in the air, to join the rest of the cloud of papers already hovering there.

  Mama in her house leaned her head back as her eyes rolled back up in her head. Papa and Nana Mama each sat on the side of her, not uttering a word or daring to breathe. They knew it had started. They linked hands with Mama, holding on tightly for support.

  “The hand that rocks the cradle is covered in black. Take your hand off them,” Mama uttered.

  The baby howled.

  The Darkling shrieked.

  The old storefront spat bricks that rolled in the streets.

  Shannon stopped in his tracks at the sound of his name. He squinted, looking down the street. He could see it had been blocked off. It was sealed off tight. It was also surrounded as though he had entered a war zone.

  Like a mirage Rico appeared in front of him.

  He snapped his fingers in the air. More of his crew members appeared on the roof. They appeared in the alley. They emerged from the various vehicles parked on the street.

  All were strapped. They all had the lights from their Glocks trained on Shannon. Every single one of them waited with bated breath for Rico’s orders. Shannon Davenport would be dead before the click of a second on a clock.

  Shannon was oblivious. The blood was pounding in his temples. He had been temporarily blinded by his anger, and that was all he could see.

  “I want my wife, Rico,” he stated without a trace of fear.

  Rico put his foot on the path toward him. Arrogantly, sarcastically, and in a voice one decibel removed from hell he said, “And I want your life, Mr. Davenport.”

  The two men’s eyes locked into the street battle that was to come. First blood. Ballistic stepped from between the shadows of the building.

  The instant Marcus saw him he shook in fear, wetting his pants. This dude was scary. He couldn’t be after Mr. Davenport, because if he was there was no way he would live. Marcus knew there was little to nothing that could stop Ballistic.

  What was he doing here?

  Ballistic’s power was such that he didn’t do much more than whisper Rico’s name. Yet the sound of it reverberated as a gurgle from the pavement in the streets. Seriously it was as though he had shouted it through a loudspeaker from the roof.

  Rico turned to see Ballistic.

  Before he could put a block on it a look of pure fear crossed his face. This dude was a living legend, and even his legend couldn’t live up to him. A superior black power with no limits shivered around him, and for the first time in his life, Rico felt real fear.

  Ballistic smiled knowingly.

  Rico was quaking in his boots and trying hard not to show it. He knew if he did he would die, and lose for sure.

  Ballistic assessed the situation, then shook his head. He had defied death more times than ten men who had already died. He had a hole in his throat to prove that he was eternal. When he left here today, not much life would be left beside him.

  For the moment he would relish dealing with baby boy. He knew Rico thought he was true to da game. But he had been played because true players didn’t play the game, they created it on their own terms, such as he had done.

  Baby boy needed to be taught. “I told you, boy, that I would not be changing your Pampers no more.”

  Trey and Warren P. appeared next to Ballistic. He briefly gurgled in Trey’s direction, indicating him as a favorite.

  Then he returned his stare to Rico.

  Shannon looked around in confusion. Something was wrong with the script. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there had been a subtle change in the air.

  Suddenly he was connected to the vision. It was the same one that had happened upon him in Mama’s house. He saw the girl-child Aisha scribbling furiously. Above her head floated a cloud of papers with the name of Jesus slashed across them in red.

  She looked up from the pad staring straight into his eyes. In that moment he knew without a doubt that his life had somehow been spared, and he had been removed from the line of fire.

  Mama prayed.

  Shannon heard her clearly. “He’s one of yours, Lord. Some men are chosen and some men have no choice. Do not let the blood of the sacrificial lamb pass him by. Protect him as your own. Teach him true allegiance.”

  In the instant that Mama spoke those words she had rebuilt a faith that had been challenged and shattered, but because of that old woman faith would be renewed, right in the hood. Right in the heart of many from whom it had been stolen.

  Shannon saw a vision of a building collapse.

  The old storefront building spat more bricks, directly in the street. B
allistic, Rico, and their respective crews were so locked into their street battle that they barely acknowledged the falling bricks with more than a glance.

  They were caught up in flesh and ignoring the warning of the spirit.

  The opposing enemies were locked in. Ballistic’s hold was steady on Rico now. The totality of Ballistic’s true being surged forward to connect with Rico.

  For the first time Rico felt blackness in more than the flesh. He came face-to-face with a power that never deemed to lose. In an instant this young boy knew he had bitten off more than he could chew and his bowels let loose.

  “You made one grave mistake, Rico. You dishonored the woman who birthed me. It is bad to dishonor a man’s mother.”

  A look of confusion played across Rico’s face. He was thrown off for a minute. “I don’t know your moms, man.” Silently he thought, I didn’t know the devil had a mother.

  Ballistic laughed, emitting another gurgle. He leaned heavily on his cane while advancing toward Rico and Shannon, both of whom were frozen in place.

  “Of course you do, my man. You spit at her feet in the church before you broke her heart by stealing her son’s body.”

  In that instant Rico knew for sure he was dead. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. Spence Parkinson had been Ballistic’s brother. That woman in the church had been his mother. This information traveled through Rico’s mind like a shock wave.

  His eyes widened in surprise, but he had had enough. He would never be able to regain respect within his crew because those closest to him could smell the stench of his bowels.

  He had nothing to lose and everything to gain, if by some chance he pulled this off.

  At that moment a shriek ripped through the air. The Darkling had arrived. The scariest thing about it was this time it wasn’t loud. It made no noise and it went unnoticed, signaling the finality of things to come.

  It would gather revenge and its own spoils just as it had traded for, and then it would gather for its own those who had worshipped at the wrong throne.

  What was worse than that, Aisha stopped scribbling.

  And Mama stopped praying.

  Their world became silent as the time approached for the evil to eat its own.

  The blood of the lamb would only be evoked to protect those who were right. To protect those who had the ability to step up, admitting they were wrong.

  Trey, who was still standing next to Ballistic, did something he had never done before in his life as a gangster. He retreated.

  There was something in the air he’d never felt before, and with it it carried great power, a power supreme. Whatever it was was not of this world.

  Trey laid his weapon at Ballistic’s feet. Ballistic gave him a scathing look, but this didn’t alter his course of action. Sometimes you only got one shot.

  Then he began to pray earnestly under his breath. He knew he would have to pay for all he had done, but when he met his maker his soul would be right. He wasn’t going out like that.

  Seeing Trey in her mind’s eye, Aisha scribbled the word Jesus.

  Mama prayed feverishly, “Take your hands off them.”

  Shannon Davenport heard the sound of thunder. The walls crashed all around him. It sounded like an earthquake was taking place next to his ears. The thunder was so loud it sounded like a sonic boom.

  Marcus didn’t even have to utter, “Someone please call 911.” This time 911 was in the house for those who wanted to be right.

  Rico had had as much as he was going to take. “Enough of you, nigga,” he said in response to Ballistic’s remark regarding his mother.

  He snapped his fingers in the air.

  All the weapons trained themselves on Ballistic. He was caught in the crosshairs of what amounted to a patchwork quilt of infrared lights.

  A confident sarcastic smile was just about to cross Rico’s lips when the script was flipped. He was a half second away from the thought maybe I can win this. I can give the order quickly and turn this nigga into a pile of rubble and be done.

  He was almost there when Ballistic nodded.

  At a nod of Ballistic’s head all the weapons from Rico’s crew repositioned with Rico in the eye of the storm. The crew fastened on their dead leader who was still standing, but not for long.

  Ballistic had bought off Rico’s entire crew and had paid dearly for it, but this was his moment and he would receive a king’s ransom from that which he worshipped, or so he thought.

  Rico looked around at his crew to see nothing but the faces of enemies mirrored back. The ground in the Central Ward shook on that day.

  Somebody had better pray for all the wrongs. Because on this day it only shook, but all that had gone before had been recorded. A storm is one thing. A tidal wave is another.

  Rico couldn’t believe his eyes.

  He stared at each of them. Some of these niggas had eaten in his mama’s house. Yet in the final hour, there was no loyalty, no allegiance. The darkness was in place and it would eat its own.

  “What the . . . ?” Rico said.

  Ballistic now stepped to the curb. He blew a silent whistle. His German shepherd leaped from the alley toward Rico.

  Rico could see the slobbering dog with teeth like fangs and the red demented eyes charging at him. But he was helpless to do anything about it. Before he could make a move to try to play it out so he could go down by the bullets instead, the dog was all over him.

  He went straight for his throat, ripping out his windpipe and tearing him to shreds. Shannon dove under a car. Marcus ran trembling for cover at the madness taking place.

  Trey got in the wind trying to put some distance between him and the insanity spewing all over the street.

  Ballistic watched coldly. He was remote, and so was Warren P. as they watched the dog tear Rico apart.

  The Darkling arrived in the middle of the street, her black wings now spread far and wide, preening for the world to see. She had come to claim what was hers.

  Ballistic kneeled in worship, thinking he had it like that.

  Warren P. backed up off the turf.

  Shannon stared in fascinated fear.

  Marcus now knew this was what he saw on the day Jazz died.

  Amidst the dying wails of agony emitting from Rico’s body the Darkling spoke.

  “You have too many misses, Darryl Ross Davis,” the Darkling said in its female voice, addressing Ballistic by his given name.

  “Ms. Kesha got away. So did Trey.” She showed him a vision of Trey on bended knee abandoning his thug persona in search of the sacrificial lamb.

  The Darkling was incensed.

  She had her own boss to answer to. A deal was a deal.

  She had been in quite a frenzy seeing so many of the seed of her enemy gathered in one place. She had mustered as much bad feeling between them as possible, knowing they would do exactly what they had done.

  Disrespect each other, suffer one another, and kill each other.

  That was what they deserved for what they had done. She had traded her soul for their payment. This one in front of her she was done with.

  He was just a killing machine. He knew how to kill the body, but he possessed little to no knowledge of how to destroy the soul so that it became an aftermath she could feed on and turn over to Satan.

  She looked deep into Ballistic’s eyes seeing the blackness of his own soul that she would reap, but he had been unable to turn all the others. He had outlived his usefulness. Contrary to his belief, he was not eternal. With that the Darkling touched the match to the gasoline that had been trickling down the curb.

  It led straight to Ballistic. The fire caught the hem of his pants turning him into a flaming ball of fire. Chaos broke out and the crews began to flee the area unable to believe their eyes. They knew when it was time to get out of there.

  The Darkling would become folklore that lived on in the whispers of the Central Ward, but that those not present wouldn’t believe. She had just snatched the soul of Ballistic whe
n the sound she had forever heard materialized just behind her. Only this time it wasn’t a memory. It was real.

  The Darkling turned.

  What she saw crumbled the facade of evil that she had lived as through the years. The black wings dissipated. The clothing, the veil, the shell of him/her, all evaporated upon the sight that was before her.

  “Take your hands off her,” a voice whispered. The shell that had been Satan dissipated, freeing the real imprisoned woman.

  Innocence graced her presence.

  She ended up standing in her stocking feet as nothing but the woman she had been, before that terrible night that had locked her in with evil. Her only crime had been bearing an illegitimate child that she loved to distraction.

  And so she had cursed those who had taken him from her as well as their seed. Being a mere mortal she had not known the true power of evoking evil and had therefore become imprisoned in it, as the spirit of Satan took over, wreaking havoc and stealing souls.

  Freedom from this sin had not been hers until a voice whispered in all of its love, “Take your hands off her.”

  Before her stood Aisha Jackson, the young girl who was only eight years old. The Darkling knew who she was, for it was she who had stolen her voice, so that she couldn’t speak of her.

  But more than Aisha standing before her was what she held in her arms. She held the bubbling brown bouncing baby boy whom she had birthed. He stared at her with recognition in his eyes.

  Aisha had found him in death and was standing with her arms outstretched, handing the child to her. Putting an end to things. She had returned him to his rightful place.

  The remaining few looked on and Shannon Davenport was one of them. Marcus had come out of his hiding place and was staring at Aisha. And Trey, who hadn’t gotten far, was looking from a distance on bended knee.

  All the rest of them were in the wind for the time being.

  The Darkling ran her hands down the flesh on her body as though she couldn’t believe it. Aisha handed her the child and she took him in her arms. “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Aisha said, her voice restored.