The car went deathly still. Larson could hear his heart hammering, and the almost inaudible sound of the shotgun’s safety clicking off. No big deal. It’s just money. One blast from that 12 gauge will blow us all to kingdom come. He bit his lip, recalling how safe the subways had always seemed before Vietnam, wondering if this could be part of the spreading effects from Bolverkr’s and Silme’s Chaos.
The teenager obeyed, opening the bag for a businessman on Larson’s side of the car. The people in the seats in front of Larson, Taziar, and Timmy gave up their possessions without hesitation, keeping their heads low and their movements nonthreatening.
Concerned for Taziar’s ignorance and his tendency to embrace challenges and fight injustice, Larson whispered. “Give them your money. Don’t start any trouble.”
“Shut up!” The leader swung around, the .45 aimed at Larson’s head. “Say another word and I’ll blow you away!”
Larson went silent, gaze locked on the man’s hands.
The teen with the bag waited until the gun retreated before shuffling between the scar-faced hoodlum and Larson.
Larson dumped his money, watch, and wallet into the bag, relieved to see his friend and brother surrender their bills also. It’s not worth dying over.
No longer the direct focus of the leader’s attention, Larson took a surreptitious glance around the car. Several people seemed rattled, shivering or clinging with white knuckles to the seat backs. One of the businessmen kept a hand clenched across his mouth. The bleached blond sat still as a statue, but her nance’s gaze kept rolling between the gunmen. His hands twitched, and his arms tensed and loosened.
Larson willed the man still. Don’t be a hero, you dumb ass. You’ll get us all killed.
Timmy curled like a fetus against the window. Taziar remained still, following Larson’s lead.
The shotgun and .38 special remained leveled and steady. The bagman finished Larson’s row and started toward the couple.
Larson mentally prepared himself for trouble, careful to give no outward sign of his tension. The man dropped his wallet into the bag, the natural action soothing Larson’s raw-edged nerves. Then the man stopped.
The teen took a hesitant step forward.
“Watch and ring, too.” The leader swung his .45 toward the hefty man.
With a twisted glare, the man removed and tossed in his watch. “The ring doesn’t come off.” He indicated the diamond on his fiancee’s hand.
Larson suppressed a groan.
“The ring, too!” Scarface said. “Now!”
The tension in the car increased visibly. Tears coursed down the face of one of the well-dressed women.
“Look,” the man said. “It’s too tight. It doesn’t come off.”
Don’t do it, man. Don’t do it. Larson tried to send a mental message.
The teen looked nervously between the guns.
The leader made a subtle gesture with his head, addressing the hippie with the bag. “Take the ring off her finger. I don’t care if you have to take the fucking finger with it!”
The teen reached toward the woman. Outraged, the hefty man sprang to his feet.
The .45 blasted, its roar deafening, sending Larson’s ears into aching ringing. The hefty man collapsed back into his seat, his pale eyes staring.
The bleached blonde gasped. Scream after scream shuddered from her throat.
“Shut up!” The gun swung toward her. “Shut the hell up!” The leader’s hand tensed.
Larson sprang. He slammed one arm around the leader’s throat, the other groping for the gun. Cartilage cracked beneath Larson’s wrist. The gun fired, and the bullet went wild, punching a hole in the ceiling. Screams echoed through the car. Larson wrenched the .45 from the leader’s hand.
The shotgun. Using the gasping leader as a shield, Larson whirled and fired. The bullet tore through the blond hoodlum’s chest, driving him into the door frame. Larson spun again, his mind blandly registering that his prisoner was no longer struggling.
The redhead had a perfect bead on Larson. For an instant, he hesitated. Then, apparently realizing the leader Larson was using as a shield was already dead, the redhead pulled the trigger.
The subway car jolted to a sudden stop.
The redhead stumbled. His shot pinged through a metal pole, winging one of the businessmen, who shrieked. Larson returned fire as the car’s momentum shifted backward. His slug blasted a hole in the hoodlum’s head.
Terrified screams ripped from half a dozen throats. Other passengers dove for cover beneath the seats. The doors jogged open.
The noise drew Larson. Every combat instinct aroused, he swung the gun toward the sound, still clutching the leader’s corpse.
A half dozen men in uniforms graced the platform, pistols drawn. “Put down the gun! Now!”
Larson hesitated less than a second. Before he could think to lower his weapon, a bullet tore through his upper left arm. Pain shocked through him. His legs seemed to give out, and he collapsed to the floor, his right hand clinging naturally to the wound, his vision a swirl of scarlet.
“Al!” Timmy’s hysterical cry sounded thousands of miles away.
A louder voice filled Larson’s ringing ears. “Roll over.” Someone kicked him. “Roll over now!”
An alarm shrilled through the subway car. Footsteps pounded around Larson. Voices, high-pitched and frenzied, cut through Larson’s fog, their words meaningless. He looked up to a gun clenched in two white fists the barrel pointed at his head. “Roll over!”
Guarding his injured shoulder, Larson scrambled until he lay facedown on the dirty, tile floor.
“Al! Al! Leave him alone! Leave my brother alone!” Timmy’s shrieks emerged, recognizable over the confusion of words and noises.
“Put your right arm behind you,” the commanding voice instructed.
Larson moved his hand to the small of his back. Immediately, a man’s weight dropped onto his spine. A metal cuff slapped around his wrist. A sweaty hand seized his injured arm, jerking it behind him with an abruptness that stabbed agony through his wound. He loosed a sharp moan.
The cop snorted, snapping the second handcuff into place. “Yeah, I feel sorry for you, punk. Get up.” He yanked Larson to his feet. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent....”
The policeman’s words registered only as a familiar rhythm from every television cop show Larson had ever seen. His world buckled and spun. He caught a bleary, shock-glazed glance at the other passengers, huddled in a corner, ringed by Transit Authorities, and all talking at once. One policeman clutched Timmy, who clawed and kicked in the uniformed arms.
After a while, the subway sputtered and sped away. The four corpses lay heaped on the concrete. The handful of recently alighted passengers formed a gawking semicircle on the platform. Larson did not see Taziar among the others.
Despite multiple simultaneous conversations, Larson picked one of the softer ones from the clamor. “... found the shotgun and a .38. We searched the whole car. No sign of the gun he was holding. Finally just had to let the train go ...”
“Timmy,” Larson gasped. “He’s only eight. He thinks policemen are his friends....”
“Shut up!” The policeman snarled in Larson’s face. He broke off his reading of the rights. “You should have thought of that before you started killing people.” His tone reverted to its gruff monotone. “You have the right to an attorney ...”
Larson went silent, catching another piece of the conversation on which he had been eavesdropping. “... Check the kid first. Sometimes these guys’ll hand off their weapons to a child, thinking we won’t think to search ‘em. Then ...” He broke off abruptly. “Hey!” He ran toward the tracks. “Hey, you! Stop!”
Every head whipped toward the tracks. Larson caught a glimpse of a pale form dashing through the pit. Shadow!
The conclusion to Larson’s rights was obscured by a warning shout. “Halt! Police! Halt, or we’ll shoot!” Larson gasped.
&nbs
p; A grumble emerged, barely audible beneath the wild cacophony of shouts and suggestions. “Speak for yourself, Murph. I ain’t shooting no little kid.”
“He doesn’t speak English!” Larson screamed.
The policeman at Larson’s side yanked at the cuffs, shooting pain through his injured arm. The agony went deep, the incessant, screaming grind of a toothache.
Larson finished despite the pain. “He’s scared. Please, don’t shoot him. Please. Please don’t shoot.” Fear for Taziar brought tears to Larson’s eyes. He had only known the Shadow Climber a few months, yet the image of the thief’s tiny body bleeding on the rails, crushed beneath the metal wheels like a crow-picked road kill made him grief-crazy in a way even his unborn baby’s death had not.
“Hey,” someone shouted. “Don’t touch that....”
Third rail. Larson cringed as his mind finished the sentence for him. It’ll fry him. I have to warn him. In his language. “Shadow, don’t touch the steel—”
“Shut up!” The man who had handcuffed Larson lashed a hand across his face.
The blow staggered Larson. He fell to his knees, dizziness crushing his world to a gray blank. He tried to catch his balance, the natural movements seeming slowed and outside reality. He collapsed to the concrete, feeling no pain.
Timmy screamed.
“Shit,” someone unidentifiable said. Gasps shuddered through the crowd.
A closer voice addressed the cop standing over Larson. “Easy on that guy, Gaets. That woman says he saved her life. Jumped the punk that shot her boyfriend.”
Gaets grunted, the sound uninterpretable without the accompanying facial expression.
Larson rolled, fighting for understanding. Awareness returned in a rush, unconsciousness fading behind him in a crackle of pinpoints and sparks. “Timmy,” he managed. “Timmy, don’t fight. I’m all right. Do whatever they say.”
A subway screeched to a halt on the opposite track.
Larson’s mind kicked into overdrive. His glance toward the rail pit had revealed that this was one of the many stations without a wall separating the inbound and outbound trains. That means Shadow might have run onto the other track! Right under the wheels of that subway. “Shadow,” he said hoarsely. “Is Shadow okay?”
“He got away,” Timmy answered excitedly from across the platform. “He runned and leaped and climbed right up the wall. Just like Robin Hood.”
Larson never remembered Robin Hood dodging through subway pits. Relief flooded him. At least one thing went right.
Gaets helped Larson to his feet, his grip still firm, but his manner gentler.
“Meat wagon’s on the way. Think we should get this kid to a hospital, too?”
“Naw,” Gaets replied. “It’s a clean shot through the arm. We’ve already lost one possible accomplice. I say we get him down to the station, ASAP.”
Gaets nudged Larson toward the stairway, the Transit Authority clearing a pathway through the spectators.
Several other policemen joined the group clustered around Larson.
“What kind of story you getting?” Gaets asked one of the newcomers.
“Most of them didn’t see nothing. A few willing to come in and give a statement, though they each saw something different. The blonde lady seems to have the most coherent story, when she’s not crying hysterically. The little boy says he’s this guy’s brother.” He pointed at Larson. “At least two witnesses are saying this guy killed one of the gunmen with his bare hands.”
“Shit,” one said.
Docilely, Larson let himself be led away, adding nothing to the exchange. Knowing Taziar had escaped alive freed his mind to concentrate on other matters, and the policeman’s description struck home. I did kill someone with my bare hands. He felt no remorse for the slaying. The man was a murderer. If I hadn’t taken him, he would have become a mass murderer, if he wasn’t already. But Gaelinar’s lessons had penetrated deep. I killed him accidentally, because I don’t know my own body and my own strength well enough. I lost control. And, without control of myself, I have nothing. A sudden thought shivered terror through him. What if I hit those cops back at Sears harder than I intended, too? What if I’m a cop-killer?
Larson’s insides felt as if they had melted within him, and self-loathing hammered at the back of his mind. Torn by emotional pain, the physical ramifications seeped into his thoughts more slowly. His taste of brutality had, so far, been mild, a slap on the wrist compared to the broken skulls reported during protests and college campus demonstrations. If I killed either of those cops, I’ll never make it to trial. And the most frightening thing of all was that Larson knew from his war experience that, if he was the policeman and someone else Al Larson, he would stand back and let his companions beat the cop-killer to death.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
Chaos Justice
At the height of their madness
The night winds pause
Recollecting themselves;
But no lull in these wars.
—Herman Melville The Armies of the Wilderness
Taziar Medakan huddled against the wall of a building just beyond the subway station, muddled by the flashing lights and the sudden blatters of sound, metallic voices surrounded by fizzles and crackles. Ignorance made a plan of action impossible, yet Larson’s descriptions and his own scant experience gave him a few usable facts. The guards caught Allerum and Timmy, presumably to torture them in some dungeon. This time, Allerum can’t find me. He says the city’s too big to search, and with those car vehicles, they could take him far away and anywhere. I’ve got to find Allerum again. And, this time, I can’t let him out of my sight.
Taziar sighed, ignoring the myriad aches of abrasions and bruises, hoping he had chosen the correct location from which to observe. His position in the building’s shadow gave him a clear view of both inbound and outbound subway exits, and he hoped that would prove enough. Except for the trains, Taziar had seen no other ways to leave the station. And, if the guards planned to use the underground vehicles, why did they make everybody leave the car? Taziar sighed again, certain he was overlooking something. It seemed to be taking far too long for the city guards to pound Larson and Timmy unconscious and drag them from the concrete bowels of New York City. There’s just too much I don’t understand.
Still, Taziar had some tricks of his own. Gingerly, he touched the .45 in his pocket. Having seen the damage the pistol could create, he held a healthy respect for the weapon. The observation had given him a reasonable idea of which end the projectiles came from, though he had little grasp of the mechanisms and procedures involved in activating it. Once, in ancient Norway, Silme’s half-brother had shot Taziar, but the time-displaced rifle bore little resemblance to the dense chunck of carbon steel he now carried.
Taziar jabbed his fingers into his jeans’ pocket, patting the crumpled wad of currency, his other ace in the hole. On the train, he had pretended to shuffle the bills into the gunmen’s bag, palming more than twice as many as he dropped. It had proven easier than the trick he had used against the monte gang. Cards needed to remain crisp, while paper money wadded into neat balls that could be straightened. Taziar frowned. Larson’s casual folding of the bills had led him to believe creases and rumples did not deflate their value. Now, he hoped he would not need to test that theory.
A chunky, middle-aged woman sat on a bench across the street from the subway and the blinking bank of police cars. Her cheeks looked flushed, her lips unnaturally red. Thin, black lines circled her eyes. Her lashes seemed impossibly long, curving around lids discolored blue. Despite the need to plan, Taziar could not help staring. Did she paint dyes on her face? Or was she just normally ugly?
Before Taziar could answer the question, even in his own mind, several members of the town guard emerged from the subway. Others followed, Larson between them, his hands manacled behind him. Still more guards appeared. They headed toward the row of flashing cars.
Taziar flattened to the stone,
certain of only one thing. If they ride away in those vehicles, I’ll never find Allerum again. He watched, heart pounding, as the uniformed men ushered Larson into the back seat of one of the squad cars. Desperate for a solution, Taziar glanced around. A taxi-cab turned the corner, identical to the one he, Timmy, and Larson had used to escape the Sears building. The woman rose to greet it, and the cab decelerated.
The squad car doors slammed. The guardsmen climbed into the front seat, then closed their doors, too. The vehicle hummed to life.
Taziar recalled a day in another world. Larson’s sarcasm came back to him verbatim, though riddled with English phrases: “You’re all set if you ever want to take a transcontinental cab ride in an American made car.” Waiting until the policemen were all involved with Larson and one another, Taziar darted across the street to the taxicab. Seizing a rear car handle, he worked the mechanism. The door swung open.
Taziar sprang into the back seat just as the woman edged in from the other side. He pulled his door closed.
The woman stared, blinking her color-enhanced eyes repeatedly. Then her face lapsed into angry creases, and she shouted at Taziar, waving her arms wildly. Not a single word was comprehensible.
The first police car roared away from the curb. The others began to follow.
Taziar ignored the woman, leaning forward. A man stared back from the driver’s seat, his olive-skinned face fuzzed with three days’ growth of beard. He waved a hand, calling calmly over the woman’s tirade. The car with Larson in it glided down the roadway. Taziar chose the only universal language he knew. Digging into his pocket, he emerged with a random handful of currency and hurled it into the front seat. Ones, twenties, and fifties fluttered, churning through the air, then fell to the vinyl. “Follow that car!” he screamed in his best English. He jabbed a finger at the squad car. “Follow that damned car!”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 25