by Jack Cuatt
Suddenly, a woman's scream slices through the babble of the disembarking crowd. Machine spots her near the middle of the platform. She's middle-aged, sunburned and muscular, a free-farmer dressed like the rest. With one stubby red finger she's pointing at the blond insurance salesman in the cheap gray suit.
The blond has abandoned his bags in favor of a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump. He weaves through the crowd, blue eyes ruthless above the shotgun's chopped-off barrel, headed straight at Moses Slaski.
Connie Slaski appears in the first passenger car's doorway, a bearded farmer right behind her. The farmer helps her down as Moses looks on, grinning. Overcome by the drugs, Moses isn't paying any attention to the screaming woman or the crowd beginning to panic behind him. It is an oversight he wouldn't be making if he weren’t stoned.
Machine charges forward, reaching under his jacket for the 9mm. His hand locks on the Smith, his eyes on the shooter. There’s no doubt that Moses is the target. The blond insurance-salesman-turned-shooter glides in, the shotgun clearing a path.
“Moses!” Machine screams, shoving against the flow of denim and rough cloth, slamming through people. His father doesn't hear him over the crowd. Machine pushes on, fighting against the tide of farmers racing away from the shotgun while the shooter moves toward his parents like a metal bead toward a magnet, sure, steady, cold.
Machine is still thirty feet away when the insurance salesman stops five feet behind Moses.
Connie Slaski is hauntingly beautiful. Tall and gaunt, with blonde hair, high cheekbones and deeply set gray eyes. She's dressed in a sober brown coat and hat, black flats on her feet. She looks past her husband and around the platform, looking for her son. Instead, she spots the shooter. She’s been in the life too long not to recognize a chopper. She screams a warning at Moses.
The razor appears in Moses' left hand like magic as he spins and crouches, teeth bared, his right hand already dragging the Smith & Wesson from under his coat. Not fast enough. He’s got it swinging up, the hammer back, when the shooter squeezes the shotgun’s trigger.
A deafening explosion and orange flame lances into Moses, chopping him almost in half. People scream, drop to the floor, duck, or run for the concourse. The tide of farmers becomes a flood. They swarm him. Men shove past, too many to stop the flow. Women claw at him, dragging children away from the shooting, battering everything in their path. Through the surging tangle of arms, faces and luggage, Machine can't get a clear shot.
Moses doesn’t go down. The blast knocks him stumbling backward, but nothing can impede years of violent experience. The dope slows him down, though. Makes him meat. He gets the Smith moving again a half-second too late.
The shotgun roars and another load of buckshot slams Moses against the Amtrak car. He loses his grip on the Smith. It clatters between the car and the platform and Moses follows it down, sliding down the car's metal side, smearing blood over the silver, blue, and red. He hits the concrete like a bag of rags.
Connie screams and drops to her knees beside her husband. She clutches his overcoat as the insurance salesman ratchets another round into the shotgun and takes a step forward. The twelve-gauge fixes on her. She looks up into the shotgun's muzzle. The insurance salesman smiles at her and says something. No sign of hurry or worry. Cool. The shotgun leaps in his hands and Connie takes a load of buckshot in the face. It peels her skin away, shatters her cheekbones and teeth and knocks her sprawling across her husband’s body.
“No!” Machine screams, bludgeoning the faces pressing in on him, drawing blood and breaking bones. A bone-thin farmer with crazed eyes dressed in a hunter-orange vest tries to climb right over him. Machine chops him down with the 9mm, shattering his front teeth. But more take his place, pressing for the exit, two hundred people in a space meant to hold half that many. As organized as rats, they trample their own and abandon their children and wives to escape the gunfire.
A surge of heat rolls out from the train's engine accompanied by a roar of raw mechanical power as the train gears up to leave the station. As the doors start to slide closed, the shooter drops the shotgun to the platform, steps over the legs of the woman he's just murdered and into the waiting passenger car. Electricity crackles and the train lurches forward, gathering speed like a sprinter. Machine watches helplessly as it disappears down the tunnel.
The smell of cordite is heavy on the diesel-laden air. Injured people moan and beg for help. Children are crying, looking for their parents. Blood is pooled on the concrete around Moses and Connie. Moses' head hangs over the side of the platform. The next train through will relieve him of it if he isn't moved. Machine stares at his mother's mutilated face and despair chokes off his air.
Jack boots slapping the concrete and amplified orders to “Clear the platform immediately!” echo through the terminal.
Instinct takes control. Years of training have conditioned Machine’s body and mind to work autonomously. He can do nothing for his mother. She’s gone, and going to jail won’t change that. He quickly holsters the Smith and turns away before the cops arrive in a clatter of body armor and weapons. He doesn't look back. He joins the last of the crowd winding their way through cast-off clothing, abandoned luggage, the injured, and the unconscious. At the concourse end of the ramp a crowd of curious faces, free farmers, freaks, and food vendors, have piled up. He elbows through, into the smoke, the stench, the closeness of the terminal floor. Away from his mother.
He can't believe she is dead; his mind circles the issue, refuses to deal with it. He doesn't know where he's going, but his feet carry him to the stairs that lead up to Washington Avenue.
The creep guarding the exit is chatting up a hooker with dirty knees and bad teeth. Machine passes them, steps out into a cold drizzle, and turns left, moving with the flow of traffic, staying close to the buildings, as far from the street as possible.
A film clip of his mother taking a load of steel in the face loops endlessly through his brain. A slow motion memory of the end of all that mattered to him. He spares no thoughts for his father. Moses' violent death was a hoped for inevitability.
Eventually Machine would have taken care of Moses himself.
4
Washington Avenue is packed with freaks and straights. It's Friday, the day after the biweekly government paycheck. Suddenly, Machine realizes why so many free farmers were on the train. It's post-harvest, a long weekend of bargain hunting and debauchery before the farmers return to their fields and the grueling winter planting.
Liquor stores, sex clubs, massage parlors, and hash bars line the Avenue. Junkie hookers, many with a scarlet A branded on their face, pimps, and drug dealers loiter on the sidewalk under brightly colored umbrellas, cursing and laughing, fucking with the straights and keeping an eye out for the Jesus creeps. Dirty kids pick through the overflowing gutters for an unburned rock or a half-burned cigarette. Ragged street people push shopping carts. Soldiers of the Middle-East crusades, hungry-looking men with scarred faces and missing limbs, beg change. In a daze, Machine drifts away from the Metro with the free farmers, who are trying to get their bearings in this alien environment. Five percent of the farmers will never make it home. They will be lured into abandoned streets or back rooms. To robbery, death, prostitution, or addiction. It's all the same really. Hell on earth played out in a cesspool of filthy streets and hopeless people.
A cadre of serious men in army surplus and red arm bands are standing on the corner, preaching White Power and handing out leaflets. The fatigues and arm bands are the uniform of the Children of The Blood Militia's forward guard. Most of these men are graduates of the Hammerskins, recruited and trained by the Militia. The Militia's HQ is a converted movie theater just two blocks east. Rumor has it the Militia has a weapons manufacturing facility in the basement.
The smell of cigarettes, booze, perfume, hash, and crack smoke makes the air burn in Machine's throat. Makes his skin crawl. Sex-sweat, burned meat, and unwashed bodies. Reality rammed straight down your throat. Machine
walks toward the river, leaving the farmers mesmerized by the neon and the noise, looking for a place to buy a prepaid cell phone. He has to alert the Kukovs. Maybe they can get a crew together and meet the train at its next stop.
Machine buys a phone at a bodega on Seventh Avenue and calls the number for Dino's, a supper club owned by Paul Fielder, underboss of the Kukov crime family.
“Dino's,” a gruff voice barks. It's not Paul, but Machine recognizes the voice. Gus Bender, capo of one of Vlad Kukov's dope-crews.
“Machine,” the teenager says through clenched teeth, still seeing his mother's wasted face. “Moses just got chopped at the Metro. The shooter’s on the 7 train headed for New York.”
“Oh fuck,” Gus says. “Red Sleeves? You sure?”
“I want a crew to meet the train. The Chopper's blond—”
“Can't do it, Machine,” Gus cuts in. “Vlad and Paul ain't around. I can't get nothing together that fast. I—”
“Where's Vlad?”
Gus pauses for a long moment before replying. “You know I ain't gonna tell you that on an open line. I'll get word to Vlad. You don't do nothing. Whoever scratched Red Sleeves might come after you. Just keep out of sight and check your answering machine every couple hours.” Gus hangs up without a farewell.
Machine’s head fills with static. 'Stay out of sight.' 'Don't do anything.' He fights back the rage boiling up inside him, threatening to consume him. It will get him nowhere. There's nothing he can do but wait. He turns east and starts walking. The sooty mist dampens his clothes, drips from his hair and down the collar of his coat. He turns north off the Avenue, then east again at Eighth.
Even on the back streets, off the strip, neon signs splash the sidewalk dingy red and green. Red Xs everywhere. Dealers and prostitutes stop cars and talk shit. Laughter and insults. Screams and tears.
He reaches the end of the Zone and the beginning of the Bottoms. Here all the streetlights are dead and the Jesus creeps' presence is reduced to a few prowling battle cruisers. The carnival atmosphere of the Zone is absent. The mask is removed, the sores on display. Here the gangsters have control. Pimps and dealers in running shoes and gold chains, half-dead junkies, and the lowest class of whores lounge on the stoops or lean against the walls of brick and concrete tenements. They sip from bags, smoke crack, whack, or weed, waiting for the night to thicken, for the trade to arrive; the hard-core freaks and gangbangers.
Shrewd eyes follow the teenager, take in his size, his clothing, and finally, at close range, his face. The eyes move on. Easier prey is worth waiting for. Prostitutes in bright-colored slickers don't look for more than five seconds. A kid in wet clothing. No money there. No money, no rock. Fuck the kid. Their jaded eyes roll on to the next face, or to the slowly passing cars.
For blocks Machine walks aimlessly, weaving a trail that backtracks and twists on itself. His mother is dead. That fact threatens to crush him. He has lived only to take her away from this. To become something other than what he is, what his father was. Connie was his only hope, without her he has no one. If only she had left Moses ten years ago, but her fear was too great. Moses promised that he would kill her and her son if she tried to run. And Connie had every reason to believe him; she knew what he was capable of. She'd seen the crime scene photographs in the newspapers. Machine had tried to convince her to leave a hundred times. Connie always refused. She had no concern for herself, only her son.
Machine turns north, toward the deadest part of the city, leaving the Bottoms behind. The streets get darker and narrower. Abandoned neighborhoods and boarded-up buildings. Machine has no place in mind to go. Through the cold drizzle, he walks on. In two hours he'll check the answering machine at the apartment in New Town. Maybe Gus will know something by then.
5
Time passes as Machine wanders aimlessly through the dead city. The rain intensifies and slackens then turns icy. He tries the answering machine every thirty minutes, but there is no message from Gus. He's bone cold, wet to the skin, his clothes a sodden weight. He hasn't seen a Jesus creep in forever. Stopping on a corner he doesn't recognize, he leans against a burned out streetlight. His head sags. The rain drips cold against the back of his neck. He looks about, weary from self-flagellation.
All of the streetlights are broken. No people in sight, only the distant sounds of music and cars from Washington. Crossing the street, he moves on, eyes skimming his perimeter, un-focusing to better detect movement. He takes a left at the next corner. This street is as deserted and dark as the last. He is glad for it. He feels the need to hide his face.
Nearing the end of the block, a gust of wind pushes the acidic stench of the river in his face. He looks up, surprised he has walked so far and suddenly realizes where he is. Every streetlight for the last twenty blocks has been smashed dead or burned out. One block up every single one is working, illuminating the granite foundation and steps of a huge structure.
Machine's eyes travel from the streetlights to the murky building above. Steeples and gables, dark and brooding against a streaky black sky. It looks as if it was chiseled from one piece of stone. St Augustine's Cathedral.
His light sensitive eyes pick out the details. Murky stained glass covered with chicken wire, a lopsided crucifix, and wide stone steps leading to a row of four oak doors banded in brass. Something draws tight inside him. Cramps his lungs and tautens his abdominal muscles. He feels as if he might be sick. Without reason or intent he crosses the street on the diagonal and approaches the cathedral, moving from the darkness into the light.
It will be locked at this hour, he thinks with a vague relief. Even God doesn't stay in Low Town after dark. He climbs the steps, aware of the soft sound of his footsteps and of the weight of faith that has never quite been shaken. He stops in front of one of the doors and tries the handle. The door opens with a well-oiled sigh and a draft of dry, dusty air. On autopilot, he enters and closes the door behind him.
The cathedral is dark and cold. The smell of musty paper rises from the hymnals and combines with the odor of sandalwood, filling his lungs with the idle air's memory of faith. His shoes squish, shedding water to bead on the black and white tile. He passes the font of holy water and takes a seat in the last pew. Bowing his head, he wipes his eyes clear and takes a rosary from his jacket pocket. The beads are worn smooth and dark from much handling. A confirmation gift from his mother. Numbly he counts beads, mouthing the memorized prayers through clenched teeth. He has prayed in this church since early childhood, but never without bitterness. God did not make Machine; Red Sleeves made Machine. Carved him out of human flesh. Only his mother had given him hope of something different from the violence he has been raised in.
He wonders suddenly what he's doing here, what brought him? Pain? Coincidence? Need? The last thought makes him feel sick.
What he needs can’t be found here.
He rises stiffly and turns his back on the crucified effigy and walks toward the exit. For a moment he stands in the vestibule, feeling the coolness of the faded tile seep through the soles of his shoes. Near the door stands a votive rack. A dozen candles flicker and burn, prayers for the living and the dead. Machine approaches it with the solemnity of an acolyte, takes one of the small white candles from an open box and leans its wick into a burning candle's flame. He places the votive on the top row. The flame lengthens and grows steady.
“I won't forget you,” he says softly. “Forgive me for what I must do. For what I am. Someday…” he runs out of words.
“Would you like to confess tonight, my son?” A voice from the cloister is preceded by the dry rustle of velvet, interrupting Machine's thoughts. The voice is old, fuzzy and slurred. Hesitant.
Machine turns to find a skeletal old man dressed in a dirty black cassock with grease spots from hem to neckline coming up the aisle a little unsteadily. The old priest's eyes are bloodshot and dead veins weave a red lattice across his nose.
Machine shakes his head, “No, thank you, Father,” he says, polite bu
t distant. The smell of gin and sweat emanates from the old man.
“I was about to lock up,” the priest explains apologetically swaying slightly, looking unfocused. “I can wait if you're not ready to leave.” He scratches his groin absently. “Reflection is just as important as confession.”
Machine shakes his head, “I'm ready. I should never have come.” Turning his back, he crosses to the door.
The priest’s voice follows him. “All are welcome here,” he says softly, like he's not sure he means it. “We are all the children of God and welcome in His house.”
Machine does not look back. “He wants no part of me,” he replies as he steps over the sill and closes the door behind him.
At the bottom of the steps, he hears the door open behind him. As he crosses the street, the priest's voice reaches out to him, loud and pitying.
“God is the father of all who choose him! Don't turn your back! Jesus is the only path to salvation!”
He doesn't acknowledge the priest, but the old man's words have an effect on him. The opposite the priest intended. Salvation. Machine can't believe in it. He has no faith in the unseen, only in steel, gunpowder, and himself. He turns right at the end of the block and stops under the dark marquee of an abandoned movie theater and looks over the buildings lining the street without really seeing them. All are dark and boarded up, mostly storefronts and apartment buildings that haven't been used as anything but crack and flop houses for thirty years. The street is covered in trash. Huge mounds spill from every alley and a twenty-foot-long, three-foot-deep trail covers the center of the street. A sanitation company had decided to improvise a landfill. There's no one to notice. No one comes this far from the strip anymore.
He pulls the pre-paid from his pocket and dials the number to the apartment in New Town. The call is bounced through a half-dozen phone service providers then relayed back to the answering machine. It's a complex system set up by a hacker who worked for Vlad Kukov until he got stupid and planted a bug in Vlad's office.