One Blood

by Amaru, Qwantu

  “For Thine Is The Kingdom,”

  Shorty was decapitated by a shotgun blast at close range.

  “And The Power,”

  A burning sensation like ten hot irons tore open the flesh of Brandon’s shoulder.

  “And The Glory,”

  They were at the car, opening the doors.

  “For Ever And Ever,”

  The man pushed Brandon into the passenger seat and started the car. Brandon closed his eyes as they plowed through the fence surrounding Simmons Park.

  “Amen.”

  * * * * *

  Lake City, LA

  Karen slept for an indeterminable length of time after she called her father. The boy, Brandon, who she barely remembered, had left her a note that he went out for food so she nodded off again. When she opened her eyes the second time, she was looking at the face of her dead brother.

  Kristopher smiled a strange, sad smile, his blue eyes full of pity and shame. Kneeling next to her, he blew the hair from her eyes. Karen tried to speak but Kristopher put one finger over her lips and shook his head.

  He motioned for Karen to follow him out of the house and they walked, side by side, brother and sister reunited.

  Until the sky exploded in a thunderous cacophony of gunfire.

  Karen fell into a ditch on the side of the road and put her face in the dewy grass, hands covering her ears. The gunfire boomed for what seemed like forever, but the silence that followed was far more ominous.

  Kristopher beckoned for Karen to get up, but she was terrified. Crawling on her hands and knees, she sought refuge in her brother’s arms. With his help, she found the strength to rise.

  Some part of her knew this couldn’t possibly be real, but she could smell her brother and feel his essence.

  A car rattled their way. Kristopher looked at Karen.

  “Trust him,” she heard him say in her head. Then he faded away.

  Through tears Karen watched a burgundy Oldsmobile approach. It looked like it had been used for target practice. Then she saw Flashlight Man’s eyes and mouth widen in surprise and anger. The car skidded to a stop just a few feet away.

  Kristopher’s words rang in her ears as she locked eyes with Brandon clutching his arm in the passenger seat.

  Trust him.

  * * * * *

  Lake City, LA

  With arrest or death imminent, Amir took one confused moment to wonder how the hell they’d been found out. Then he sprung into action. He picked up his military issue UZI and hunkered down.

  The front gate exploded in a whine of metal. Amir heard the unmistakable bark of bullets leaping from the muzzles of Zire and Reem’s street sweeper shotguns. He knew they would rather die than go to prison.

  He wished it was that easy for him.

  Got to stay patient. Let them get past the first line of defense, waste some ammo, and then get what I’ve got for them.

  Crouching low, Amir switched off the safety on his weapon. A terrific boom shook him to the floor.

  What the fuck was that?

  Amir thought of his mother’s beautiful face and his resolve hardened. No matter what happened, he could not die before fulfilling his mission.

  The intruders fired incessantly at the school, but Amir was at peace.

  Come and get it, boys.

  * * * * *

  Angola, LA

  Panama X’s smile dissolved into a grimace as the crowd noise grew into an uproar outside the prison gates. On the television monitor outside of his cell, the local news interrupted The Price is Right to broadcast the Governor’s much-anticipated press conference. The reporter was speculating about what the Governor was going to address.

  Panama X wondered the same thing.

  He watched Randy Lafitte step out of the Louisiana State Capitol Building and approach the podium at the top of the famous stairwell. Panama X was struck by how ragged the man looked after eight turbulent years in office. Then he saw something only he could see. Randy Lafitte was infected. He’d had an encounter with a baka. But how?

  Amir.

  His son apparently had changed the plan.

  It still might not be too late.

  Lafitte opened with, “People of Louisiana…”

  The prison alarms sounded. Gunshots rang out. There was screaming.

  Panama X stared at Randy Lafitte on the television monitor and chanted under his breath.

  * * * * *

  Baton Rouge, LA

  “People of Louisiana,” Randy began, glancing down at his prepared remarks. “I called this press conference so I could address several topics of interest and put some rumors to rest.” His cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. “Regarding rumors that my daughter has been kidnapped,” he said, lips drawn in a tight smile, “those rumors are…unfortunately true.” He clenched and unclenched his fist in his pocket. “My daughter, Karen, was kidnapped two days ago. The good news is that she was returned to us safe and sound this morning. She’s currently in the care of some of the best doctors in this great state of Louisiana.

  “She’s fine, but the people responsible will pay dearly for this transgression of the law and invasion of my family.” A black eagle of fear spread wings inside his chest. “The mastermind behind this deplorable act is already in custody. Death row inmate Malcolm Wright, also known as Panama X, a man convicted of killing thirty-two innocent people in a botched assassination attempt, planned the kidnapping of my daughter to try and pressure me into granting a stay of execution. Well, I do not take kindly to being blackmailed. Malcolm Wright lost his latest appeal to the Supreme Court and an execution date will be set as soon as the paperwork clears. My policy of swift justice for deplorable criminals like this is in full effect.”

  Randy’s desire to watch Malcolm Wright in his death throes was nearly as great as his desire to see Karen alive and well again.

  “I have to thank Chief Bill Edwards and the entire Lake City Police Department for their hard work during this investigation. Moving on, it appears that Hurricane Isaac will make landfall to the west of Baton Rouge sometime between eight and ten o’clock this evening, though, as we all know, this storm could change direction at any time. The President has declared states of emergency for Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi.

  “Evacuation plans are in effect for Baton Rouge and surrounding areas. Evacuation teams are going door to door passing out hurricane preparedness pamphlets and encouraging the people in the low lying areas to leave. I urge everyone to take the necessary precautions. Remember, you can replace material things, but you can’t replace life.”

  He felt the crowd stirring with nervous energy.

  An image of Kristopher flashed in his mind. “Last, but certainly not least, is the question of why I have chosen to show Lincoln Baker clemency. The answer is not as difficult as you may expect. I’ve recently reviewed new evidence proving Mr. Baker’s innocence. This information was also reviewed by the Louisiana Pardon Board, which recently convened to go over the case. They have agreed that Mr. Baker should be released immediately and I cannot, in good conscience, let my personal feelings get in the way of doing the right thing. The moral thing.”

  Randy was immediately pelted by a barrage of questions from the cadre of reporters.

  Enjoy your brief freedom, Lincoln. Because it’s all going to be over for you soon.

  * * * * *

  Angola, LA

  The reporters were lined up like a firing squad just outside the exit. They reminded Lincoln of a kennel of rabid dogs barking for attention. Lincoln stared past them at a woman holding up a sign. Her expression was so frantic, Lincoln’s pulse jumped.

  He squinted trying to read the black lettering across white poster board. It said: DEAD MAN WALKING

  What the fuck?

  Lincoln felt a whoosh of air by his right ear. A bullet had just narrowly missed his head. A second bullet hit home and imaginary hands pushed Lincoln face forward.

  Blood seeped from the exit wound in his left sho
ulder. Chaos filled the air as people scattered, desperately trying to get away from the shooting. Some even ran toward the prison as if it were a safe haven.

  Lincoln got to his feet and made a dash for the front gate, more determined than ever to get the hell out of Angola once and for all. He got within reach of the gate when he was shot again—this time through the left bicep. Lincoln lost his balance and fell to the concrete, his skull bouncing off the pavement.

  White lights of pain burst in his field of vision and he closed his eyes against them. With his last lunge, he’d made it just outside the prison gates, but things had changed. The gate in front of him looked nothing like a prison gate; in fact, it resembled another gate he knew all too well. Lincoln tilted his head skyward. He read the bullet-riddled, square yellow sign posted a few feet above his head:

  Welcome to Simmons Park.

  No Cursing.

  No Fighting.

  No Horseplay.

  No Fence Climbing.

  Have Fun!

  The concrete had morphed into gravel. Weeds sprouted through in several places. The alarms had stopped. There was no more screaming.

  The only sound was from someone nearby bouncing a basketball on concrete.

  Lincoln got to his feet. His injuries had vanished, and so had the pain. He gaped at his surroundings in bewilderment.

  The park before him was immaculate.

  Everything was exactly how he remembered it. The lawn was manicured. The gate was rust-free. The recreation center looked like it had been built yesterday.

  A familiar sound interrupted his thoughts. He hopped the gate with ease, just as he’d done as an adolescent. As he made his way toward the basketball courts, he was struck by how the place smelled, like wet copper.

  He rounded the side of the building and saw a bouncing basketball. The ball bounced at half-court, straight up and down, all by itself.

  What the fuck?

  Goosebumps covered his forearms. He had to exert real effort to move from the spot where his feet had taken root.

  His feet eventually propelled him toward the bouncing ball. He felt eyes crawling over his skin as he moved closer and closer to touching the ball. He looked around one last time and on its next up-bounce, Lincoln snatched the ball out of the air.

  Everything changed.

  The sky turned from cloudless to overcast. The spotless park was gone, replaced by a trash- and junk-strewn place, with red graffiti sprayed everywhere. Upon closer inspection, Lincoln realized the graffiti was actually chalk outlines all over the basketball court. There were words written by each outline. The names of the chalk people.

  He held the basketball to his chest and looked around wildly. The wind howled. Sudden acid rain pummeled him. Lincoln watched in horrid fascination as the chalk outlines disintegrated and pooled toward him in the center of the court.

  It didn’t look like spray paint anymore. He was ankle deep in a puddle of blood which had begun to run up his legs as the rain rolled down them.

  How is this happening?

  The pain from the bullet wounds was back. Lincoln had been holding the basketball in a death grip and let it go. The ball fell to the ground and continued bouncing on its own. The park immediately changed back to the clean, serene environment.

  But not everything was the same. There was a message written in the bloody spray paint on the spot where the basketball bounced. Though tempted to grab the ball again so he could get a better visual of the message, Lincoln thought better of it. Instead he read between bounces:

  LOOKS ARE DECEIVING

  I’m going crazy.

  Lincoln looked back down at the message. It now read:

  HE WILL DIE

  Who will?

  Lincoln’s hands were on fire, like they’d been dipped in acid. He turned them palm side up and saw two shapes burning into the flesh. He screamed in agony even as he saw what the final design would reveal.

  On one hand was the bloody outline of a body, and on the other was a name:

  Moses.

  Lincoln closed his eyes. A single tear escaped and rushed down his cheek. Then a sound like metal grating against metal crashed in his ears. His eyes shot open.

  He became painfully aware of two things: he was back at the prison lying on the ground, and someone was kneeling over him.

  He stared into the unmistakable gray eyes of Snake Roberts for the second time in an hour. Roberts grimaced and said, “Time to go, Link. We gotta get you outta here.”

  Lincoln grasped Snake’s hand and then hesitated.

  Is this a trap?

  Snake looked back at Lincoln and smiled coldly. “Either you come with me right now, or you die here. The choice is yours.”

  * * * * *

  PART II: REVELATION

  “You know as well as I do that people that die bad don’t stay in the ground.”

  ~Toni Morrison

  Beloved

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty

  12 Years Earlier

  1990

  Lake City, LA

  Karen sat beside her brother on the old bench under the shade of Melinda Weeps. This had been their Sunday ritual for as long as she could remember. After attending first mass at Our Lady Queen of Heaven with Momma, she and Kristopher would spend the afternoon relaxing under the curved branches of the old live oak tree with Abby, their nanny.

  Today was Abby’s birthday. She wore a pretty flower-print dress that she had made herself. Her many bracelets and bangles clanged together as she filled their cups with homemade iced tea.

  “How old are you?” Karen asked. Abby was a Cay-jun, which Abby had once explained meant she was part Indian and part Acadian. Karen thought it was silly that it wasn’t spelled the way it sounded, and had no idea what an Acadian was. It sounded like a race of aliens. Kristopher said Acadians were just Canadians who had migrated south, like birds did in the winter.

  “Make her guess your age,” Kristopher interrupted before Abby could respond.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, duh,” Karen said.

  “Calm down, chillun,” Abby replied with a smile. “Today I turn sixty-eight.”

  “Quick, Karen,” Kristopher said. “How much older than you is Abby?”

  Karen looked at Abby’s wrinkled skin and black hair (she confessed to Karen that she still dyed it) and thought she must be a thousand years older. Karen knew it was a simple math problem and after doing some quick figuring said, “That’s easy. I’m six, so that means Abby is sixty-two years older than me.”

  “Very good, kiddo,” Kristopher replied.

  “And you’re fifteen, so she’s...umm, fifty-three years older than you.” Karen stuck out her tongue at her brother and he tried to snatch it out of her mouth. Karen evaded him and took another sip of the delicious iced tea.

  A sharp rustle shook the limbs above them and a few leaves fell into Karen’s cup. “Aww no,” she whined.

  Kristopher jumped up to investigate.

  “What is it?” Karen asked.

  “Probably just a squirrel or the wind,” Kristopher reported, unable to find the culprit.

  “Or it could be Isaac,” Abby said.

  “Isaac?” Karen and Kristopher asked, almost in unison.

  “Who is Isaac?” Kristopher asked.

  “Isaac is a ghost who haunts Melinda Weeps and this land.”

  “A ghost!” Karen exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Abby said, standing up to clear her dress of leaves. “It’s about time ya’ll learned of yo’ family’s hist’ry here. What ya’ll know about ya’ll ancestor, Luc Lafitte?”

  “Besides the fact that he founded Lake City?” Kristopher replied, rolling his eyes.

  “Yes. Besides dat.”

  “Well, he was also a pirate who got shipwrecked in Lake City while fleeing from the Spanish,” Kristopher said.

  “Dat all you know?” Abby asked.

  Kristopher shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  Abby gestured f
or the children to follow her to the swing set nearby. “Chillun, let me tell you what really happened after Luc Lafitte landed on dese here shores.”

  Abby cleared her throat as she pushed Karen on the swing. “When Luc Lafitte landed, dere was already people living here. Lake City was a meetin’ place and safe house fo’ runaway slaves in dose days. Da Injuns dat lived here had been helpin’ da slaves dat came through by providin’ ‘em wit’ food and shelter while dey waited for da ferryboat to take dem out to da Gulf of Mexico. Back den, Mexico was free territory dat extended all da way into wat ya’ll know as Texas. Did you know dat Karen?”

  Karen shook her head.

  “Luc Lafitte and his men wrecked dere ship and came to shore to steal some supplies from da Injuns. Dey found da camps of da runaway slaves instead. Luc Lafitte was a very cleva man and somehow convinced da runaway slaves dat had been livin’ peacefully with da Injuns for some time, dat dey was being set-up by da Injuns and da Spanish.”

  “How do you know that?” Kristopher asked.

  Karen could tell from his challenge that he was very interested.

  “You gonna let me tell my story?”

  “Sorry,” Kristopher replied. “Please go ahead.”

  “Okay. Well, Luc told da slaves dat he and his men had come because dey wanted to help dem defeat da Injuns and help dem to freedom. Dis couldn’t be furda from da troof. Luc’s crew was outnumbered and he was just tryin’ to stir up trouble cuz he knew he would need protection from da Injuns and da Spanish. It took him a little while to convince da slaves to stop runnin’ and start fightin’, but soon Luc Lafitte and his army of runaway slaves had killt almost every Injun and Spaniard.”