by Connor Mccoy
“Come on!” she hissed, and he abruptly turned and sprinted toward her location.
There was a shout behind him, and the gang of thugs suddenly was running. They were shouting at each other to not let him get away. But he reached the gate, and the woman let him in, slamming it shut, throwing bolts and securing them with padlocks. Then she turned and ran, instructing him to follow.
They ran along the narrow gap between the buildings, his backpacks catching on the rough brick exteriors. The woman led him down a steep set of stairs to a door, which she unlocked using the key she had hanging around her neck. He followed her into a wet basement with little light and hoped like hell this wasn’t a mistake.
“This way,” she said again, and led him through winding passages until he was so turned around he thought he might be lost there forever if she abandoned him. But she did not. Eventually, they came up to a set of stairs, and they climbed out of the basement onto the first-floor landing. There she turned and faced him, a knife clutched in her hand.
“You didn’t bring me all this way just to kill me, did you?” he asked. Of course, that would have been an excellent way to wear him down if she thought she would have to fight him, but if that was the case why rescue him at all?
“I want one of your backpacks,” she said. “You go free, with half your loot, but I get the other half for saving you.”
Melvin felt his face fall. He’d carried these backpacks for more than sixteen miles, only to have one of them taken from him. Disappointment flooded through him. He should’ve made a dash for the other side of the street.
“And what if I refuse?” he asked. “I could overpower you.”
“If you refuse, I scream, and then my brothers, who wait for me upstairs,” she nodded upward, “will come and kill you. Then I will have all, and you will have nothing. Not even your life.”
He wondered if she was bluffing. Was there really anyone waiting up the stairs? He didn’t know. “There are many things in my bags that you need specialized knowledge to use,” he said. “What if I give you one bag of soup?” He pointed to one of the grocery bags dangling at his side before continuing, “and gauze bandages, antibiotic cream, medical tape, and painkillers? Would that do?”
“What else do you have?” she asked, brushing the dark bangs from her eyes with her fingers.
“Fiberglass casts,” he said. “But you have to know how to use them, or they’re useless. Some bottles of injectable antibiotics and syringes, but again you have to know the doses and how to use them or you could make things worse.”
“What else can you give me?” she asked.
An idea came to him and he suddenly had some hope for his supplies.
“I know a doctor,” he said, “and if you let me pass, he will treat you for the rest of your life for free.”
“And how do you know he will treat me?” she asked.
“Because I supply him with his medical supplies. If I ask him to treat you, he will.” Melvin looked at her intently.
“And my children?” she asked.
“Your children, your brothers and sisters, your mother and father, your half-brother once removed for all I care. Let me pass, and we will treat you. For free.”
“And I can have the soup and the bandages?” She looked at him hopefully, while also making little stabbing motions with her knife.
Melvin dropped both backpacks onto the ground. He untied one of the bags of soup and handed it to her, then he opened the packs, took a quarter of the sterile bandages, some tubes of ointment and some rolls of medical tape and dumped them in the bags with the soup.
“I want you to write it down for me,” she said, watching him intently.
“What do you want me to write?” he asked.
“That you promise to treat my family for free for the rest of your life.” She paused for a minute, thinking. “And that your heirs will treat my heirs inpet-, imper-, oh, forever.”
“Do you have a pen?” he asked.
“You don’t have a pen in that bag? You must have everything else.” She searched around her person for a while. “You’ll have to write it in blood then.”
“I may have something,” he said grimly and rummaged in a pocket of his backpack until a pencil came to hand. “Give me one of those packages,” he said.
She gave him one of the gauze packages, and he wrote on the paper backing. ‘I, Melvin Foles, agree to treat…’ he looked up. “What’s your name?”
“Just put, ‘The bearer of this note,’” she said.
He nodded although he thought it was hard luck on him. He’d be taking care of her and all her friends, and then someone would steal it, and then he’d have to treat that group, and probably they’d start making money by renting the note out to other people. ‘…the bearer of this note, who as of this date, is a female of approximately thirty years old, with brown eyes and hair, about five feet five inches tall. I also agree to treat her progeny, siblings, parents and other FAMILY members so long as I, or my progeny, are practicing medicine.’ Then he signed and dated it.
Her eyes were shining, and she held out her hand, but he pulled the note and her bag of supplies close to his body. “You promise there is no one out there waiting to jump me?” He asked.
She nodded.
“You will not try and stab me as I go through the door?”
Again she nodded.
“Wait,” she said, “how do I find you?”
“My name is on this,” he indicated the package he’d written on, “I’m Melvin Foles. Ask around for the man who gives out soup. You’ll find me soon enough. Now, is there anything that you are not telling me that could end up hurting me?”
This time she shook her head.
Melvin shrugged inwardly and handed her the bag. She grabbed it from him, and for a moment he thought she would bolt, but she turned, unlocked the door and let him leave. Once through, she slammed the door, and he heard it lock behind him. He stood for a moment listening, hoping like hell this wasn’t a trap. But no sounds were forthcoming, and when he went to walk through the foyer out to the street, no one stopped him.
It took Melvin a few minutes to figure out where he was. He had walked every street in the city, but mostly at night and not much in this area. But he eventually found a couple of street signs that hadn’t been torn down and was able to reorient himself. Two hours later he was back home again.
Chapter Thirteen
Chantal Stone stood at the tall windows of her top floor condo and surveyed the city. It was calm in the early morning, quiet. She loved the peace of it, while the worst of the city still slept. The worst of the criminals were creatures of the darkness, even now when daylight only brought shadows to the streets.
Up here, above much of the city, there was light. The sun streamed into her home, a bright and welcoming place that had been hers since long before the event that had changed everything. She had defended this place, her home, and she would not relinquish it. The long climb up the stairs at the end of the day strengthened her, kept her stamina from deserting her.
Unlike the street dwellers, Chantal could see what this city could be. She knew what the town had been and what it would be again if given a chance. It would need to be tamed, yes, she knew that too. She smiled as she thought of it because she would be the one to tame it.
As she turned from the view, the sunlight reflected off the revolver as she holstered it on her hip. A rainbow of light flickered across the ceiling as she left the room.
As she descended the stairs, she thought about her latest problem, Melvin Foles. If he could not be controlled, he would have to be eliminated. The power of the Koupe Tribinal would not be questioned. Could not be questioned. If they were not feared, they could not rule. The memory of Melvin Foles’s demise would live in this city’s DNA for years to come. The Koupe would rule.
As she exited the building, she was approached by one of her enforcers. He went down on one knee in front of her on the sidewalk, as was proper, and
then stood, head bowed.
“What is it, enforcer?” she said. She had adopted this way of speaking to her employees. She wanted to impersonalize them, so they saw her as someone to be respected and never disobeyed. A mere employer did not garner that level of respect and obedience.
“We were not able to apprehend Melvin Foles,” he said, his gaze still on the sidewalk.
“No?” She spoke only the one syllable but filled it with menace.
“We killed his accomplice at the warehouse.” His gaze flicked to her face for just a moment before returning to the sidewalk. He was looking for praise.
“You’ve killed his partner, then?” She didn’t let the rage that filled her show on her face, even though she would have liked to strike him. “And what do you think will happen now?”
The man looked puzzled. “In what way, Judge Stone?”
“Do you think that Melvin will continue using that building to house his supplies?” Her voice was deadly calm, which pleased her. She wanted to throttle him.
“I wouldn’t,” he said, puzzled.
“So how do you propose we find his supply house, now?” she asked.
“Follow him?” he said, his voice hushed.
“And if he’s afraid for his life, do you think he will be easy to follow?”
He hung his head.
“And what did Foles’ partner do that he deserved to die?” she asked.
“He was lying.” The eyes came up now. He was sure about this. “He wouldn’t tell us where Melvin Foles was, and I could tell by his eyes he knew.”
“And he deserved to die for that?” She hoped he would catch on soon, or she would kill him here and be done with it.
He remained quiet, not knowing the answer, she thought. She shook her head at the idiocy.
“Who makes life and death decisions?” she asked.
“The Koupe Tribinal,” he said.
“And are you a member of the Court?” She was so impatient with this game her palms where itching, But she maintained her air of patience.
“No.”
“What happens to people who don’t abide by the rules set down by the Court?”
His face blanched and he looked at her pleadingly, licking his lips nervously.
“Come with me,” she said and turned to walk to the Court’s rooms.
The man turned and followed her obediently.
They walked through the streets lined with people living in vehicles. Mostly the streets were deserted, but here and there were signs of morning life. In a patch of green with a swing set a man had his hand raised, about to strike a child. But he lowered it when he saw Chantal. Judge Stone was a familiar sight on these streets, and everyone knew what happened when she caught you doing something she didn’t agree with.
She stood utterly still, her eyes steady upon the man. He began backing away from the child. The girl, seeing her opening, slid off the swing and ran across the park. Chantal hoped she was headed home to her mother, and not running away. But one couldn’t know these things, and they moved on, leaving the man frozen in place, looking after them.
A little further on, a tired-looking mother was trying to wrangle a child into a coat. Chantal thought the boy was maybe five or six years old. She knelt down next to him and waited until he looked her in the eyes before she spoke.
“Do you know about Judge Stone?” She knew that parents used her as the local boogeyman, and she used that to her advantage.
The child nodded.
“I am Judge Stone.”
The child’s lower lip began quivering, and the mother snatched the child away and pulled on his jacket. She pressed the child behind her and thanked Chantal in quavering words. Chantal touched the woman on her shoulder and turned away. She felt that if she turned to look, she’d see the woman brushing that shoulder with her hand. Sweeping the evil away. The thought made her smile.
The next two groups of people she passed drew away from her as she approached. One of the families stepped out into the street, around the other side of their old Toyota SUV-turned-home. The feeling she got when people shrank from her delighted her. She had power. She held their lives in her hands, and they knew it. Ruling by fear was underrated. If the powerful knew how much satisfaction could be derived from unquestioning obedience, they all would use it.
Before long they turned down the dark alley, yes, dark even in the morning, and down the stone steps and under the sign of the jackal, torches burning on either side. As they entered the hallway, she turned to her enforcer. “Stay here.” She moved farther into the chamber and slid through the tiny hall to the room where the judges congregated and made their decisions.
Arthur and Xander already were there, sitting at the end of the long table, laughing about something. The three of them -- Arthur, Xander, and Chantal -- were the main pillars of the court. There were others, of course, sometimes so many that the long table wouldn’t hold them all. But they were the three key players.
“Gentlemen,” she nodded her head at them as she pulled out a chair. “I have a problem.”
They gave her their undivided attention as she explained the action her enforcers had taken at Melvin Foles’ supply house, their expressions grave.
“He must be executed, of course,” Xander said. “It’s the punishment for acting against the best interests of the Tribinal. We cannot be seen to show favor for our own.”
“But he clearly thought he was acting on our behalf,” Arthur countered, his brown eyes boring into Xander’s blue. “He did not do wrong on purpose, he made a mistake. If everyone who made a mistake were to be executed, there would be no one left and the last man standing would have to kill himself. Also a crime.”
“His mistake, as you say,” Xander countered, “was to kill a man. That is always punishable by death. That is written in our law. There are no exceptions.”
“But we don’t know if he killed the man in self-defense, or if it was accidental,” Arthur replied. “Surely the circumstances are important. We should bring him before the Court.”
“Agreed.” Xander nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” Chantal said. “Three or five judges? I think three.”
“Agreed.” Xander and Arthur nodded.
“I’ll find an enforcer to herald him in,” Arthur said, and left the room in the opposite direction from where Chantal had entered. He was back a few minutes later. “We can go in.”
Xander grabbed his mask from its hook on the wall and slid it over the top half of his face, leaving his mouth and chin visible. Chantal hated that mask, it was pretentious and theatrical, a slap to the serious work they performed in the Tribinal. But he would not be swayed from wearing it, as he believed it struck fear into the hearts of those who had seen it.
And maybe it did strike fear into people, although Chantal privately thought the place itself did the job well enough. Too much fear and all they could do was blather. It was not good practice to convict criminals who could not speak for themselves. There had to be standards, or the people would turn. It was good to rule by fear, but there had to be rules. The populace had to know when they were doing wrong, or they would revolt. Their minds could not deal with the inconsistencies.
She heard her errant enforcer being called into the court chamber. She knew they would be pushing him to his knees, tying his hands behind his back. She felt sorry for him, in a way. He would think that his life was over now, and he wouldn’t be sure why. He would know from having been in the room that it didn’t always end in death and that death would be preferred over some of the punishments. And he wouldn’t know what awaited him.
She entered the chamber with the other two judges and sat in the high-backed chair at the center of the dais. Arthur and Xander sat on either side. The other chairs had been removed from the stage, and the three remaining were lit by tall pillar candles so that the three judges' faces were illuminated but little else.
“Enforcer,” boomed Xander, “do you know your crime?”
; “It wasn’t just me, Judge Marcus, there were two men with me,” the enforcer said. He looked small in the circle of dim light, not at all like the large and muscular man that he was.
Chantal could smell his fear, see his natural courage shrink away. That is what the Court did to you. What it was created to do. And even when you’d seen the devices of fear in action, when it came to be your turn, you too were afraid.
“Do you know your crime?” Xander repeated.
“I killed a man,” the enforcer said.
Chantal could hear the despair. She thought he was regretting having told her what they’d done. She wondered where the other men had gone. Far from Detroit, she thought. As far as they could get from their inevitable death. It would be waiting here if they ever returned.
“Indeed.” It was Arthur’s turn now. “And what is the punishment for killing the innocent?”
“But he wasn’t innocent,” the enforcer protested. “He was helping Melvin Foles. He was aiding and abetting.”
“Was he the man we asked you to bring to us?” Arthur asked.
The enforcer didn’t speak, just looked at the dirt under his knees.
“Is it your responsibility to decide who dies and who lives?” Chantal asked.
The enforcer shook his head mutely.
“Does anyone die without first coming here to be tried?” Xander asked.
The enforcer’s head dropped even closer to the ground.
“The consequence of murder is death,” Chantal chanted. “Are we agreed?”
“No,” Arthur said. “This man was doing our bidding to the best of his ability. I do not believe he should die for that.”
Chantal turned to Xander, “Do you agree?” she asked.
“No.” Xander shook his masked head, making the shadows dance around them. “The punishment remains the same regardless of the circumstances.”
“What punishment do you condone?” she asked Arthur.
“Take his right hand as a reminder of what is right and just,” Arthur said.