by Blou Bryant
As if he was going across thin spring ice, he rolled himself across the roof until he was on the other side of the fence. A quick pivot and he grasped the gutter again and swung. Down he went, the gutter coming with him, the old rusted metal squealing loudly in protest. Wyatt rolled as he hit the ground and got up without stopping. He needed them to keep following him and that noise would keep them on his tail.
This backyard was well maintained despite the shuttered windows, showing that not everyone had abandoned the neighborhood. Wyatt was now a block away from the HUC, and the men searching for him were now far enough from the house that Ira should be safe. He needed to keep them with him long enough that she and Ari would find a way out. With two deep breaths to fill his lungs with air and his muscles with oxygen, he ran to the far corner where an old willow hung over four different yards.
Five branches up the tree, he had a good view and saw the two men had reached the green minivan. One kicked at the locked gate several times, but the old wood was solid and it didn’t give. Wyatt paused, looking to the left and right to figure out his next move.
The sound of two gunshots shattering the lock signaled their arrival. Wyatt stood up on the branch. As hoped, they noticed him. Before either got his gun leveled, he leapt down to the ground on the other side and was off at a run again.
He crossed another street. The house on the left was boarded up, the one on the right a burnt-out shell, its front door and bay window nothing more than gaping holes. He went right and stopped in the entrance. The stained, cracked floorboards appeared dangerous, so he backed out and went around the corner, sprinted across a gravel lot, and around the corner of a plain white single story windowless building, some business probably long abandoned.
As he turned the corner, he ran into two other bruisers, recognizable by their black suits and uniformly dull and overly narrow ties. Unable to stop, he put a shoulder down and ran right into the first, knocking the man to the ground. He stumbled twice, tried to right himself and gave up, rolling into the fall. One roll, then a second and a third, he was steady enough to get back to his feet and kept moving, before the second man even knew what had happened.
A shot rang out, but Wyatt had cleared the far corner of the building and was out of view. Now in the backyard of the burnt out building, he had pursuers behind him and ahead of him. This wasn’t going well.
Skidding to a stop, he turned around and ran back for the corner, stretching his legs out as much as possible, he needed to reach it before the men he’d ran into got there first.
Steps away, he saw one turn the corner and, again, he put his shoulder down and rushed forward, one hand out in front. He pushed the gun aside just as it fired and he knocked the guy to the ground, hard. This time, Wyatt was better prepared and didn’t fall.
The second man was hot on the heels of the first and had his gun out, pointed directly at Wyatt’s head. Without hesitation, Wyatt used a technique Rocky had taught him, drilled into him. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed the weapon, while his right hand slammed into the man’s’ wrist. With a quick twist, he broke the other man’s trigger finger by pushing the gun up and away. This done, he pulled the gun away from him and threw it on the ground.
Rocky had said that this would incapacitate an opponent for at least a couple of seconds, but the man wasn’t fazed by the broken finger. He ignored the pain, stepped forward and swung a long roundhouse at Wyatt, who sidestepped it easily. He punched straight out, hitting the man in the face and broke his nose with a sick cracking sound. Despite this, the guy still didn’t stop, didn’t back up and he swung again.
Wyatt moved away again, but less confident now. The guy wasn’t a good fighter, but he could take a punch. More than that, he seemed immune to the pain, smiling through his blood covered lips. Wyatt backed up and the man’s second and third swings missed.
He was confident he could win this if it was just him and the guy swinging at him. They weren’t alone, however. The second opponent had gotten to his knees now and would soon be on his feet. No matter how bad they were, two would be too many, even for someone as trained as Wyatt.
With his weight on his right foot, he waited for the next swing and punched straight out at the man’s jaw. The blow connected as the other man finished his forward swing, his own momentum increasing the force. His head snapped back, forcing his brain to slam back and forth inside his skull. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
Before the second opponent gained his feet, Wyatt was on the run again. He crossed the street with the building acting as a shield from the first two pursuers, who still had their guns and couldn’t be far behind. His breath came heavy as he passed a small laundromat and a flower store. It was a busier street, cars on the road and pedestrians staring at him as he frantically ran past them. With the police and a gang after him, busy wasn’t good. He turned left at the first corner and returned to the Reclamation Zone.
A boarded-up church on his left seemed a good place to hide. Wyatt stopped and looked at it, then up and down the street. The question now was where to go. Back to the hospital? He took a couple deep breaths. He was tired, and his body was complaining at the abuse. His right hand hurt from the last punch he’d thrown and his shoulder ached from the fall. This couldn’t continue. At some point they’d get him, with guns if their fists didn’t work.
Wyatt ducked into the churchyard and put his back to a crumbling headstone in the graveyard, keeping his head back to take in the maximum amount of oxygen. Breathing deep, he relaxed as best he could, and thought about how he’d get out of the mess he was in.
Chapter 23
Shielded by gravestones and trees in the middle of a community abandoned by the city, Wyatt forced himself to relax. As he breathed in and out, he gave his muscles a moment to recover and his mind the opportunity to figure out what he was going to do next. He unwrapped his left palm. The bandage that was now part of his daily attire had ripped loose in the fight and was hanging off. With a wince, he pulled it out of the wound. It was bleeding more freely than usual.
Wyatt glared at the palm, a part of him that he often felt wasn’t. It made him angry, knowing that this simple thing had caused him and others so much pain. He’d been offered no choice in receiving what so many thought of as a gift and yet for him, it was nothing more than a curse. With it, he’d never have a normal life, never experience the peace he believed that he yearned for.
He leaned back and took a deep breath. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Did this little wound and the virus that kept it open really have that much control over him? By doing nothing he’d chosen to let it control him. Well, he didn’t have to. He needed order, and the wound was the opposite of order. So, what did he have going for him, how could he take back control?
One, he thought to himself, what was one? Counting always made things clear. Number one had to be his friends; the Dogs were mostly all captured. He had no clue where they were and his assignment, find them and rescue them, had only made things worse. Was Sandra still free? What he’d give for a call from her right now.
Two, his small group was scattered, with Ari captured and Ira hidden in a house. He prayed that she hadn’t bled out. Perhaps he should go back, even if he was captured, she might get medical attention. He discarded that option. These guys weren’t the type to take her to the doctor. At least Hannah was safe, he hoped, on the run with a geriatric gangster in the employ of a crazy millionaire hacker.
Three, he was in the middle of a city he hardly knew, with no people or resources. Who could he trust? The hacker, Seymour? Perhaps, but he wasn’t going to fight a gang and said he was done helping. Information might be power, but you needed muscle to use what you learned. Patterson was shot and Custer arrested. Shazam had betrayed them. The bad guys had been at the HUC and Joshua was with them or dead.
Four, he hadn’t learned anything, had he? Not enough, he was positive of that. Sure, he’d found out there was a gang, and they had ins with the police and worked for
Jessica. How’d that help, he asked himself. The only cop that he was sure wasn’t a criminal wasn’t going to help him. They sold drugs, did that help? He wondered why Jessica was interested in that but didn’t have an answer for himself. Ugh, I’m nowhere and I got nothing.
“Five,” he whispered to himself and paused. Five was his lucky number. For reasons he’d never understood, he saw the number as a shape—a circle—and a color at the same time—blue. It was a prime number, not the first, but his favorite and he used it in his self-control exercises. What now, he wondered. What was the fifth here? What was he missing, what resource wasn’t he using, what option hadn’t he considered?
Frustrated, he breathed in for five seconds, filled his lungs to where they felt as if they would burst, and held it for the same length of time. Finally, he let it out, slowly, for another five seconds, pushing the breath out until lungs hurts and there was nothing more inside. Still, his mind refused to cooperate. He didn’t know what he was missing.
“Fine,” he said to the graveyard. “It’s as good a place to be as any. I’ve failed my friends, my grand plan is dead and perhaps they are as well. But you’re not giving up, are you?”
“No, I won’t give up. And I won’t feel sorry for myself.” Wyatt said. He wiped his face, there were no tears, but perhaps there should be. “Stop sitting around,” he said and, seeing nobody, got up and ran towards the HUC.
As he crossed the first street, he glanced left and right, but there wasn’t anyone. This was the one direction they didn’t expect him to run. Wyatt hopped one fence and then another, darting right to avoid a dog that lunged at him, saved only by its short chain. Another empty street and he paused under an oak tree to get his bearings. He’d gone three blocks, or perhaps it was four? Only one way to find out, he thought and continued his run.
The burnt façade of a house served a marker that he was on the right path. Only two more blocks. As he turned the last corner, he saw the man he was looking for, several houses down. Wyatt darted left, just quickly enough, it appeared and he wasn’t seen.
From the tree he was hiding behind, he watched the big man stare intently at his phone, tapping out a message. Too intent on the small machine to see that his quarry was only two houses away. Wyatt smiled. Something had worked out, at least.
He turned into the driveway and he was confronted by the two men he’d seen earlier.
“Yer back,” said the fat one.
“Still running, eh?” said the thin one.
“Reward still an option?”
Wyatt stopped at that, thought about luring the big man over here, but he’d call or text his men first. That wouldn’t do. “No, I guess I’m not worth that much,” he lied.
“Too bad. We talked about it.”
“There might be shooting. You might wanna go inside,” said Wyatt.
“Huh,” said the skinny one. “Do you have a gun?”
“Nah, but they do,” he said. He noticed his partially finished beer was still on the ledge. “You mind?” he asked, nodding at it.
“Nope,” grunted the bigger one. “Do you want a gun? I got extra.”
No, I’m not getting into a gunfight. Wyatt grabbed the beer and downed the rest of the bottle. The Canadian ale was bitter, he wasn’t used to the taste, but the liquid was welcome anyway. “No guns, thanks. You going to go in?”
“Might,” said Andy with a belch.
Wyatt gave up and, with a nod to the two men, ran behind the house, around the corner and quickly crossed the two backyards he’d been in only half an hour earlier. When he reached the second house, he lifted himself up onto the windowsill and looked inside with dread.
Nothing. Ira was gone. There was blood on the sill and on the floor, but only a streak, not a puddle. The inside he saw from his perch was gutted, the walls crumbling and the floor rotting. There wasn’t any blood leading away from the window, so he lowered himself back down. There wasn’t any point in searching the house. He’d have to hope she had made it out alive, on her own.
With a peek around the corner, over the car, he saw his target was still standing out front of the HUC. His head was angled down, his hands in front of him. Likely still on his phone, texting his search parties. Or his girlfriend… or Snapchatting or… whatever.
Wyatt crept forward, hunched over, slowly, cautiously. There wasn’t anyone to the left or right, the street empty, and he couldn’t hear anyone talking from inside the center. Still, if there were guards inside, they’d see him the moment he hit his target. Well, no risk, no reward, so he crept forward, watching his steps, moving as quietly as possible.
When he was only ten or fifteen feet away, he planted his left foot and sprung forward. Shoulder down, he hit his target before he turned at the sound, hit him low on the back. The man went down but Wyatt kept his balance and stayed upright. I’m getting good at this, I should have played football, he thought.
Wyatt stopped, turned back and lashed out with a foot that connected hard with the midsection of his opponent.
He kicked him again, hoping to break ribs. One thing that Rocky had taught him was that a real fight only had two rules—to survive and to win. Two kids in a schoolyard or two men outside a bar could afford to be polite. A real fight where there was a risk of death, required a person to do everything possible to win. It was natural, base instinct.
The other man avoided most of the second kick, his hands shielding him from the blow. He rolled twice and was on his feet before Wyatt kicked him a third time. He smiled and put his fists up.
“Well, that’s a nice surprise, you came to me.”
Wyatt lashed out, landing a blow on the face. The man recoiled, but only slightly.
“I recognize you from the pictures she gave us,” the man said, with a shake of his head at the blow. Blood flew from his nose in both directions.
Wyatt ignored him and punched, connecting with the left side of the man’s face, making him instinctively raise his hands higher. Wyatt took advantage, hit him in the side with his left fist, dropped his other hand and punched him just above the stomach. A crunch signaled that he’d broken a rib.
The effect wasn’t what he expected. The man laughed. Like his toddies, he seemed unfazed by pain. Wyatt hit him again, but this time the guy didn’t bother to defend himself and lashed out with a fist of his own. Wyatt felt like he’d been hit with a brick, so hard did the blow land, and he was shocked backwards. He tripped and fell, rolling to avoid the expected kick.
None came. The other man wiped the blood off his face and smiled again. “You’re a good fighter. Wyatt, we’ve not been introduced. I’m Jackson, but you can call me Mr. Criggs.”
Wyatt shook his head and wiped the blood from under his right eye. His cheek had been split open. He stepped forward and pushed again, two quick jabs to the face. A third to the throat was only a glancing blow.
Criggs continued to smile and Wyatt experienced a sudden onset of fear, as he realized his opponent was altered. The man laughed and struck back, a clumsy punch that hit Wyatt’s shoulder. The force was enough to knock him backwards. This wasn’t going to end well unless he disabled the man, and quickly.
With a quick step forward, he threw a punch at the face, to force Criggs to shut his eyes. It was instinct, and no drugs, surgery or implants would have changed that. As expected, the man blinked and Wyatt dropped to a knee and punched hard, at his groin. The blow landed square and with full force. And it had no effect.
Criggs responded with a punch down that hit Wyatt square on the top of his head. Bones in his fingers snapped and cracked audibly. It didn’t appear to affect him, but Wyatt was forced down by the force of the blow and was met by a knee to the face.
Wyatt fell backwards, spewing blood from his mouth. He tried to roll away, but was dizzy and disoriented from the hit to his head. “Who are you?” he asked and spat out a tooth.
“Criggs, Mr. Criggs,” the man repeated.
Wyatt tried to get up on a knee, failed and fell to the g
round. With both hands propping him up, he got on his knees but didn’t try to straighten up. From his position, he saw that Criggs wasn’t advancing. He looked up and saw the man was texting.
Wyatt spat up blood. “Those things are addictive. You should avoid them, government, others are listening in, reading everything you type.”
“Hmm, funny. Seems I’ve been the one who knew everything you Dogs were doing before you did. You should be the one worried about people listening in,” his adversary said, still clicking away. “Stay down, it’s over.”
Blood from Wyatt’s split tongue snuck down into his lungs and he coughed trying to get the liquid out. He fell back to the ground in a spasm of pain.
“That’s a good boy. You’ll be with her soon. She’ll take care of you.”
Wyatt didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was. He struggled to his knees again and was rewarded with another kick to his already injured face. Falling to his side, he couldn’t see right, couldn’t think. He’d trained for years with Rocky, but he wasn’t prepared for a beating like this.
It really was over, he’d lost. His vision was blurry, his body cried out with pain and his mind was addled. The blows to his head removed any ability to stand, much less fight back.
Wyatt flopped his head to one side and tried to focus on Criggs. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard a car screech up and a door slam.
“Who are you?” Wyatt heard Criggs ask.
Wyatt couldn’t see, his vision blurred, the world a strange dull pink. Still, he made out Criggs’s legs and someone on the other side of them.
There was a click and Criggs straightened, his hands out to his side. Electricity seemed to flow through him and he screamed out. A second click and more buzzing followed. Criggs’s scream turned to a gurgling moan and his knees buckled.