by Nova
Later—how long was later? I think I was there for about six hours—I tried standing up. That hurt way too much. I tried crawling. That hurt way too much, too. I waited for rescue and slept some more. It was dark when I awoke. I could hear people off in the distance. I tried calling to them but my throat was too dry to make more than a whisper; plus, my jaw hurt. I lay there a while longer. Shit! I recognized those voices—at least the female one. It was that little bitch, Regina. Jeebus, I had to get out of there before she decided to come looking for me. The look in her eyes that I had seen earlier promised that if she wanted, what I had experienced so far would just be the warm-up.
I made it to my knees. I paused, then dropped forward, supporting my weight on all fours as I spit the blood and skin tissue out of my mouth. I was so dry that what I spit out just hung there, like a rubber band. I had to actually pinch it and pull to get rid of it. I struggled to get up on one knee, and then I pushed up. My head, ribs, lower back all exploded into one brilliant red-tinged explosion behind my eyes. Oh, damn. Breathing really hurt now. It had been hurting for a while; I had simply gotten used to it. This was a new hurt. I thought I knew what a bad beating felt like. I had been beaten pretty badly by some of my mom’s old boyfriends. The difference was they were not really trying to kill me. These guys seem to have been more motivated.
I struggled to my feet. Holy hell, that hurt. Just one step, I told myself. Okay, I did it. One more step. Thinking as I did, I am going to come back and kill every one of them. And then, step. I know I went down to my knees a few times. I was brought down from clutching my ribs when a really sharp stab of pain flashed through my nervous system.
My balance was not very good.
I didn’t even bother with the Batbike. I had one goal. Make it to the shelter one painful, freaking step at a time. I didn’t make it—somewhere in the darkness, I lost it.
From what I was told later, I think I made it halfway by sun up. Some good Samaritan had come across me and gone for help. I came to for a while—the pain of someone pulling me to a sitting position set off a whole new set of agonies that brought me back. I could hear a woman’s voice; whose, I had no clue. I opened my eyes and saw a man in his midthirties staring intently at me.
“Okay, I am going to wrap your ribs. This is gonna hurt.”
I nodded—he was right; it hurt. The woman, a Latina I had seen around, was swabbing various scrapes. She was being pretty gentle about it. Once I would have made a big deal about how bad it hurt; now I laughed because it felt so good. Then I was back down and out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN THE PUPIL IS READY . . .
I had a lot of time on my hands while my body healed. I found that sitting around in my motel room with my laptop, a television, and a bathroom, was very nice. Just thinking about what it would have been like trying to recover while living under a pine tree made me shudder. As it was, the first few weeks were tough. Night or someone else from the clan would come by with food each day. One unlucky ninja got to help me to the bathroom and back for a few days. I revised my opinion of him upward as a warrior when he entered the bathroom after a really toxic dump, and he lifted me up off the seat without flinching or gagging.
Carol came by and was really apologetic about me getting my ass kicked. I just waved it off. “It was no big deal.” What else was I going to say? Inside, I berated myself for screwing up. I had gotten cocky. Just because you can stick a trowel in a fat man’s belly doesn’t mean you are a warrior. I wallowed in self-pity for a few days.
Two things pulled me out of it. The first was the news. It had not been good for a while, and it was getting worse. I had long ago given up on the mainstream media outlets as a source of real news. I did not care about what some overpaid, entertainment drug-slut had been caught doing or had just died trying to do. The local news—the few times I watched it—might as well have been taking place in a parallel universe.
Over at the shelter they had a couple of flat screens bolted to the walls in the public area for the inhabitants. They used to love it when the local news would come by and do a story on “their struggle.” They would laugh at whoever got interviewed, and they’d be delighted to see themselves shown for a second in a crowd. But the news crews no longer came around.
They would still do the occasional story, but they just recycled the old clips. Eventually, people would turn away when they came on; it was no longer funny when they showed the clip of Janie talking about how she wanted to work, how she wanted to provide a future for her kids. The same Janie who two months later hung herself in the shelter shower room late one night after Child Protective Services came and took her two beautiful blonde girls.
I lay there in my bed and surfed the econ blogs and Web sites on my laptop. I had been a business major in college. Ironically, I had wanted to major in sociology but I decided not to. I didn’t think there would be any money in it. I was reading Calculated Risk when I realized that things were not going to get better. Despite what the media said, it was becoming obvious that we had started a slow descent into third-world squalor. The news, no matter how they tried to spin it, only confirmed it. Europe was not any better off: The UK was going crazy. Some “chav” had discovered that he looked good on video and had a message people wanted to hear. YouTube had banned him a few days ago, but it was too late; he was already launched.
His main pitch was “Britain for Britains!” He was smart. When asked about Jews, he said, “I have no problem with the Jews. They have been members of the community for centuries.” They weren’t going to tar him with the “Nazi” label—he just hated foreigners. He didn’t even say “Muslims” or “Indians” specifically, well, at least very often. Nevertheless he had found that his words were attracting an audience that was willing to listen. Britain had an “official” unemployment rate of 15 percent last month, and it was still climbing.
The terrorist attack in Liverpool during a football match, where bombs killed 173 people, definitely pumped his ratings, especially as the group claiming credit was British Muslim. That went over really well with a lot of people. In the bloody rioting that followed, at least that number of Indians and Muslims died. And it wasn’t confined to the UK. The rioting swept through Europe. Even Germany, that bastion of tolerance, was having problems.
What was happening in America was what really got my attention. Not only what was being said but what was being left unsaid. Unemployment—at least by official count—was at 14 percent. The reality was a lot uglier. Despite what was being done and spent by the government, nothing was getting better. A couple of times things stopped plummeting so quickly, and people got hopeful, only to have their hopes and investments crushed when the downturn started again. Perhaps the Crash would have been more severe without the government intervening. We would never know. It was difficult to believe that it helped when they let the bankers walk away with hundred-million-dollar bonuses. To say that cynicism was spreading about whom the government really cared for would be, at best, an understatement.
The bank bailout provided a glimmer of hope for some in the very beginning. The problem was, those who thought it was a good idea usually still had a job and money, and they expected those conditions to continue. What had been reported as the end of the world for the great mass of Americans turned out to be a massive windfall for a few.
This was quickly followed by Chrysler departing the industrial universe and General Motors filing for bankruptcy after the government stopped propping them up by shoveling money into them. Actually, it never did stop; it just became less obvious. The Cash for Clunkers program was one of the ideas the government came up with. It was spun as “green” and “good for America.” Like a lot of the ideas the government came up with, it turned out to be a short-term fix.
What most people did not understand was that Toyota and Nissan employed almost as many workers as the Big Three in the union-free South. They were not doing any better, and it created a ripple effect that began moving down the
parts manufacturing chain. The third-largest consumer of computer chips made in the United States had been GM up to this point.
Nightmare—or Night, which she insisted I call her—came by during my second week of recovery. She was flanked by the ninjas and had a look on her face more serious than usual. Not that she ever looked really happy to see me. “What’s up?” I asked, pushing the laptop away so she would know I was going to attempt to pay attention.
“We are glad to have you in the clan,” she started off.
I waved my hand dismissively and said, “Thank you. I am glad to be in the clan. But really, what’s up?” I knew something had to be. Whenever someone told me that they were happy or glad because of me, well, I knew they wanted something.
“You are part of the clan, and you got your ass kicked.” This kind of pissed me off, and it also gave me a shot of anxiety. Was I no longer welcome because I had lost? Damn, I really was getting used to my bed and private bathroom.
“The clan leaders sent word that as soon as you had recovered, the guys that did this to you would have to get payback—if only to send the message that our clan cannot be disrespected in this way.” She continued, “We would have already gone on our own to take care of it, but you were the target, and you are new in the clan, so we waited for you to recover. We were sure that you would want to be there for the payback.” She grinned. She had a scary grin for someone so skinny and short.
“Hey, I appreciate that and all, but it’s my mess. I screwed up. I was doing a favor for Carol at the shelter like I told you. I got sloppy. My fault—my job to fix it.”
Night stared at me, grinned, and said, “If you change your mind, let us know and we will be ready.” I didn’t know if they were really ready or not. I did know that she impressed the hell out of me, and it changed the way I looked at the clan.
I woke up late a few mornings later to find I had company. He was sitting in my only chair, not doing anything. He was just sitting. I recognized him: He was the guy who had taped my ribs after my night in the woods.
“Ah . . . good morning.”
He just looked at me, his face totally expressionless. We did the manly man staring contest for a few minutes. I won; it was my freaking room. He spoke first: “You going to rise and shine, sleepyhead?”
“Sure.” I sat up, winced, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. And winced again. I was really, really going to hurt that asshole and his buddies. “Do me a favor. Throw me those pants.” I had a pair of cargo pants hung over the side of the chair. I loved cargo pants because they had more pockets than I had stuff. He threw them to me and I began the painful process of pulling them on.
“So what brings you here?” I asked.
“It is time to begin your training.”
“Ah, my training? That would be in . . . ?”
I was going to add something smart, but it was still early, and I couldn’t think of anything. Plus, there was an aura about him that made me hold my tongue. He reminded me of a cop or some of the retired army officers I had crossed paths with in my previous life. Then again, there was that crazed Indian Amway seller who was always hanging around the break room at work. They both had that same glint in the eyes that comes from seeing a different reality. I realized that saying the word work in my head sounded weird. It was as if it had become a word from another language, one I had known very well once. But then I had left that country and no longer spoke the language.
“Your training in self-defense—unless you think you’ve got a handle on it?”
Ouch. That was a little uncalled for, I thought.
“So why me? How much? Why you?”
A faint smile. He replied, “You have been blessed.”
“Blessed? Blessed! What the hell kind of answer is that! Man, get the hell out of my room! Are you from the clan? I said I’d handle it!” I was getting pissed.
He didn’t move. He just raised his hand, palm forward. “Sit down, settle down, and all will be revealed.” I grumbled a bit and sat back down.
“Okay, I am settled.”
“I’m not from your clan. You have a friend who thinks you can benefit from some training.”
“Who—”
“Try listening for a little bit,” he said, cutting me off.
“Jeebus,” I muttered.
“You can call me Max. Carol asked me to do this. I owe her. You do not owe me. When we are done, we are done. I spent three tours in the ’Stan and Iraq with the 2/7 of the First Marine Division. After my discharge, I worked for LAPD as patrol officer in Rampart Division for a year. Since the budget cuts I have worked as a consultant.”
I mentally snorted at the “consultant” part. I knew that his bit about being sent from Carol would be easy enough to check. “Okay, when do we start?”
He got up from the chair. “Two weeks. I will come looking for you.” Then he let himself out the door.
That was another thing—I knew I had turned the dead bolt on that door the previous night. From now on, I was going to start wedging a chair under the doorknob.
A few days later, I was starting to feel better; plus, I was getting bored. I went looking for Night or one of the ninja boys. Hell, anybody would do. There is only so much time you can spend alone, even with a computer, before the need for human contact asserts itself. I wandered out of my room, walked down the sidewalk to the clan room, which was really just another room. The difference was, Night and her brood of ninjas kept a lot of their toys in there.
It served as their clubhouse, dining room, and computer room. It had a pretty decent server, a Cisco switch, and a UPS in the corner. There were four flat screens cabled to four boxes next to the server. Night and one of the ninjas were sitting together at the small table, which took up the space the bed once had. They were both staring at the same screen and laughing at whatever was on. I could hear Chinese coming from the speakers so I didn’t even bother to walk the extra few feet to look. I just eased down into one of the chairs. I watched them for a bit while they ignored me.
Night looked over the top of the screen eventually. “How you feeling?”
“Oh, I am all right. What are you watching?”
“Beheadings in China.”
“Okay, sounds exciting. So, you ever heard of a blond soldier-looking guy named Max?”
That got both of their attention. The ninja asked me, “You’ve seen him and lived?” I laughed and nodded.
“Don’t laugh, Gardener.” Night had gotten all serious on me; she went on. “He was famous before the Crash. He worked as a contract killer for the triads in California and here. He is an enforcer.”
Ninja boy nodded his head. “And a good one, too.”
“Triad killer my ass,” I told him. “If he’s a triad killer, then I’m Batman.”
I got up and immediately felt dizzy. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea. I mumbled a good-bye and to the answering silence I left muttering, “Fuck ’em.”
When I got back to my room I grabbed the aspirin bottle off the nightstand, poured three into my hand, grimaced, and dry swallowed them. They went down rough, and I had to scramble for something to wash them down. The open can of soda that I grabbed to chase them with must have been three days old. That was really tasty.
I settled back on my bed, kicked off my shoes, and fell asleep imagining myself slipping through the woods, silent as a Siberian tiger, my camouflage ninja killer suit rendering me invisible to the human eye. Slashing through the woods, movements like liquid mercury, I hunted my prey in their blue plastic tents.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHEEP AND WOLVES
Two weeks later to the day I woke up to find Max in my room again. I glanced over and saw that my only chair was still wedged under the doorknob. Hmmm, interesting, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something to this triad story. I looked at him; he had followed my glance to the door and met my look with a faint smile. He tossed me a pair of pants from off the floor. I grabbed them out of the air, slid
off the bed and into them, and stood up.
“So, Sensei, what is the plan?”
“Your first lesson is this: Don’t be more of an asshole than the situation calls for. My name is Max, not Sensei.”
Okay, I thought.
Max jerked a thumb toward my door, “Let’s go for a drive.”
I grabbed my jacket and we left. I didn’t say anything. He had a long stride, and I had to stretch my legs to keep up. Eventually, I asked him, “So, are we going to your dojo?”
“We’re there.”
“Ah, we’re in the parking lot.”
“Very observant.” He clicked his remote to unlock his car. It was a Toyota Camry Hybrid, maybe a 2009. It was hard to tell as they all looked alike to me. It was silver and could have used a wash. This was not what I was expecting.
“This is your car?” He heard the disbelief in my voice.
“What? You have a problem with it? What the hell were you expecting, a tank?”
“No, no. No problem.”
I buckled myself in and adjusted the seat back. He started the car and we pulled out on to Route 50 headed east. Traffic wasn’t heavy even though it was still rush hour. The D.C. metro area was considered recession-proof once upon a time. Now, like the rest of the country, it was proving that nowhere was safe from a global depression. The last recessions had been bad in the D.C. area, I was told, but not as bad as everywhere else. That had always been true, until it wasn’t. Everyone had totally missed the structural change in the local economy. The metro area had once been a company town, with the company being the U.S. government. That was still big, but real estate in 2005 had become just as big.