Wrath James White

by Skinzz

  "Mack!"

  Mack heard Jason's voice and turned just as the gun went off. He felt something punch him in the gut. The second bullet shattered his forearm and Mack cried out in pain. It was the worst pain he'd ever felt. The next struck him in the chest, just below his collarbone. A short, angry little skinhead was pointing a big revolver at him and firing. Jason was charging up behind the skinhead, swinging the bike chain, intent on saving Mack's life. The little skinhead turned seconds before Jason reached him.

  "Demon! Noooo!"

  Mack crossed the distance between him and the short skinhead as quickly as he could, but he wasn't quick enough. The pain in his stomach, chest, and forearm slowed him down. The little Nazi fuck got off two shots before Mack tackled him. He saw Jason fall, saw the blood spurt from his chest and head and that mischievous gleam, that devilish spark, wink out in his friend's eye moments before Mack lost consciousness as well.

  Chapter 29

  Aftermath

  Einstein Medical Center, 8:15 am.

  The sound of his mother weeping woke Mack. The first thing he was aware of, besides the fact that he was in the hospital, was the pain in his arm. He still couldn't feel the chest wound or the wound in his belly, but his arm hurt like hell. It was in a cast and elevated above his chest on some sort of little pulley. No sooner had he awakened in agony than a nurse arrived with a needle full of Demerol. Moments later, the pain in his arm was just a dull memory.

  He looked over at his mother. She sat by his bed, weeping. She looked like she had lost weight. Her hair was not done and she wore no makeup, which was almost unheard of for her in public. Jonas was there as well, wearing a stern look of disapproval and disappointment. If his mother wasn't there, Mack would have told him to go fuck himself.

  "I'm okay, mom. Don't cry." His voice was hoarse and his lips felt chapped, like he hadn't spoken in days. The nurse, a Korean woman in her thirties, handed him a glass of water and held his head up for him so he could drink. Mack was surprised by how weak he felt. If she hadn't held his head, he wasn't certain he'd have been able to lift it on his own.

  His mother scooted closer to him and placed a hand on his chest, over the bandage where he'd been shot. He lifted his arm to stroke her face but it was handcuffed to the bedrail.

  "What the hell?"

  "Some cops came in and arrested you last night. They say you killed two people the night you got shot."

  Mack was puzzled.

  Two people?

  He remembered stomping that skinhead with the big red beard. He supposed that he may have killed him accidentally. And he remembered tackling the guy who shot him and Jason. But he couldn't have killed that guy. He passed out right after he tackled that little Nazi fuck.

  "What two people?"

  "After you got shot, you stabbed a guy who is supposed to be the leader of some skinhead group you were fighting with."

  "John Jones? I stabbed John Jones? How the hell is that even possible? I was unconscious! I passed out after I got shot."

  His mother slowly shook her head.

  "The witnesses said that you got shot and then your friend Jason got shot and then you tackled the gunman and knocked the gun out of his hand. He took off running and disappeared into the crowd, then you pulled out a knife and ran across the parking lot and stabbed that John Jones guy about fourteen times. You were sitting on top of his body with the knife still in your hand when the cops came. They almost shot you until they realized that you were unconscious."

  Mack's eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. He couldn't believe it.

  "I stabbed him fourteen times? That can't be."

  He had wanted to kill that bastard so bad and he'd apparently succeeded but he felt none of the satisfaction he should have felt because he couldn't remember any of it.

  "You must have been in shock."

  "How could I have killed someone and not remember it? So, are they charging me with murder?"

  "We're waiting to find out. Right now, they are just holding you as a suspect."

  Mack tried to force himself to recall the stabbing. He remembered seeing the big bull of a man covered in white supremacist tattoos and trying to fight his way toward him. He remembered being kicked and punched and nearly knocked unconscious several times as he made his way through the crowd. A six-foot-six black man in a parking lot full of racist skinheads must have been like a beacon. He'd knock down one of the Nazi bastards and another one would leap up to fill his fallen comrade's place. They were like cockroaches, but he'd been determined. Every time he was knocked down, he'd gotten up and kept fighting, kept struggling to get to the racist, white supremacist piece of shit that started The Unrest and end him.

  Killing John Jones was his only reason for going to the concert, but he'd hoped to do it discreetly, in the midst of the riot, disguised by the pandemonium and bloodshed. Apparently, he'd gone buckwild after the shooting and stabbed the man in full view of everyone, in front of more than a hundred witnesses. Instead of stealthily sliding the knife up between the skinhead's ribcage and disappearing into the crowd as he'd been planning, he'd tackled him and stabbed him more than a dozen times. He must have been so intent on killing the man that even unconscious, his subconscious mind had completed the mission.

  "How many witnesses do they have?" Mack asked.

  "They said they had one, but a friend of yours, Chris, told us there were all kinds of conflicting statements. Most of your punk rock friends are saying it was another skinhead who killed him, the guy who shot you. I guess he killed a bunch of people. He's some kind of serial killer it looks like. The cops are looking for him too. And since you'd already been shot before you attacked him, the public defender said they'd probably offer you a self defense plea if they charged you at all, but you might still get probation for having the knife."

  "If I'm on probation I can't leave the city. That means no college."

  "There are plenty of colleges in Philly. Temple, Drexel, University of Penn. We'll get you into a good school. I promise."

  Mack still couldn't remember anything after he tackled the short, angry-looking skinhead with the gun. He could still feel the bullets slamming into his chest and stomach, the pain when one of them shattered a bone in his arm, and his desperate attempt to stop the shooter from killing Jason. Mack remembered seeing Jason go down a second before he tackled the gunman and knocked the revolver from his hand. He remembered looking into Jason's eyes as they went vacant.

  "Where's Demon? Is he alright?"

  A look passed from his mother to Jonas and Mack knew. Demon was gone. He turned his head away from them so they wouldn't see the tears that welled up in his eyes. He looked out the window at the bright morning sun, blurred by his tears. Birds were singing. Cars were racing up and down the street, honking their horns in desperation to get somewhere, anywhere. Music blared from a passing vehicle with bass so loud it shook the windows. Someone walking along the sidewalk below was laughing and somewhere Demon lay dead on a slab with a tag on his toe.

  "Jason died two days after you were both shot. He died on the operating table. That white supremacist shot him in the head. The doctors tried to save him, but there was nothing they could do."

  "Two days? How long have I been in the hospital?"

  "Three weeks."

  "Three weeks?"

  "You were in a coma from all the medications and pain killers and the loss of blood."

  Mack sat silently, trying to take it all in.

  "You said that I'm a suspect in two murders. Did the guy I beat up, the guy with the red beard, did he die?"

  His mother looked puzzled.

  "The cops didn't mention a guy with a red beard. They said that Jason killed that skinhead they found in the projects in Philly. His fingerprints were all over him and they think you might have been an accomplice too. They wanted to take your fingerprints, but I wouldn't let 'em. They said they were coming back today with a warrant."

  Fuck.

  Mack felt li
ke he couldn't breathe. It was all over. Jason was dead, he'd missed his chance to go to college, and now he was probably going to prison for life, once they matched his fingerprints to the ones they found on Billie.

  "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry I—I'm sorry I let you down."

  Mack wept and his mother stroked his face and tussled his Mohawk of knatty dreadlocks.

  "It'll be okay. We'll get through this."

  "I promised you I'd come home and..."

  "Shhhh. And you did. You did come home. You're alive and that's all that matters. I was so worried. We didn't think you were going to make it, but the bullet in your chest struck just above your heart. It went straight through without hitting anything. The one in your stomach ripped up your intestines. They had to remove part of it. They said the thickness of your leather jacket and your abdominal muscles slowed the bullet down a little or else it might have gone straight through your stomach and hit your spine. You're gonna have to wear that colostomy bag for another week or two until your intestines heal, but then they say you'll be as good as new."

  Mack lifted his hospital gown. His torso was bandaged and there was a tube in his side leading to a bag of piss and shit hanging from a hook beside the bed.

  "Fuck! What else can go wrong? Sorry, Mom. But this is awful. Look at me!"

  Jonas finally spoke up.

  "I told you, you shouldn't have gone out that night. You were asking for trouble. But nobody wanted to listen to me. Now what?"

  Mack laughed.

  "Yeah, I was waitin' for that. Good of you not to disappoint me, Jonas. What took you so long?" Mack said.

  His mom whirled around and gave Jonas a look that would have cracked granite. Jonas fell silent. She turned back to Mack and ran her palm over his brow. The smoothness and warmth of her hand was the most soothing thing he could have imagined. He focused on it, trying to escape all the pain and death and misery. If he could just focus on the softness of his mother's hand, the warmth of her love, he felt like everything would be okay. It was his oasis, his happy place.

  "You're lucky, son. You should feel blessed. This is only temporary. At least you're alive and you can walk. Thank God for that. He was definitely looking out for you this time."

  Mack scoffed.

  "Yeah, just not for Demon. I guess he only had enough power to save one of us. Or that's all he cared to save. I guess I should feel lucky that he chose to let my best friend die instead of me. Is that what I'm supposed to feel? Blessed because someone else died, because some other mother is crying instead of mine? I guess I should praise him for letting those Nazi bastards shoot me up and ruin my life?"

  Mack's mother looked shocked and angry.

  "Mack! Don't talk that way. I know you're angry, but Jonas is right. You could have stayed home. You didn't have to go out there. God didn't do that. That was your choice!"

  Mack didn't say anything. He knew what he wanted to say. Why did God allow those skinheads to be there anyway? Why did he create a world where pieces of shit like that exist? Why did he let them bring guns? Why didn't he make the bullets miss? He could part the red sea and murder the first born sons of Egypt and raise Lazarus from the dead, but he couldn't stop a bunch of racist white supremacist assholes from killing my best friend?

  "When is Jason's funeral?"

  "I'm sorry, son. It was two weeks ago. You missed it."

  "I missed it? You mean that's it? My best friend is dead and I didn't even get to say goodbye?"

  "You were there, Mack. You were there in spirit, even if you couldn't be there physically. They found a poem you wrote in Jason's room. He'd framed it and put it up on a shelf. Your friend, Father Antonio, read it during the eulogy. It was beautiful. His mother found some song lyrics he wrote about you too. I don't think you ever saw them. I have 'em at the house. I'll bring it with me tomorrow. They're kind of crude. He wasn't a poet like you, but you can see how much he thought of you. He loved you so much, Mack. I'm so sorry, son. You were still unconscious from losing all that blood and the surgery. They weren't sure you didn't have brain damage. They didn't know if you were ever going to wake up."

  "I knew you would."

  Mack turned when he heard the voice. He recognized it immediately and it sent a chill down his spine. With all the bad news he'd heard today, this one piece of good news hit him like a splash of water.

  "Miranda?"

  She looked beautiful. Her head was shaved and there was a scar on her scalp from where the doctors had cut into her skull. She looked skinny. Not athletic any more, but nearly emaciated. She was wearing makeup, which was something she never did. Mack smiled when he realized that she had probably put it on for him.

  She held out her hand. The engagement ring was on her finger. Mack was embarrassed by how small it was. He was embarrassed because he'd asked a girl he only kissed once to marry him and even more embarrassed because she'd never accepted his proposal. She'd lost consciousness after he gave her the ring. Now, he was in a hospital, wearing handcuffs and a colostomy bag, with the question still hanging in the air.

  "I know. It was crazy. I don't know what I was thinking. We've never even been on a date. I just...I love you, Miranda. I do."

  She leaned in and kissed him. It was everything he remembered.

  "Yes, Mack. My answer is yes. I mean, not right now. But one day."

  Chapter 30

  Bo's apartment, 9:45 am.

  The police hadn't come knocking on his door yet. That was a good sign. At least he hoped it was. Bo sat on the bed with his back to Gia, trying to decide what to do next. John Jones was dead. The Unrest was in shambles and somewhere Little Davey was still in hiding after murdering his ex-girlfriend and her lover and a punkrock kid he'd shot in plain view of everyone at City Gardens. If Davey got caught and confessed to killing the guy they buried in the woods or the old woman they set on fire, it would only be a matter of time before it all led back to him and Bo would be arrested as an accomplice. He had to figure something out, but so far all he could think to do was hide out in the apartment, waiting to see if the police broke down his door and dragged him off to prison.

  "So, where's Little Davey now?" Gia asked. She'd been spending more and more time in the apartment with him since the riot. He told her he didn't want to go out because he'd been part of the riot and if anyone saw his bruised and battered face they'd put two and two together and try to connect him to the shooting. She knew that Davey had shot someone but she didn't yet know the extent of it. It was a few days later, when they were watching the news on his eighteen inch black and white, that the full extent of Davey's madness came out.

  Little Davey was accused of killing six people, including Cindy and some guy named Alvaro that she had been sleeping with. Four of the six murders occurred while Bo had been with him. That made him an accessory and if Gia found out, she'd freak out.

  When Gia saw him immediately after the riot at City Gardens, she tried her best to get him to go to the hospital. But he would only allow her to call her cousin who was an EMT. Her cousin Mancini gave him some anti-inflammatories, some pain killers and ice packs and Bo spent the next few days with his head packed in ice, popping Percocets and peeking out the window for suspicious cars.

  It took more than a week for the migraines to go away. It took another week for the terrible bruises all over his face to fade. The cuts and lacerations would probably take longer to disappear. Some of the scars would be with him for the rest of his life.

  Bo shrugged.

  "I don't know where the hell he is. He's hiding out. He probably left town. I still can't believe he killed Cindy."

  Gia raised an eyebrow.

  "You can't? I knew he was a little psychopath the first time I met him. I still don't understand why you're so nervous though. Why do you keep talking about leaving town if you're innocent? You sure you weren't involved in any of this? The two of you were always together. Where did you two go that night? You know, when he made you go out in the parking lot with him and
you guys took off in his car? What was that all about?"

  Bo kept his back to her with his head down.

  "Nothing, Gia. It was nothing."

  "And that black guy they found tortured and burned that they say Davey killed? You don't know nothing about that? You weren't there when he killed that guy or that old lady they say he burned alive in the subway or the guy they say he stabbed on the street a few blocks from here? You weren't with him for any of that?"

  "No, Gia. I said, I don't know anything about that stuff."

  Gia frowned.

  "He didn't tell you he was gonna go over there and kill Cindy and her boyfriend?"

  "What the fuck is this? Why are you interrogating me?"

  Gia scooted across the bed and wrapped her arms around him.

  "I'm just asking you the same questions the police are gonna ask. And I'm telling you, to me, you don't sound very convincing. I'm not a trained professional either. Those cops are gonna have all kinds of evidence, witnesses, and fingerprints and stuff. If you can't fool me, they're gonna rip you apart."

  "That's why we should just go, get the hell out of here before they come. We could catch a train to New York or D.C. They've got too many murders there to care about us."