The Age of Embers {Book 3): The Age of Reprisal

by Schow, Ryan

  He heard them. Two, maybe three of them. They were in the living room and kitchen. Brooklyn was now breaking free and yelling, too.

  “We got a fighter here!” one of the men was saying with too much sick laughter in his voice.

  Just then the collapsing of a body on the floor became clear. The guys started laughing and both girls burst into a flurry of unintelligible, pain-filled shouting.

  “This idiot’s out cold,” one of these guys said over the ruckus, like he was proud of it. “By the looks of it, these two girls got more spunk in him than the kid.”

  “Especially this one,” one guy said.

  Draven dropped into a prone position and snuck a look downstairs. He counted three men. Two of them were holding the girls, the other guy was wiping a spot of blood off his lip and puffing out his chest. It seemed Orlando might have gotten in a shot or two.

  Good.

  As he studied the three ruffians, as he saw what they were doing, he felt his transition lock down and become complete. His aura bled to black, his jaw set itself firm and every last ounce of hesitation in him died off.

  He made the transition from dangerous to fatal.

  Getting to his feet, his mind now empty, he started downstairs. His hands hung loose and ready at his sides, and he kept his eyes slightly unfocused so as to see everything. He’d confirmed three men, but he didn’t know if there might be four, five or six of them.

  “Look at this pretty boy,” one of them said the second they saw Draven coming down the staircase.

  Sneering, they had their eyes on him. One of them had Brooklyn in a choke hold, her face a deep red. She was struggling, but he was clearly overpowering her.

  “We just came for food and things,” the guy said. “But she wanted to fight.”

  This guy, this hairless rodent, was almost normal looking. Like a fast food employee, or a cell phone salesman. He was not a gangbanger, a prisoner cut loose, or some obvious psycho. He could have pushed paper, done data analysis, delivered newspapers. Looking at the other two, they were less ordinary, something about them bringing a nasty taste to his mouth.

  Looking directly at Brooklyn’s captor, he said, “Let her go.”

  “She’s coming with us.”

  Draven said nothing as the man continued to choke her out. Standing halfway up the stairs, stopped now, he watched Brooklyn’s arms go slack, her eyes rolling back in her head. The second she was about to go out completely, the guy loosened his grip and gave her a tiny bit of air before tightening again.

  He was keeping her in a state of oxygen deprivation. He wasn’t letting her free, but he wasn’t letting her pass out either. This alone set his nerves on fire, but he didn’t show it.

  He let his expression die.

  Veronica was trying to fend off her attacker, but her tormentor kept thumping the girl on the head with his knuckles, stifling her will.

  Draven’s eyes roved over to her, dispassionate.

  He glanced from Veronica to the third guy. He was laughing to himself, licking the corner of his lip where he had a small cut. On the floor at his feet, Orlando lay knocked out, a big gash on his head.

  “You friends with the heroes out front?” the guy holding Brooklyn asked. Draven said nothing. He only continued down the stairs. “Stop there. Don’t come any closer.”

  Draven kept coming, one slow step at a time. By the look on his face, this guy wasn’t used to people not following his orders.

  “Tell your hero friends out front to lay down their guns or we start popping kids,” the guy who hurt Orlando said.

  Draven kept coming.

  Veronica’s abductor tightened his grip on her, causing her to cry out, and then he said, “You stop or she dies.”

  Draven raised his hands in front of him, but he kept coming. None of them appeared to be brandishing guns. That didn’t mean they didn’t have them.

  “Those people out front won’t stop until they’re dead or all of you are dead,” Draven finally said.

  “I’ll kill this freaking nerd, I swear,” the guy with Veronica hissed.

  Her glasses had slipped down her nose and sat unbalanced on one side. It looked like he’d pulled half her hair out of her ponytail in the initial struggle.

  The guy who put Orlando down ambled up on Draven, his eyes narrowed, his hands becoming fists. He had a swagger about him Draven found distasteful. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs, now in go mode.

  The guy wound up a gigantic haymaker; Draven stepped in quick, drilled him in the nose with a crushing blow. The intruder staggered backwards, his nose gushing, and that’s when Draven rolled in hard and kicked the inside of his knee, buckling it the wrong way. The second he dropped down and fell over sideways, to the surprised, horrified looks of his partners, Draven stomped on the man’s head three times and he was out, done, dead.

  Draven looked up at them with eyes so dark they felt blacker than deep space.

  “One down,” he said, barely haven broken a sweat.

  Martial arts prepared you to defend yourself, to kill if necessary—especially above the black belt ranking—but it never taught you how to deal the mental affects of making such a permanent decision.

  In that moment, he forced the feeling of the kill out of himself.

  Hesitation seldom served the proficient soldier while in the midst of battle. Good soldiers died the instant they surrendered to half-measures. The way he used to compartmentalize pain, that’s how he would compartmentalize the reality of the situation.

  He also reasoned that if any of these fat headed Neanderthals were halfway decent human beings, the guy threatening to kill Veronica wouldn’t have the stones to follow through.

  He hoped he was right.

  That’s why he went after Brooklyn’s assailant.

  The guy whipped out a knife, brought the blade swiftly to her neck. Seeing this, her eyes flashed wide. In Draven’s mind, things were moving quick. He was seeing moves and counter moves, but showing nothing in the way of expression.

  Instead, he was locking down targets, deciding on the best way to dispense of this knucklehead without getting Brooklyn killed.

  “You have my girlfriend there,” he said to the man.

  “Good, then you won’t want her dead.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked. “Sometimes, when couples are fighting, one wants the other dead, but they don’t have the balls to do it. Do you know that in most murder cases where a pretty woman is the victim, the cops look first at the husband or the boyfriend?”

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” the guy asked, like he couldn’t comprehend what Draven was saying.

  “In the midst of all of this death and destruction, I find out my girlfriend there is sleeping with the guy across the street. He’s fifty. He’s got a wife and three kids.”

  Draven watched the man’s eyes, saw the lids opening a bit, knew he’d gotten him nibbling on what he would admit was some rather weak bait.

  It was all he had, though.

  Draven crossed his arms and said, “Go ahead and cut her. I want to watch.”

  “You killed him,” he said, looking down at his dead friend.

  He opened up his hands in an I-guess-so sort of gesture and said, “Looks like I did.” He pointed to Brooklyn and said, “Go on…do your thing.”

  “I’m going to do her and then I’m going to do you!” he snapped, looking increasingly nervous, not an ounce of fun left in his voice. Draven was watching everything about the man, but mostly he was watching the tension sneaking into his expression.

  “Oh, you won’t get me,” Draven said with a creeping grin. “You see, the second she falls, I’m going to take your knife and carve your face off. I’m talking about skinning you from forehead to chin and peeling you like an orange.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Oh really?” Draven asked in disbelief. “Just watch what I do to your friend.”

  Changing tact, he turned and moved in on Veronica’s attacker
.

  “Don’t do it,” Veronica’s guy said, pulling the girl close to him. Draven moved like a hurricane, advancing on the guy, seemingly unconcerned with Veronica even though he was as worried about her as he was Brooklyn.

  He got to the two of them, but instead of striking, he reached out and snatched the guy by the shorthairs and twisted. The intruder grimaced, loosening his grip on Veronica. Draven grabbed her, yanked her out of the man’s grasp, moved her aside.

  Snatching the man’s hand, he pulled it straight, then came under the elbow with a raging forearm, catching him on the elbow, hyperextending his arm. The pop was horrifyingly loud, but the screaming that followed was worse.

  The other man dropped Brooklyn—who collapsed on the floor—then came after him.

  In martial arts class, once Draven had achieved rank of ni dan—second degree black belt—his sensei would ask him if his punch would end the fight. To do this, the opponent would need to be rendered helpless or dead. His sensei asked this in every exchange. Draven always answered “No” as he worked on his technique, his targeting, his footing and the physics of his punch.

  Power came from a lot of things being right.

  In the last fight, the things that were easy to get right in the dojo weren’t easy to get right when a guy came after you with a knife looking to kill you. In this case, he’d paid too much attention to the knife, getting hit a couple of times when he shouldn’t have been touched at all.

  Fortunately, Draven proved to be the better fighter. Still, he took a couple of body shots, got his shirt torn, his arm bitten and earned himself a solid shiner over his right eye.

  When he was done, he stood up, bleeding, his hair pulled and a ragged breath coming from his mouth. Veronica was sobbing, trying to wake Orlando, and Brooklyn was just getting her legs back. He helped stabilize her.

  She just looked at him.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. She touched the tender skin above his eye. He could see it in her look how she wondered if Draven would have let the man kill her.

  “I am,” he said. Looking concerned, he said, “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “I was worried about you,” he said.

  “Seems like you weren’t worried at all,” she said, folding her arms and looking at the bite mark on his forearm.

  Her eyes dropped to Orlando, almost like she’d just remembered that he’d been hit and that he was lying there unconscious. Apparently the lack of oxygen was doing her no favors. Outside the gunfire stopped.

  “I wouldn’t have let him do anything more to you,” he assured her.

  “Are you positive?”

  He smiled, his face softening in spite of the tightness around his eye and said, “Of course. As long as I’m around, I won’t let anything happen to you.” Looking at Veronica as she tried to wake Orlando, he said, “I think something is wrong with your brother.”

  He lowered himself before the boy, Veronica looking up at him with wet, red eyes. “He’s not waking up, Draven. Make him wake up!”

  “Come with us when we leave here,” Brooklyn said as she got down beside her brother. “I don’t want you to stay here. Not now.”

  “My grandmother isn’t going anywhere,” he said, checking Orlando’s pulse. “That’s why I need to get out front and see what’s going on. I can’t have these people starting a war with me and Eudora the second you guys leave.”

  After a moment, when Orlando didn’t wake up, when he didn’t respond to any pain stimulus, Draven said to Brooklyn, “Go get help. Tell them Orlando isn’t coming around, but that he’s still alive. Tell them about the head wound.”

  Chapter Eight

  The second I make a run for it, a hailstorm of bullets follow me. As I’m bolting for the alleyway, Ice is seeking refuge inside. Across the street, where I’d hoped for cover fire from Xavier, I get none. Overhead, where I expected cover from Draven, I get none.

  Suddenly a man with a baseball bat steps out in front of me, winds up and swings for my head. I duck underneath it and keep going because I hear the pounding feet of people hot on my heels. By the time I reach the back porch, a guy with a knife is winding around the house and heading straight for me. With no other options, I choose Eudora’s home over mine.

  That’s where the dead kid is lying.

  I go for his shotgun.

  The second I snatch it up, I rack a load, drop and spin toward the guy with the knife, pull the trigger. The shotgun clicks dry. I never racked a load at all. From my peripheral vision, I see three guys in the alley sprinting towards me.

  The first man, a man with a knife, he’s suddenly at me, slashing at my face.

  Timing the attack, I let the first arc slide by me, then I lunge in, jam a thumb in his eye. He screams, causing me to duck as he’s wildly slashing at anything and everything. I’m suddenly struck on the meaty back of my shoulder with a metal bat. Staggering forward, I drop to my knee, roll forward because Post-Apocalyptic Ty Cobb is swinging at me like I’m the home run he just needs to hit.

  I’m climb to my feet, but his buddy is coming after me.

  The guy shoves me back, his eyes focused on my head.

  He swings and I duck backwards, nearly get slashed in the back by the knife wielder I half-blinded. Spinning back around, I see Ty Cobb winding up again. He swings. Instead of connecting clean with me, I duck and the bat cracks the knife wielding cyclops in the head.

  The hollow, thonking sound gives everyone pause.

  Looking at my first attacker, his jaw is cockeyed, broken for sure. The problem with these guys is, in a fight, you never slow down and you certainly don’t stop.

  You do that, you’re dead.

  Grabbing the knife, I stab the downed soldier in the neck, roll to the left as the baseball bat comes arcing down on me, then get absolutely hammered in the side of the face with a rock. Looking up, some teenager in the alleyway is loading up a slingshot.

  Turning away, my cheek blasted open, I don’t want to curl into a fetal ball, but I can’t risk taking a rock in the eye, or worse, in the mouth. There’s nothing that says you’ve had a God’s awful day like missing teeth.

  Behind me, I hear the back door open and close, and then Ty Cobb—this freaking homer with a baseball bat who is about to punch my clock—he grunts and I hear the baseball bat drop on the porch.

  Turning around, I look up and see this guy’s eyes rolling up into his head. His legs are wobbly and weak. Sticking out of his ear is an icepick. Attached to it is Eliana’s hand. She’s standing behind the man, holding him up with the icepick, but not for long. Mr. Slingshot has his weapon aimed at Eliana, just waiting for the almost-dead guy to drop so he can drill her.

  Taking one for the team, I go after the last man standing. Mr. Slingshot. Getting in between him and Eliana, I put on a burst of speed. He adjusts, aiming at my head about the same time I’m pulling both hands to my face to cover my eyes and mouth.

  He fires on me, as anticipated.

  The rock catches the top of my head, glancing off, but cutting a trail right through my skin and slowing me down. Staggering to a stop, I wobble a bit, then take a knee, fall sideways and land on my side.

  Behind me, Eliana’s guy drops dead.

  Eliana grabs the baseball bat and overhands it like she’s throwing an axe. It whooshes right by me. Mr. Slingshot turns and cowers, getting hammered in the right shoulder with the heavy end of the bat.

  Now that I am officially pissed off that this kid has messed up my face, I’m getting up, pushing through my messed up equilibrium, my rage, and all this anger just to go after him. Just to get even. Black spots form around the edges of my vision, seconds disappearing, maybe even minutes.

  All I remember are small flashes of what happened.

  Then, looking around, I see it’s already over.

  But the flashes of memory, they tell me everything. There’s me going after the guy. Him trying to get up. Blackness. There’s crying and squirming and an extended arm o
f the guy. And blood. Blackness. There’s him laid out on the ground and my body swinging down on his near dead body, over and over and over again, each impact like hitting a dead animal. Blackness. Me fighting off hands, a flash of Eliana’s face, me stomping on the guy’s head. Blackness. Someone in my face, talking to me. Ice. He’s snapping his fingers, and I’m starting to rise out of this fog.

  Now we’re in the current moment and I’m slowly coming around.

  If you’ve never suffered blackout rage, trust me it’s a real thing, and not something you’d ever want to experience. In the last ten days I’ve suffered it three times, and each time I had a body count to show for this lack of control.

  “What happened, Ice?” I ask, my body overheated, my forehead throbbing and raw, my cheek feeling swollen.

  “You’re alright brother, just a bit of blood.”

  He’s wiping at my forehead, dabbing my cheek. The cloth he’s using, it’s a tan washcloth I recognize from our kitchen, but now it’s mostly bloody. Looking around, my vision still swimming, there are three dead people, Ice and Eliana.

  Eliana is looking at me with hard eyes.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You scare me,” she says.

  “Did you actually stick that man with an icepick?” I ask. She looks away. “And you’re scared of me?”

  “You use what you can. Maybe instead of complaining about how I saved your ass, you could say thank you.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  A moment later, Brooklyn comes running out the back door and sees me. Looking at Ice she says, “Draven needs help. He’s on the third floor and there are a ton of them!”

  “Take your father’s arm,” Ice tells Brooklyn. “I’ll cover us out here.”

  She takes my arm, stabilizing me, then says, “Daddy?”

  “I’m okay, sweetie,” I tell her. “It’s just…”

  “My God, your face!” she says.

  “Is it still on?”

  Just then a booming gunshot goes off. Instinctually we duck, but then a woman and a younger man who are clearly fleeing the street start towards us. They aren’t trying to attack, rather they’re trying to retreat.