When the Light Lay Still

by Charles J. Eskew

  It did help catapult president Gurney in the polls, giving him an altruistic mission to rescue America’s best and brightest from those who would poison and indoctrinate them.

  For Carl, the high was nice, but it proved more valuable that Halcyon Daze made him more of a businessman while using it than anything else.

  It took ten years of falling in and out of love with Halcyon Daze, and other drugs more dangerous in the long term before he made the first objectively informed decision of his life. He didn’t kill Thurgood; he listened to him. Thurgood listened, too. He listened to a tired hostage, under-galvanised. He listened to the qualms, and watched the charm, of someone who had a hell of a lot more in common with the suspicious and cowardly lot of lowlifes than he’d had.

  He listened to the beginning of something that would carry on for years, and hopefully fill the air with not just words, but action.

  “SO, JUDGE JONES, what do you think?” Judge Poet asked from the passenger side of the 2019 junker of a car they sat parked in for cover, after releasing a colossal fart.

  “Who benefits?” he continued. “Vegan chili, by the way, in case you’re wondering. I’ve expelled a Franklin, and you, being stuck in this car with me, are burdened by it. Granted, I am too, but I am rewarded in divesting myself of the chaos of beans.”

  “Oh. Oh, god, that is—Who the hell is Franklin?” Judge Jones shouted, his nose filling with justice.

  “Benjamin Franklin of course. He penned one of the most succinct articles on the importance of releasing gaseous waste from our body whenever we can. The man deserves his just due, and I for one will give it to him how I can.” Judge Poet looked proud, and as far as Ezekiel was concerned, was far too prepared for the speech.

  “Well, we both have to deal with your rancid ass, so I can’t say any of us benefits. You’ve just nearly shat yourself and you could have held off until we’re more than a foot or so away from one another. You made a choice, and it was a shitty one at that.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose I could have waited. Though, Tank, you haven’t really done much other than tell me that the inconvenience to you is greater value than mine. It isn’t wrong necessarily, but it makes you a bit of a hypocrite, doesn’t it? I, in my time of Franklin, have done nothing more, in making a choice to take care of my person.” Judge Poet took a long, Oscar-worthy sniff at the air.

  “Your argument here, then—just to make sure I have it—is that, by asking you to not fill a very enclosed space with your… Franklin, which we are both occupying and just need to get through, that I am only considering myself in this scenario?”

  “Not so much an argument as a statement of fact. You consider your pain more important than mine. Do you deny it? Do you hold, like the old guard does, to some feigned altruism? I have to say… so far, I don’t quite understand what Marisa sees in you, Judge Jones.” Judge Poet hadn’t broken eye contact with Judge Jones.

  An hour, and a second Franklin, passed—in each case, faster for one man than the other.

  They spoke again when running through, for the umpteenth time, the file of Carl ‘Catastrophe’ Patterson. To Judge Poet’s credit, they didn’t veer away from the clunky dialogue Judges generally used, at least as long as they were discussing facts.

  Jones didn’t judge the bone-breaking brute’s selling history of Halcyon Daze. He bemoaned, like any liberal, the harsh enforcement, the ways in which the decriminalisation may have helped his mother. He made the novice mistake, the old mistake, of injecting an anecdote of experience, against the more important things. The things that mattered.

  “You confound me, Judge Jones,” Poet said solemnly, and Ezekiel couldn’t do much besides survey him blankly for a moment, before a laugh leapt from his mouth and latched longer than he’d thought capable in years.

  “That’s… Okay. Fuck it, I’ll bite. Why—no, how do I confound you, Judge Poet?”

  Judge Poet’s features hardened behind the sad smirk.

  “Because you’ve seen this, you watched a boy bleed out in the street. You, who has seen a world I won’t pretend to know, ran to the law. Yet, somehow, you still question the law’s worth.”

  “It didn’t do all that much for the people, though, did it? Halcyon Daze—that did something for people, and I don’t think it’s wrong to admit that.” Jones looked back out onto the street.

  “Never said I thought he was wrong; do you think something so simple as right and wrong exists, Judge Jones? Do you also collect unicorn horns to power Santa’s sleigh?”

  “Believing that some things are wrong isn’t inherently ignorant, Judge Poet.”

  “No, not ignorant, but… fatally optimistic.”

  Two hours, three and a half Franklins, and one regurgitated debate on the importance of 2A schools passed between the two.

  Judge Jones was saved from Poet’s ramblings when their prey finally arrived. Two Brotherhood members had been patrolling the area.

  More importantly though, two fairly sized, one-size-fits-all-cloak-wearing Brotherhood members.

  The Judges left the car in unison, tumbling out to the pavement and slowly closing their doors without a sound. For all his ramblings, Judge Poet knew how to shut the hell up when it served a greater good.

  Left, left, left, right.

  Right, nod, left-eye blink, right-eye blink.

  The Judges had seen the benefit of sign language, but saw no use in a system anyone else could read, so they’d made their own. Ezekiel noted Poet’s nods, took out a large, black ball from his belt and tossed it to the side of the building, where it vibrated loudly.

  Startled, the hooded strangers shuffled in the darkness, away from the halogen lights. Judge Poet struck first, while Jones darted to position; they made contact in the same moment; Jones striking his target’s throat with the side of his hand, stealing his sound, before cracking the top of his skull with the butt of his pistol. Poet’s approach lacked Jones’s precision, grabbing the back of his target’s head and feeding it into the side of the building, silencing his victim before the ensuing wail.

  As Poet released his target’s head, Judge Jones’s heel was already en route to the back of his skull, the crunch of a patriotic boot liberating society from another Brotherhood layabout.

  “Shit,” Ezekiel mouthed, as he quickly stripped one of the targets, Poet the other, hoping to get their robes off of them unbloodied.

  “What is it?” Judge Poet asked, muffled by the robe he’d slid down over his uniform.

  “Fatality… I was hoping to avoid—”

  “Coulda been worse, coulda been two. Let’s go.”

  Judge Jones nodded in reply before shifting the bodies into the shadows.

  They entered the warehouse, keeping the grey hoods low. Clearly, the enigmatic Thurgood had got the word out to the lowlifes. The subterraneans, the inhuman scourge of food stamps and unearned freedoms.

  In the robes it was hard to make out how many of the street gangs the crime lord had corralled together, but in the few glimpses the Judges allowed themselves—risking discovery every time they raised their faces—it seemed his reach had extended beyond the walls of the city. It didn’t line up, though; what sort of tech do you offer to competing dealers all at once? Thurgood was undercutting his own market.

  Of course, the man himself was nowhere to be seen. From the whispering around them, the arms dealer had opted out of attending: according to some because he was on his third felony, to others because he was a coward. Most had no idea one way or another, beyond tales of an eight foot, two dicked Mensa member who knew kung fu.

  The bulk of the similarly-garbed gang-banging trash was, as expected, the Brotherhood themselves. Even as they stood in that greyed robe from head to toe, Ezekiel read them by all the things not to be seen.

  Desk worker, bad posture—Black

  Female—Indian

  Black—Janitor—Felon

  Mother—Incel—Sugar addict

  Then there was movement behind him, and he and Poet
shifted to see what was happening next.

  THE BROTHERHOOD SPLIT down the middle in obeisance to Carl ‘Catastrophe’ Patterson. The former enforcer was wheeled out on a podium, waving grandly as he paraded through the crowd. When the podium stopped, he straightened his tie, allowing silence to fill the warehouse, because—as he’d put it to Thurgood earlier that day—Niggas gonna put some respect on my suit, if I’m expected to drop stack on it.

  “Welcome my brothas! My sistas, my cousins, my wiggas, my niggas, my bitches, my thots and my hoteps, to the last weapons sale you’ll ever need!” There were murmurs, and chuckles.

  “Where is the real leader, where is Thurgood?” an 86-Scarlet gang member asked from the safety of the crowd.

  “Ah, Thurgood. Y’all niggas stay on that enigmatic figurehead bull, fam. There ain’t no Thurgood. How about that? How about there is just the Brotherhood, and we ain’t got no leader, don’t need no leader. We just got the message, and the means to deliver that good news.” More murmurs, less chuckles, and the kindling within Catastrophe to show how cold a motherfucker he was.

  “Let me tell you what this ain’t finna be. Y’all taking turns talking in the back of class or some shit!” Catastrophe shouted, and stopped, until someone got their mind right and remembered to bring him the mic.

  “You all have a unique opportunity, a promise for the most minimal of effort on your part,” the gangster continued, and the Brotherhood members chanted the word, opportunity.

  “We came here for an auction, my nigga, not some dashiki shit,” Jimmy ‘Jank-A-Motha-Fucka-From-Behind’ Frampton said from the back of the crowd. He’d led the Cheddar Chips, who’d spent their days cornering the market on academic grounds, slinging Vyvance to pre- and post-grads.

  Jimmy was also known for his chronic use of said product, which at times led him to precarious situations, such as challenging a dude named Catastrophe.

  Catastrophe wasn’t patient in many things, including outbursts from hopheads. He descended from the podium in a slow, slick promenade to Jimmy, and smashed the microphone into Jimmy’s mouth.

  Carl didn’t pay much mind to Jimmy after that, turning his smile to the rest of the Cheddar Chips behind their tooth-alleviated leader. When he felt his point had been made, he turned to his own two-hundred moderately-trained Brotherhood members.

  “Nigga, my nigga, if you do not want the talking stick, you shouldn’t have asked for it, my nigga,” he said sweetly. Judge Poet chuckled caustically for a moment, before looking around and restraining himself.

  “Niggas be on some real nigga shit, but I see you niggas, I see you. I am not a prophet. I cannot tell you the way niggas on the west is gonna watch the sunset with niggas on the east, but no one can. I can tell you, though, that beyond the colours and the package and the fu’n-fu’n Godfather vendetta ish, that we all respect that all y’all just tryna survive, my niggas. Why is we just surviving, though, ya feel? Why we just okay with them corralling us against one another, my nigga? Why ain’t we just doing this our way, in our homes? You hear me, my niggas?” Catastrophe cried out, his exuberance received and reflected en masse by his niggas within this warehouse.

  “Buh… buh, yo, Catastrophe…” ventured another thug. “I ain’t tryna get my face busted and shit, but that nigga Jim had a point. I’m hearing what you sayin’, nigga, but you ain’t being practical about this. Yo’ fallacy lies in the method, my nigga. Say we all, what, put down our primary revenue source, therefore losing our footing of real, tangible control, my nigga, we lose the majority of these fake-ass, halfway crook-ass weekend niggas ’cause we also lost our executory powers over these niggas. All for some Huey P. Newton ish, my nigga? Like, yo, I done heard you got a fuckin’ arsenal, but ’less you got fuckin’ tanks, and fuckin’-fuckin’ controlling interest of Ump Post, then we just throwin’ our lives away, fam.” There were murmurs sprouting, as they do, between everyone’s feet. But Catastrophe was more than just a cold motherfucker: he raised his arms, fanning down the scatter-shot conversations. When there was silence, he delivered a snapback.

  “Nigga, my nigga, you speak true, my nigga. However, I must stress criticality upon letting a nigga finish, my nigga.” Catastrophe laughed, and it spread throughout the warehouse.

  JUDGE JONES THOUGHT to join in the laughter, mostly hoping he’d remembered how. But he just grunted as a Brotherhood member behind him shoved a foot behind his knee. He caught himself and straightened again, but the gang-banger behind him seemed hell-bent on dicking with him. They shoved Ezekiel’s arm forward, and it hung for a moment in the air as if he’d had a question for Catastrophe.

  Jones remained calm, though if he hadn’t turned for a moment to see the face beneath the hood, he may not have stayed as composed.

  “Nigga, my nigga, you think of a minor portion of our retail, my nigga. A fundamental analysis of our program, of what we really offer, my nigga, will surely change your mind. Nigga, I ain’t gonna sit here and say I came prepped with an EPS, my nigga, but there isn’t even a fuckin’ margin of investment to consider, my nigga. You could argue that high volatility is something to consider, but the stability of Thurgood’s—of the Brotherhood’s—reach comes into play when you see that he also has the information to put behind the weapons. Y’all niggas, sittin’ up here scared of the police… psh… y’all ain’t even seein’ beyawnd, my nigga. Y’all ain’t on our level, that futurist ish my niggas, what if we told you it ain’t gonna stop on the streets? What if I told you we even gonna take on tha Judges, my nigga?”

  “Preach that shit, Catastrophe!”

  “We got the only Judge on these streets behind us,” Catastrophe shouted.“The Judge that holds the most important weapon of all, my niggas.Thurgood is that nigga’s name. Thurgood has the means of production, my niggas. We ain’t giving you no bullshit, and I got proof!” He snapped his head up to manically laugh. “See, you join us, you commit a dollar, aname on a paper, a tangible display of yo’ heart in this game, ya feel? You do that? Then you stand behind someone that knows how they work. Someone who knows about them punk-ass Judges that are even here tonight, in this room, my niggas!”

  It was already too late for either Judge Poet or Judge Jones to attempt any kind of escape. The woman behind Ezekiel latched her hands over him, and he didn’t attempt to struggle.

  “I see in the dark. You will lay still forever in the garden of our dismay. Sleep now, sweet boy, know the fruit will fall in time.” As Marisa uttered the words beneath her hood, she began shoving Judge Jones ahead through the crowd, pulling his hood back to show his helmet. He fought back, of all things, a pang of nostalgia as she led him to the Catastrophe ahead.

  She’d said the words loudly enough for Poet to hear, who chuckled as he was pushed alongside Ezekiel by another Brotherhood member. He seemed less concerned with the strapped, sadistic criminal buttcrust than he should have been. If the vagabonds of violence had been to the Academy at all, they may have understood why.

  I see in the dark, she’d said. I am with you, Judge, but must stay unseen.

  Jones and Poet suffered through the wads of spit, the petty names and threats, as they were tied up beneath Catastrophe at the podium, by Marisa and the others. They were good soldiers, though, and made sure to do as they were told.

  You will lay forever in the garden of our dismay. Follow my lead, play chicken, head down, eyes open.

  If he’d just had a heads-up that he’d be sitting stiff and full of piss for two hours while every gang member followed Thurgood’s ritual, signing and paying a monetary pledge, he may have planned his time in the car with Poet more appropriately.

  The upside, however, was the expeditious nature of the trade; the gangs excited to move along to a promised demonstration of the weapons, using a couple of Judges’ heads as targets.

  There were so many choices, and it gave them time at least to consider how best to build a corpse. The dorsal and ventral rounds equipped to the weapon were engaged by four buttons above the grip: fir
e, bullet, poison dart and electrocution.

  There was an Instagram post of the Judges with a gun aimed at each of their heads by Shaquan ‘Reverse-Bachman-in-this-bitch’ Arnold for three and a half minutes before a Brotherhood member had to force him to take it down. The spectacle, as far as Judge Jones could see, was worthy of a photo. The Brotherhood members walked the grounds with forms, collection bags and tablets affixed with credit card readers.

  One dollar, Judge Jones thought while observing them sign and pay. Even in a crowd that large, there wasn’t anything that Thurgood couldn’t have achieved through a dozen other means. How did production even continue at that low price point? Judge Jones wondered, if only to keep from pissing himself.

  There was a familiar obedient freedom about it all, Ezekiel considered, watching the not-so-free market. Anyone too proud, too individual, was turned away. It seemed Thurgood had no room for the non-believer.

  “He got the same e-mail as everyone else,” Ezekiel overheard a Brotherhood member say to two members of ‘The Subversively Named Gang’ gang.

  “Listen, bruh, he’s—we came all this way, my boy’s just new,” said the senior of the two.

  “New? To… to readin’, my nigga?” The Brotherhood frowned.

  When the guns were properly distributed with all-sized grey monk’s robes folded neatly beneath them, the Judges were dragged forward again.

  Catastrophe waited, with his microphone in hand, raised high until his audience stopped their calls for the Judges to burn and bleed and everything else.

  How the shit did they know? Ezekiel wondered as Catastrophe looked the Judges over, and after a requisite cold-motherfucker glare, flapped the flat of his palm over their helmets. After a full minute of slapping at them like they were bongos or something, he brought the microphone back to his mouth.