Nine
A garbage can crashed to the pavement. Mort Braggs
whirled about, aiming the gun at the can rolling from an alley. A cat
flew along the ground in pursuit of scattering rats. Grinning, Mort
resisted the temptation to open fire on the little scavengers.
Nervous tension gathered inside him like storm
clouds. He walked in a large circle in the middle of the street,
wondering how to get back to the safety of the jungle. The closest city
park was a mile away. Baker Street Park. It had two dying trees, knee
high weeds, and a rusting swing set without any seats. It was a place for
drug dealers, not kids. Jungle animals, but not house cats.
Mort chalked the jungle down to a dream. He had
dreamed the cat just before his father had awakened him and kicked him
out. Why shouldn't he be confused? His head still spun with fatigue.
He'd go to school in the morning and get cut down for dirty clothes and
blood-shot eyes. Hungry, he'd not be able to study.
At least there would be Marla van Kirk. The Ice
Queen. Marla was always the bright spot of his day, even if she would
have nothing to do with him. They were both messed over in the head.
They shared that in common. Otherwise, they were from different worlds
entirely.
Rick Kaiser was from a good background. Marla van
Kirk would never lower herself beneath her station in life, but he knew
what she thought of Rick aside from all that. Rick was a wimp. Marla van
Kirk had yet to learn that he had more in common with her than Rick. Her
parents had taught her that she was special, just as his parents had
taught him that he was special, too, a thorn in the side of the world.
"Hey, punk."
Mort froze in place. The voice had sounded from
directly behind him. Mort turned slowly. The mugger searched his eyes
for fear. He found none. Mort brought the shiny forty-five pistol up to
bear.
With a cry of surprise, the mugger turned and fled.
Mort followed him with the barrel of the gun.
Slowly, his anger grew. His finger squeezed the trigger relentlessly.
The gun boomed. The kick sent him staggering back.
The bullet sparked off the side of a building an inch above the running
man's head. The man spun around with a look of mortal terror in his eyes.
A car stopped at the intersection a quarter block
away. The overhead street light highlighted the dent in the hood. His
buddies were back looking for the gun they had lost. One man got out of
the car. Fire spat like firecrackers sparkling in the night. Bullets
zipped and sank like angry bees around Mort's head.
In a raging anger that would not be denied, Mort
raised his gun and fired. The boom was like thunder. Again, the recoil
pushed him back a step.
The front tire of the car blew. The car sank to one
side like an injured animal. Fire flashed from beneath the engine,
glowing on the pavement below. Four doors flew open, and its passengers
scattered.
An explosion blew the hood off a moment later. As
the sheet metal spun end for end and landed with a loud bang on the
street, electrical sparks flickered blue against the sides of buildings.
Fire lit with a whumping sound in the engine
compartment and ran beneath the car. The fuel tank of the car exploded,
rolling a fireball into the night sky. The rear of the car rose into the
air with it. The car balanced itself on its nose, then went over onto its
back, rocking to and fro, and burning fiercely.
"Wow."
Dazed, Mort backed into the shadows. He turned and
walked away on wobbling knees. Within seconds, sirens echoed in the
distance, responding to dozens of emergency calls phoned in by the people
in the surrounding tenement buildings.
"Hey, kid! Hold it right there!"
The echo between the buildings made it hard to
pinpoint the source of the voice. Mort finally spotted a figure in the
window of a second floor apartment. He man stood against a table lamp
inside, pointing a rifle down at him.
The man fired first. The bullet struck between
Mort's legs and buzzed away. Mort fired back, and somehow the boom was
even louder this time. The entire face of the building twice the size of
the window blew inward. Dust billowed out above the street. Within the
depths of the wound, a ruddy fire began to glow.
Mort backed away in disbelieving surprise as the
building began to burn. Flames rose inside, appearing in windows adjacent
to his target, then overhead. Inside, people were screaming. They came
pouring from the building at ground level like cockroaches swarming into
the night, and out onto the roof overhead. By the time Mort had run the length of
the block, flames speared the night sky. Fire trucks and ambulances
converged from all sides, filling the dark streets with flashing red, blue
and white lights.
A police car pulled alongside him. "Hey kid, what's
with the gun?"
The officer climbed from the car, pulling his own
revolver and bracing it against the top of the car. "Drop it kid! Turn
and spread 'em!"
Mort ducked off to one side. A bullet fired at him
smacked a brownstone wall at his side, stinging his face with cement
dust. Mort dodged into an alley and ran the length of it. He stopped at
the dead-end wall blocking his way. Behind him, the cruiser with flashing
blue lights barricaded his only way out.
"Hold it right there, kid!" The cop's angry voice
echoed. "You might as well give it up!"
Mort tried a door set in a wall of brick off to one
side. He blew the lock away with one shot. The inside of the building
was an empty factory of some kind. A few bare bulbs dimly illuminated the
interior.
Flashing red and blue lights filled every window.
Cops moved in from every direction.
"Hey, kid. What do you say? Let's you and me talk."
Mort ducked into the shadows.
"Kid, it's a lost cause. Give it up before somebody
gets hurt. Let's at least talk about it."
Mort dodged from cover to cover within the
machinery-filled building. Behind him, the officer followed with his
hands in the air.
But others stirred in the shadows, waiting for a
clear shot. Mort knew how they operated. His father had described the
procedure a thousand times.
There was something familiar about this particular
cop. Mort knew the face from somewhere. One of Gunther's friends?
Gunther's friends were ancient. Most of them had already retired. Some
had died. This man was younger.
"Put down the gun. You're not in any serious trouble
yet. Let's keep it that way."
"It was self-defense!" Mort called out. He sounded
shrill and unsure of himself. He had set half the city afire and he was
yelling self-defense. The cops would never buy his story. Gunther would
never make bail for him. He'd rot away beneath city hall for six months
before they shoved him through some overcrowded court and sent him away
for good.
"I'll give you the gun," Mort said, hoping to sound
reasonable. "You let me go."
"Set the gun down, and we'll talk about it."
"Back off, mister!" Mort raised his gun. "Don't
come any closer!"
They were pushing, forcing him to either give in or
get shot. One stupid mistake would nail him. Even now, one of them could
be sneaking up from..."
From less that twenty feet behind him, a careless
footstep kicked an empty can. Mort swung around. He saw only a dark
shape. And a raised handgun.
"Kid, don't!"
Mort fired. He had to shoot or be shot.
The gunshot was like thunder. The dark shape
staggered back into the light. Light fell across the officer's face.
Mort saw an expression of horror.
On her face.
On a face he did recognize from a hundred pictures
around the apartment. Gunther had accused him a thousand times in his
drunken rages.
"You killed her! The last thing she needed was
the distraction of a kid! I told her and I told her you'd be a mistake.
You as good as killed her yourself, you worthless piece of crap!"
And he had. The face of the dying officer was the
face of his mother. Mort turned back to his father, recognizing him, too,
from old photographs. He hadn't as yet been born when his father was this
young.
Gunther Braggs leveled his handgun, his face
contorted with panic and rage. Mort had time to raise his hand. "No,
wait..."
In a split second, the young cop became the defeated
old man that Mort knew. Anguish took form on Gunther Braggs' face. Grief
without measure. Rage beyond boundaries.
Mort never heard the first shot. He never felt it,
or the others that followed in close succession.
