Half-Resurrection Blues (22 page)

B
ut nothing is ever simple. I am, after all, limp-legged. I’m fierce with it, of course, got it down to a nice rhythmic swagger, but that’s
with
my cane. Without the damn cane, I just hobble. Still, the giant’s leg is freshly busted and he hasn’t gotten used to the shifting of weight, the trembling off-balance feeling with every step. Then again, he’s huge. So we’re about even, and must be quite a sight to behold, tearing through the crowded midnight streets.

If it wasn’t Carnival, I’m sure we’d get even more stares, but as it stands, Brooklyn is bursting with strangely swaggering people. Moishe and I are both a little paler and a little more desperate than the rest, but otherwise, no one pays us much mind. There’s a strip of Flatbush Avenue that’s four lanes wide and surrounded by wilderness; the park on one side and the Botanical Gardens on the other. Hundreds of revelers crowd the street, dancing and yelling and carrying on. I push through, working my way north toward Eastern Parkway and trying not to hurt anybody or start a fight. Every time I look back, the giant is gaining on me. Halfway to Grand Army Plaza I’m already winded as hell. This no-cane-having bullshit is
really not the way to go. I pause for a few seconds to catch my breath. The giant’s huge pale head bounces above the crowd toward me.

Then, all at once, I’m in the Underworld, surrounded by ghosts. It takes me a second to realize that it’s just Riley’s Second Sight kicking in, and even then it’s freakishly disorienting. Those same horrible, slow-moving ghouls crowd all around, and some kind of tumultuousness is erupting up ahead. The ghouls lurch forward as one and then a few of them back up suddenly.

“Carlos, can you hear me? Ugh! Stupid question, my bad. Anyway, hopefully this shit is working and you can see that I’m surrounded by your old nursing home friends, and Sasha’s up ahead somewhere, fucking shit up. Gonna try to get you a visual. Stand by.”

Just what I need: a visual of the woman who’s probably carrying my baby tussling with a gang of ancient death creatures.

I squint my left eye so the real world around me comes back into focus and then duck into Prospect Park. Everything on the ground is useless twigs, but up ahead I see a felled tree. I limp over to it and snap one of the branches free, maybe a little more aggressively than necessary. This’ll do.

I don’t see the giant anywhere, so I pop back out onto Flatbush and, now with at least a semblance of a cane, make my way north with a quickness.

*   *   *

Sasha is in rare form. At first, all I see are ghost bodies falling over themselves to get out of the way. Then Riley shoves through the crowd and there she is: beautiful as ever and with a little paunch in her belly. She’s got a blade in each hand, and there’s no doubt she knows exactly
what the fuck she’s doing with them. This isn’t some frantic slash-fest; she lashes out with precision, cuts down one ghost and simultaneously stabs another as it rushes up behind her. Every move is exactly as fierce as it needs to be; she never overshoots, doesn’t even seem winded.

Suddenly, her presence at the Red Edge makes perfect sense. She wasn’t just keeping an eye on her brother: she was his bodyguard. No wonder he was so terrified that night—his protector hadn’t come along with him. But still, there was something else . . . The giant is waiting for me at Grand Army Plaza. He must’ve slipped ahead while I picked a new cane. The crowds are thicker and sweatier here. Eastern Parkway is the epicenter of the revelry, and it’s kicked into full swing as we hurtle toward dawn. I duck into a passing crowd of revelers, trying to lose myself in the masses. The giant wades in after me. He’s smiling.

*   *   *

“Carlos, you seeing this? Fuck, I keep doing that. I really wish we had two-way, my brother, because I would love to hear what the fuck you’re saying right now. Your girl is killing them! Literally. I’ve really never seen anything like it
.
”

She really is, too. I think about my desperate slashing while I was trying to get away from the same ghouls. That wasn’t even swordplay, just me trying to stay alive and keep a clear path. Sasha’s in her physical body, which makes them come at her even more voraciously, but none can get close. She advances forward in careful sidesteps, one blade pulled back at hip level and the other in front, pointed straight up. When a few ghosts try to get cute and slosh forward hungrily, she slices in a clean downward diagonal, catching three of them with one strike.
They fall back, and when two more come forward, she stabs them with her other blade,
pow-pow
, in quick succession and steps over their writhing forms. It’s like a dance, the way she glides along, chopping and hacking as she goes.

The giant’s disappeared again though, so I have to check fully back into reality and get my ass to Mama Esther’s.

U
nderhill Avenue is a small, relatively quiet street tucked in between Washington and Vanderbilt. It’s mostly residential and white and the revelry hasn’t spilled onto it much, so I hang a left off Eastern Parkway and make good progress for a block or two. Then I realize he’s behind me. I feel the air shift as he lumbers onto Underhill from the parkway, feel the world call out its quiet warnings. He’s teeming with rage and I can feel that too. Whatever shred of a soul he’s got left has been corroded with the singular intent of destroying me—that much is clear. And me being elusive is irking the shit out of him. He lumbers down the block. His gait’s still torqued from that kneecap I shattered, but still, the guy’s fast.

I cut across a playground, all stretched out shadows and pools of darkness, and then wind around a corner toward Washington. If it comes down to it, I’ll have to engage him again, but I really don’t know how many more of these little throwdowns I can take. Perhaps his other kneecap will have to be my next target. When I check back, he’s already storming through the playground.

Washington Avenue is bustling with a mix of celebrating West Indians in feathers and face paint, and drunken
hipsters in, well, hipster clothes. I dash across the street, nearly get smashed by a city bus, and head down Prospect Place toward Classon. He’s a half a block back and gaining. People are staring at him, this ungainly giant on my trail, but no one thinks to, say, stick out their foot and trip him, or arrest him maybe. I should be so lucky.

In the Underworld, Sasha’s cleared herself some kind of space and is leaning against a tree, panting. She’s also, I notice, clutching her belly. I wish Riley would tell me what the fuck is going on, but I guess there’s nothing to say: she fought off the ghouls and is probably composing herself before the final assault on Mama Esther’s. Or whatever the plan is. Riley seems to be watching from behind a corner, and suddenly the view spins and I’m looking back at the mass of hungry ghosts. I hear him say,
Oh shit.
There’re hundreds of them and more gathering every second. They’re all facing toward Sasha. Angry storm clouds converge in the murky skies of Hell.

The march toward life has begun.

*   *   *

Where is Sarco? I need him to show up so (a) I can stop worrying about where he is and (b) I can know Sasha’s not really in charge of this whole nasty scheme. Okay, I’m in denial. I can admit that and still be in denial, right?

This ginormous, old building sprawled across a full block of Classon Avenue was once the Jewish Hospital and then a vacant, graffiti-covered ghost sanctuary, and now it’s a bunch of luxury apartments. Go figure.

When I turn around, the giant is lurching across the street toward me. He waves a baseball bat that he must’ve picked up somewhere. I’m just trying to imagine how poorly my dead branch will match up against that Louisville Slugger
when he gets plowed into by a passing livery cab. That huge body splays out across the windshield, spiderwebbing it, and then he slides down and tumbles off to the side of the street.

“The fuck!” the driver yells, jumping out. The giant’s up in seconds flat and towering over him. The driver gets calm real quick. “Okay, buddy, okay.” The giant grunts and taps his bat against the Crown Vic a few times, causing excessive damage and making his point very clearly. As I leave, the driver jumps back in his car and screeches off.

I can see Mama Esther’s. It’s two blocks down on the right. I’m not even totally sure what I’m going to do when I get there, but I know if the world is about to be overrun by throngs of hungry ghosts, I need to be on that rooftop to stem the flow. The giant grunts a few blocks behind me.

And then it starts to rain.

*   *   *

I pause at Mama Esther’s doorway to catch my breath and check on Sasha. For a second, it’s impossible to tell where she is because there’re so many damn ghosts around. Then I recognize one of the towers that marks the entranceway to Prospect Park, just a crooked shadow of itself in the Underworld, and realize Sasha is much farther back than I had thought. Either the ghosts have held up her progress or . . .

“Uh, Carlos, I don’t think ol’ girl’s heading for Mama Esther’s.”
Riley has such excellent timing. If she’s not going to Mama Esther’s, there must be another target spot where they’ve set up to tear open the breach. Somewhere with ngks surrounding it, which could really be anywhere as long as they aren’t reported. I step off the stoop and start fast-walking down Franklin, keeping an eye out
for the giant. Somewhere with a halfie, which is wherever Sasha goes, really.

“Carlos.”
And somewhere with a foundational ghost. “
Carlos, she’s heading for the plaza.”

Pasternak.

Fuck.

T
he way I see it,”
Riley’s explaining helpfully, “
that faux poetic dipshit Pasternak is a grounded ghost, just like Esther. He’s the house ghost of the Grand Army Plaza, right? So that’s that.”

I’m heading fast down Franklin, pushing through the crowd past tattoo parlors and hair salons. Still no giant. Sasha’s at the foot of the archway. A thick forest of hungry ghosts crowds around her, but they’re keeping some distance now; either they know better than to fuck with her or they realize she’s about to bust them out of Hell.

“And the only reason we knew about the ngks around Franklin is because Mama Esther reported them, right? Right. So let’s say this Pasternak fuck is in it with whoever, Sarco or Sasha, either that or they got him under some kinda spell, which would explain why he was such a babbling pain in the ass the other night, I suppose. Man . . . shit’s devious, yo.”

That’s the damn truth. A middle-aged Rasta guy steps in my path to explain that he has flags for sale, all brightly displayed on this table right here. I nod and smile and sway out of the way and keep it moving. Cut a right on Saint John’s Place, a left on Classon, and keep zigzagging
street to street till I’m back on the parkway. The whole world is exploding with revelers. A warm, thumping ecstasy has settled over the crowd, and they’re all boogying to the same syncopated beat that bursts out of the speakers.

“She’s inside
,”
Riley reports.
“
I’m going in after her.”
It’s dark in the Underworld; Riley must be in the leg of the archway. A spirally metal staircase winds upward into the shadows.

Finally, I’m at the plaza, winded and sweaty but in one piece and the giant’s nowhere to be seen. On the inner part of the arch there’s a small door, locked tight by a heavy chain. There’s a million people around, including cops, but they’re all focused away from me, watching the endless party burst along the parkway, so they don’t see me make quick work of the lock and slip inside.

I muddle around for a few seconds till I find the light switch, but it’s pretty useless—a dim little bulb comes to life from behind a few stacked chairs, and I can only just make out . . . a snarling dragon face glaring down at me. What the hell? I glance around and realize I’m surrounded by grinning skeletons, old hunchbacks, perched crows. All frozen in that lumpy, papier-mâchéd eternity and gathering dust. Who knew? I start up the spiraling metal staircase.

Something’s happening.

Sasha’s on the second-floor landing—a crude metal platform, shrouded in darkness. But she’s not running up the stairs. She’s turned around. Riley must be right in front of her. She’s says something and takes a menacing step toward me . . . him. Us. Riley’s blade is out, pointed forward. I realize I may be about to watch my best friend kill the woman who’s carrying my baby, or vice versa, and all I want to do is close my eyes and make it go away.

And then I notice something about Sasha. It’s subtle.
At first I think I’m making it up—but no, it’s that glint in her eye. It’s familiar. It’s . . . Sarco. Yes, now that I see it, I’m sure of it. Sasha takes a step forward, slashes out at Riley, and there’s no doubt: Sarco is there. He’s with her. In her. Sarco’s taken over Sasha. No wonder we couldn’t find him all night.

Sasha’s blade whips out at Riley again. He parries and backs a few steps down the stairs. He’s holding back; he doesn’t want to hurt her or the baby. Our baby. If Sarco’s inside of Sasha now, that means . . . the junky probably wasn’t his real body either. He’s a parasite. Inhabits the living and then leaves them shredded up inside and a few days later, they hemorrhage and die. David. David just up and bled out, not long after the whole mess. It also means Sarco’s not a halfie at all, not anymore anyway—he’s something else entirely. I tuck that information away for my next bar fight or Council run-in.

Sarco/Sasha charges down a few steps and slices, first with one blade and then the other. Riley blocks the first cut, but the second catches his hand. The view gets all jumbly as he stumbles backward down the stairs, then loses his balance and clatters to the ground. I see Sasha’s feet running up toward the next landing.

Trevor was terrified that night, I think as I run up another flight. He was whispering to me, like he thought someone was listening. Because Sarco was there, lurking inside David the hipster’s little body. Hiding in the trees probably that whole time while Trevor died in my arms. Then he moved on to the junky’s body, leaving David mortally ill and terrified. I reach the next landing, push past some long-armed papier-mâché skeletons, and start up the ladder toward the roof. And after Sarco got stuck in the Underworld with me, he re-entered the junky and then abandoned him a few days later. Then the junky
wandered out and died too. Then Sarco must’ve just free floated for a while, recovering, until he landed on Sasha. The thought of that demon being mortally entwined inside her sends a wave of nausea over me.

I reach the top of the ladder and push open the trapdoor. I’m hoisting myself up onto the roof when a huge hand wraps around my ankle. The giant will not give up. I kick at the hand with my other foot, but it won’t loosen. Then he pulls, and I’m wrenched off the ladder and fall straight down in a dazed panic. I swing my elbow out just before I crash, catching him on the crown of his head, and we both tumble to the ground. He growls and grabs for my neck with a hand and his stumpy wrist. I pull away just before he catches me, send a swift kick across his face, and then scatter back up the ladder, heave a massive metal plank out of the way, and hoist myself up onto the rooftop.

It’s pouring rain. I know the legions of hungry dead are rushing toward this soon-to-be wide-open hole to the living world. Riley is painstakingly recovering himself and climbing the stairs, his wounded hand hanging limply by his side.

Pasternak is on the roof, floating just above the angel and her horses, and those ghostly ngk threads reach from him off into the surrounding buildings. He’s got that languid damn expression on his face again. He’s flickering, and with each spasm of light that flashes across his huge body, I catch a glimpse of the murky skies of the Underworld. It’s hypnotizing. I’m so transfixed I almost miss it when the giant’s huge arm reaches up onto the rooftop, followed by his big heaving head. I have just enough time to lift up the wood-enforced metal plank they use to cover the roof entrance. I wait for him to hoist himself into the most awkward possible position and bring it
down on his head. There’s a horrible sound: splintering bone and the soft mushiness of flesh collapsing together. The giant lays still. That thick dead blood of his gushes languidly out from under the metal plank and gets speckled by falling rain.

When I look back at Pasternak, all I see is Sasha looking at me from the other side. A red tear runs down her face, and then she falls to her knees. I burst forward and then stop short when Sarco’s towering shadow billows like a cloud of smoke out of Sasha’s body. For a terrible second, we just stare at each other. Then Sasha goes limp and falls facedown, halfway across the gateway that was once Pasternak. I see something small scramble along the edge of the rooftop out of the corner of my eye. It’s gone when I swing my head around to look, but I already know: the ngks are
converging.