Cavalera shrugged as he pulled the .38 from his waistband. "You heard Decima, homeboy."
"Let him go, assholes!"
Cro-Mag and Cavalera turned in the direction of the voice. Cro-Mag swore under his breath and let the boy drop. The child instantly regained his footing and scampered off into the shadows.
An older white man with a gray-flecked beard and long flowing silver hair that fell almost to his belt stepped out of the alleyway and onto the street, closing the distance between them. Except for his tie-dyed T-shirt, faded jeans, and beat-up high-tops, he could have passed for Gandalf the Grey. The sawed-off shotgun in his hands did not waver.
"That's good. You did the right thing that time, pal. You—with the gun— you gonna do the right thing, too?"
"Fuck you, old man!" Cavalera spat, trying his best to keep his voice from cracking.
"I may be old, punk, but I still know shit when I smell it! Now throw down the gun or I'll cut you off at the knees!"
Cavalera bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering. For all his bravado, he looked as if he were about to cry. "We gonna fuck you up, motherfucker!" he warned as he tossed the .38 onto the sidewalk. Without being told, the boy scuttled forward and snagged the gun. In his hands it looked like a vicious oversized toy. "You fuckin' with the Pointers, asshole—you fuckin' with Esher!"
"I'm quakin' in my boots, punk! Now you, big boy—kick the gun over to me!"
Grumbling, Cro-Mag did as he was told.
"If you boys had half the brains God gave you, you'd get the hell outta this stinkin' place and forget you ever heard of Esher," the bearded man sighed. "But something tells me thinking's not your strong suit. Get outta here—and if I see either of you near that kid again, I'll let you have it with both barrels! And next time I won't bother to announce myself!"
Cro-Mag and Cavalera turned as if to leave. Just as the old hippie let out his breath and lowered his weapon, they rushed him. Cro-Mag grabbed for the shotgun while Cavalera dove after the boy.
"Give it up, old man!" Cro-Mag grinned, displaying crooked teeth. "Cav's right—you're fuckin' with the wrong gang!"
A shrill, high-pitched shriek of pain cut the night, but it was not the boy's. Cro-Mag looked to his friend in time to see Cavalera collapse in the gutter, the hilt of a switchblade buried in his chest.
"Cav!"
The old hippie slammed the butt of the shotgun into the bigger man's jaw. Cro-Mag staggered backward, looking stunned. He touched his dripping mouth, stared at the blood for a moment, then looked at his attacker.
"That hurt."
"I meant it to," the old hippie retorted, driving the butt of the shotgun directly between Cro-Mag's eyes with all his might. This time the banger went down and stayed there.
The bearded man stood on the curb, gun in hand, and stared down at the Goliath he'd toppled. His hands
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) trembled and his breath came in ragged gasps.
"What you did was very brave. Foolish, but brave."
The bearded man pivoted on his heel, bringing the shotgun to bear on the stranger standing behind him.
He saw a woman in her early twenties, dressed in tattered jeans, scuffed Doc Martens, a black leather jacket, and mirrored sunglasses. She held the boy against her so that he clung to her side, riding her left hip.
"Jesus, lady!" he rasped as he lowered his weapon. "Don't go sneakin' up on me like that!"
"It's what I do best," she replied as she lowered the child to the sidewalk. The boy shot forward like an arrow, wrapping his thin arms around the older man's waist.
The hippie ruffled the child's hair, then held him at arm's length, frowning down at him in reproof. "I told you to be careful when you left the house tonight and this is what happens! What'd you do, Ryan? Did you try and see your mom again?"
"I saw her, Cloudy! I even touched her this time! She said my name!"
The bearded man rolled his eyes. "Christ-on-a-crutch, kid! You're gonna get us both killed doin' shit like that!"
The stranger stepped over Cro-Mag's sprawling form and bent to pluck the switchblade from Cavalera's lifeless heart. As she wiped the blood from the knife onto her pantsleg, she nudged Cro-Mag with her steel-tipped boot, frowning slightly. "This one's still alive. If I were you, I'd put a round through his heart."
The bearded man shook his head. "I don't do shit like that unless I can't avoid it."
The woman shrugged. "It's your call."
"Look, lady—I appreciate you steppin' in like you did—"
"You can thank me later. Now, are you going to keep us standing on the sidewalk the rest of the night or are we going to find someplace to hide? I suspect these goons' friends are already headed this way."
The older man nodded and scooped up the boy. "You're right. We better hurry. My place isn't that far."
The stranger followed the white-haired man down the narrow, foul-smelling passageway, emerging onto the next avenue. If anything, it was even more blighted than The Street With No Name. The hippie hurried down the steps that led to the basement entrance of a crumbling brownstone tenement. Swinging the boy onto his back, he pulled a keyring from his pants pocket and unlocked the heavy metal door. Once inside, he shrugged the boy off and quickly slammed the door, securing it with a crossbolt made from an old railroad tie.
The stranger turned to scan the interior of the basement apartment. The front room was quite large, and books surrounded them on every side, spilling from narrowly spaced bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. The place smelled of the genteel decay of old paper and moldering leather.
The older man let out a deep breath and allowed his shoulders to slump, but he did not unload the sawed-off he held cradled in his arms. He gave the stranger a curious glance. "I make it a point not to let people around here know where I live. You're the first person besides the boy I've allowed in my place in years. You try anything funny, lady, and I'll spray your brains all over the walls. I'd really hate to have that happen, seeing as how you saved the boy and that I'm such a lousy housekeeper."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that."
"Cloudy?" the boy whispered, tugging on the aging hippie's shirt. "Cloudy?"
"What is it, kid?"
"Can I have some cookies?"
He ruffled the boy's prematurely gray hair. "I don't know—can you?"
The boy gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes. "May I have some cookies?"
"I guess so. But leave me some Oreos this time!" He smiled indulgently as the boy sprinted along the narrow trail that wound through the towering mounds of books to the rear of the apartment.
"Is he your son?"
He shook his head and laughed. "Hell no! I don't know who his daddy is—neither does he. But I couldn't let the poor kid starve to death on the street—or worse."
"His mother was the woman I saw in the escort of the vampiress?"
"Was she wearing white?"
"Yes."
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
)
"That's Nikola, all right. And the vampire—was she a kinky-lookin' mama with fishin' lures stuck all over her face and tits?"
"Yes."
"That'd be Decima. Esher's lieutenant."
"Who's this Esher everyone keeps talking about?"
He gave her an odd look. "You really don't know?"
"I'm new in town. Why don't you fill me in?"
"Sure—let's go in the back. We can sit down there. I'll tell you what I know over coffee."
The back of the apartment was considerably neater than the front half, although books challenged the major appliances for territory in the small kitchen. The boy was sitting on an upended plastic milk crate in the corner, a dog-eared comic book draped across his knees and cookie crumbs smeared over his chin.
"Excuse the mess," he grunted as he moved a pile of old paperbacks from the only other chair in the room. "But I don't get much in the way of visitors nowadays. Normally I don't let anyone past the threshold—but I've learned to listen my instincts."
"And what do your instincts have to say about me?"
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to read a message only he could see. "I think you can be trusted. God knows why. I hope it's not just an acid flashback."
"I will take your vote of confidence as a compliment." The stranger picked up a copy of Fate Magazine, blowing a cloud of dust from its faded cover. "How long have you lived here, if you don't mind me asking?
By the way, I don't believe I caught your name—?"
"Eddie McLeod. Friends call me Cloudy. The kid's name is Ryan. I don't know his last name. Neither does he. And, no, I don't mind you asking: I've lived in Deadtown since the late sixties."
"Has it always been like this?"
Cloudy shook his head as he lit the gas range. "It hasn't always been this rough, but it's always been a weird scene. I mean, this is six square blocks of Nowhere in a major city! And I do mean Nowhere! I remember hearing some story that back in the Colonial days this part of town was a safe haven for rebel smugglers, and ever since then it's been an unofficial "neutral zone" for those outside the law.
"Back during the Civil War, Confederate sympathizers and other tough characters used to hang out here.
Toward the end of the last century, it was full of immigrants and lowlifes. Me, I found out about it in '68. I moved here to dodge the draft. I can't stand cold winters, so Canada was never an option."
The stranger raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You've been hiding out in Deadtown for thirty years?"
Cloudy shrugged as he ladled instant coffee into a pair of chipped mugs. "I'm not really hiding out anymore—leastwise, not from the draft. I took advantage of the amnesty a few years back and made myself legit with the government on that score. But I got used to living here, and I'd be hard put to get by this cheaply anywhere else in the country—or the world! I don't pay rent. No one does here! It's a squatter community."
"Where do the water and power come from?"
"Rumor has it the city has some kind of deal with Deadtown. Maybe it's to keep the worst of Deadtown from spreading out into the surrounding area."
"From what you tell me, I'm surprised there aren't more people living here."
"Oh, they're here—you just don't see 'em, that's all!" Cloudy chuckled dryly. "Those who call this neighborhood home have learned it pays to be invisible. But there's not as many people as there used to be, that's for certain. Deadtown always did have its price for living here—but now it's higher than ever."
"You mean the gangs?"
"Gangs, schmangs! I mean the bastards behind them."
"The vampires."
Cloudy grimaced. "You don't hear that word used much around here. They call themselves Kindred.
They've been here since the beginning, too. That's one of the reasons this place ain't full to overflowing with the homeless! It's haunted! I didn't believe the stories when I first moved here. But one night, back in
'70, I saw one of them take down a friend of mine. I was plenty scared by what I saw—but I was even more frightened of going to Viet Nam! I just made it a point to get indoors by sundown after that. Besides, it used to not be as bad as this."
The battered teakettle began its shrill shriek and Cloudy quickly removed it from the heat. He continued to speak as he poured the hot water into the waiting mugs. "For the longest time, there was only one
Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) bloodsucker running things here. Sinjon. Then, about five years ago, this new vamp moves in—calls himself Esher. Next thing I know, they're going at it hammer-and-tongs, bringing in these teenaged psychos as muscle!
"Sinjon's boys are the Black Spoons—they're his front men when it comes to drugs. Rumor has it Sinjon controls most of the hardcore smack-and-crack trade on the Eastern Seaboard. Esher's boys are the Five Points Gang— they call themselves Pointers. They're gun runners, mostly. Esher's big into illegal weaponry. Everything from Saturday Night Specials to heatseeking missiles, if the scuttlebutt's true. I wouldn't put it past him fencing a thermonuclear device! Once the sun goes down, all traces of "normalcy"
around here disappear and you only set foot outside at your own risk. Not that it's much safer during the day. But at least while the sun is out the Kindred stay off the streets."
The stranger nodded her head in the direction of Ryan, who had abandoned his comic book and was curled up on a pile of old blankets under the sink. "What about the boy's mother?"
Cloudy took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "Her name's Nikola. She used to be an exotic dancer, over at the Pink Pony Club, a few blocks outside Deadtown. She was real good at it, I guess, because word got around to Esher. One night Esher comes into the club to watch her dance and the next thing she knows he's deciding to make her his new "star." You see, one of the first things Esher did when he moved into Deadtown was take over the old titty bar across the street from the Black Spoons' hangout and change the name to Dance Macabre. Of course, she had no idea what she was getting herself into. But I guess she found out soon enough. The next day some Pointers showed up at her apartment—she was packing in a hurry—and took her away to Esher's stronghold."
"And the boy?"
"He only wanted the woman, not her child. He was left behind, without any money or family or friends to help him. I'll give the kid credit—he's strong! Lot stronger than most kids twice his age. When he realized his mom wasn't coming back, he went out looking for her—which is how I stumbled across him. He was eating out of a garbage can outside my building. I knew if I didn't do something, he'd either starve to death or end up killed by Esher's goons. Poor kid! He spends most of his time watching the house where his mother's being kept, hoping for a chance to see her." He shivered, as if trying to shake himself free of an unpleasant memory, and held out the second cup of coffee to his guest. "I'm sorry! Where are my manners? Here's your coffee—how do you like it? Black or white?"