The Age of Embers (Book 4): The Age of Exodus Read online

  Cindy’s mother pressed charges, but she who shall not be named disappeared. No one knew where she went, but years later, their father told them she’d run off with one of his CIs (confidential informants), a younger kid with a drug problem.

  Later, when Fire pulled the CI’s file, they saw a good looking dealer with a rough past but that extra something in his face—a smirk that touched his eyes, almost like it was amusing getting roughed up by the law.

  Their father said the only saving grace was that when he was turning that little turd from a slap-dick pusher to a confidential informant, he got to beat him for like fifteen minutes straight.

  That was their dad. That was also their mother. They never heard from her again. It was rumored, however, that the CI turned up dead with his head half blown off and his arms and legs broken.

  When his father tried to track down his estranged wife, he was led to a man who was part of a body broker scheme. A body broker was someone who dealt with cadavers. He paid Mrs. Dimas almost $5,000 for the CI’s body, which—when he was pressed—he admitted to selling even deeper into the underground market. The CI’s surviving various joints were then sold to three different companies, which turned out about $15,000 in total profit. After that, the paper trail ended. No one ever heard about either of them again.

  Now they were about to leave the only place their mother knew, meaning all the hopes they ever had that their mother would return home were now officially done. With their father dead, too, there would be no record of their departure.

  “What are you thinking about?” Fire asked, hopping off the hood. He saw it in Ice’s eyes and Ice knew it.

  “Just forget it,” he mumbled. “Did you get the measurements?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Yeah. I got ‘em.”

  Chapter Three

  Draven walked ahead of Orlando, not in some attempt to lose the kid or intimidate him, it’s just that he needed to walk to clear his mind and when he walked his thoughts straight, he did so at a rather brisk pace.

  Truly he ached to run, to sprint, to only stop when his legs gave out and he laid there gasping for breath, his vision pulsing, darkness crowding the edges, but that would pull all the emotion from him. If he did that, he’d only end up bawling like a baby again. God, he missed her so much already. And in the days and weeks ahead, he knew he’d miss her even more.

  So he walked.

  Fast.

  Orlando finally broke into a jog and said, “Where are we going?”

  “Have you got a weapon on you?” Draven asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, pulling out his slingshot. “Rocks in my left pocket.”

  “And if you run out?”

  “I guess just my fists,” Orlando said.

  “Can you use ‘em?”

  “Pretty much,” he replied. “But I’ve only ever been in a few fights.”

  “A few?” Draven questioned, appraising him.

  “Maybe one?” he said. “Other than that freak who burned down our house.”

  “You messed her face up pretty good.”

  “Yeah?” he said, defensive. “Well you turned her brains into mush.”

  He stopped, turned and eyeballed the kid.

  “It wasn’t a judgment,” Draven said, clarifying. “This is a new way of life. No one cares about the fights you got in when you were in grade school. Or that you can sling rocks. Now, if you start a fight, it will most likely need to end in death because we don’t need the blowback. So yes, you shot rocks in a woman’s face and I killed her. But if we get stuck up here, if we pop into the wrong house, or run across a group like that last one…”

  “You want to know if I’ll have your back?” he asked.

  “To the death.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “To the death.”

  “It’s not ‘I guess,’” he replied, stern. “It’s yes or no. Because if we have a fifteen-on-two situation, and that could happen, or even a five-on-two situation, if you high tail it on me because you get scared, I will make it my mission to survive, then hunt you down and give you the beating of a lifetime. Are we clear on that?”

  Blanched, mouth slightly ajar, he said, “We’re clear.”

  “You’re out with me,” he said, walking again, “you’d best be perfectly clear.”

  “I am.”

  “No half-measures,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  Orlando nodded.

  Four houses later, they encountered the first signs of trouble. Draven had a feeling they would. In fact, he’d been anticipating it since the moment everyone decided they were going to California. The good thing was, all that grief he had stored up inside him, he was about to use it as fuel.

  Before all this began, Draven felt like this neighborhood was a beautiful sight. The Buhari home was situated on a tree-lined street with three story homes, half of them behind ornate wrought iron fences. Where before there were most assuredly lush lawns, hedges and flowers and flower pots, now there was scorched earth and ash. Half the trees were brown, burnt, dying of thirst. With no running water and no electricity, there were no more green lawns.

  As Draven and Orlando strolled down Woodlawn Ave., they walked past some cars with broken windows, and some cars just left behind undamaged. Most were scorched, the insides charred to the bone.

  “How much do you think these houses were worth before this?” Orlando asked.

  “A million, maybe two.”

  “How many of them are occupied, do you think?” he asked.

  From his back pocket, Draven pulled out a folded piece of paper Nyanath had given him and said, “According to Nyanath, most of them are not occupied, but they’ve also been looted.”

  Looking around, it was easy to imagine that being the case. Half the houses fell to fire, that perpetual stink of burnt wood still lingering in the air, slightly discernible.

  In a day or two, that smell would be gone.

  Up ahead, a pack of cats ran into the street, stopped to look at them, then sat down. A few of them started to lick themselves, but then one ran and so they all ran.

  “Not long ago, we chased pussy looking for a wife,” Orlando said, a slight breeze rolling down the street, pressing warmth and a slightly putrid scent into their faces. “How long until we chase pussy for food?”

  “We’re talking about cats, right?” Draven said, looking back at him.

  “How many rounds do you have in that thing?”

  Orlando was referring to the pistol at his side. He had his shirt untucked so he could pull it over the handle, but he wondered if it was easier just to keep it on display as a deterrent. If he had to draw down on someone, he could use those extra few seconds.

  “Two rounds,” Draven answered without hesitation.

  “Why carry it then?” Orlando asked.

  “Because two rounds may be an empty mag to most gamers, the right time to reload, but these two bullets are two bodies to me. Two men or two crazed women I don’t have to fight.”

  Up ahead, a Saint Bernard sat in the street, just looking at them. Being a Stephen King fan growing up, his first thought was of “Cujo,” the dog in the novel that was bitten by a sick bat. How many of these dogs were rabid? How many had nothing to eat, a broken brain and that instinctual need to feed?

  He kept his eye on the dog, already strategizing.

  “A dog like that,” Draven said as they approached the animal, “you don’t know if there’s something wrong with him. He may just be scared. Or bored. But if he’s hungry enough to see you as food, these two bullets might save our lives.”

  “And if the bullets don’t stop him?” Orlando asked, the two of them slowing because the dog wasn’t moving.

  “I have a knife,” he said, patting the other side of his untucked shirt.

  “I didn’t see that one,” Orlando said.

  Draven tucked in his shirt making the knife easily accessible. Zeroed in on the dog, the thing looked at them from twenty feet away with no intention of
moving.

  He unsnapped the sheath on the fixed blade knife, produced four inches of steel and said, “It won’t skin a buck, but you can do a ton of damage with it if push comes to shove. Stop walking.”

  They stopped, the two of them staring at the dog.

  Cujo didn’t move, didn’t bark.

  To the left of Draven was a roasted compact sedan. He edged toward it, jerked off the side mirror, cut the wire harness that came with it.

  Gripping it tight, he overhanded it at the dog.

  The big, dirty dog simply looked at it as it landed right in front of him. When he looked up, it was with the same droopy look, those same heavy jowls, those same floppy ears. It barred its teeth, gave a low growl.

  “Maybe you should have thrown it a little harder,” Orlando said.

  “I wasn’t trying to hit it,” Draven whispered, almost like he didn’t want the dog knowing what he was trying to do. “I just wanted to scare it.”

  He took out his pistol, pulled the slide, chambered a round. The dog barked. Draven’s heart rate quickened, a thin sheen of sweat slicking his arms, neck and lower back.

  “Get me the other mirror,” Draven said, handing Orlando the knife. He didn’t look at the boy, he just turned the blade handle-first and extended his arm.

  “What if he comes after me?” Orlando asked taking the knife. Judging by that same tone in his voice, the kid was as concerned as him.

  “Then you can thank me for bringing a gun with two rounds,” he said. “Now go before this turns ugly.”

  By the sound of his footsteps, Orlando cautiously made his way to the car. Draven didn’t want to look because he didn’t want the dog surprising him. With the gun at his side, his heart kicking like a mule inside him, he waited. And perspired. In that moment, he said a very short prayer to what he hoped was a kind and merciful God. Naturally, he asked that neither he nor Orlando get mauled by this furry beast. But the prayer had two parts, the second being his plea to God that he would not have to put this animal down. He could live with a lot of things, but killing a domesticated animal was not one Draven ever wanted to contemplate.

  Orlando was wiggling the side mirror off, but having a time of it.

  “Put your weight into it for God’s sake,” Draven said, his tone getting away from him.

  Finally he heard the snap, then the sawing of wires, and then Orlando was there, handing him the charred hunk of metal and glass.

  The dog growled again, seemingly aware of what was coming.

  “I can throw this at you and it will suck, but it’s going to hit you,” Draven told the dog in a loud, authoritative voice. “Or I can shoot you and it will hurt a lot more. For the record, I’m hoping you’ll choose option A. But you’re just sitting there like a big, dumb oaf, so if you hear me hoping for option A, it’s only because I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Are you actually trying to reason with it?” Orlando asked, whispering but aghast.

  “You give everything a chance before you kill it,” he answered out of the side of his mouth. “That way when you think about it later, you’ll know you tried everything.”

  And with that, he threw the mirror at the dog, hitting it right on the crown with a loud thunk. The second he knew it was going to hit the dog, he tensed up, slid his finger over the trigger and braced for retaliation. The filthy Saint Bernard shook his head and stared at him.

  “Get up and go you furry knucklehead!” he finally yelled.

  Standing up, shaking himself off, the dog began walking toward them. Orlando braced himself while the hairs on the back of Draven’s neck stood up. He broke into hard goosebumps, the kind that signal fear, and then he began to lower his body and raise the weapon.

  Rather than running, he began to mimic the dog’s gait, starting walking toward him.

  The dog stopped; Draven stopped.

  The beast lowered its body and started to growl, saliva dripping from its mouth. Draven lowered his body and growled louder.

  The dog snapped out two sharp barks.

  Draven did the same.

  Then he stood, and the dog stood, too, just looking at him.

  “Go!” Draven shouted.

  Finally the Saint Bernard turned and trotted into someone’s yard, leaving Draven and Orlando standing in the street with heart tremors and shaky hands. At least they had a clear way through.

  “C’mon,” Draven said, starting down the street.

  “I think I might have just crapped my pants,” Orlando admitted, breathless but catching up.

  “Good news, kid,” he replied. “Toilet paper’s on the list.”

  Chapter Four

  “Would you have shot the dog to get past it?” Orlando asked as they crossed over Woodlawn and E. 48th.

  “I would have gone another way,” he said as they walked past a four car pile up at a stop sign. Checking the cars for anything useful, he said, “I’m just not in the mood to backtrack right now.”

  “I’m barely in the mood to even be alive,” Orlando said.

  “At least you have Veronica,” he reasoned. “How long have you two been dating?”

  “Awhile now. Eight months I guess.”

  “You guys still in love?”

  “I dig her,” he said, cool, “and she’s still into me, so I guess maybe you could say that.”

  “How you feel about each other will be the only consideration in the future,” Draven said, studying the map Nyanath gave him. He was making mental notes of the zones she’d already checked.

  “Right now if I could get this pain in my head to stop,” Orlando said, “that would feel like the most important thing.”

  “From what put you in the coma?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Solid headache,” Draven asked, preoccupied, “or just spotty?”

  “It’s been consistent,” he answered, “but thankfully it’s getting less painful each day.”

  Draven turned the crudely drawn map and saw they had another block or two to go. Up ahead, there was a large, brick apartment block with a dozen or so people hanging around outside. Two people were halfway undressed and having sex on the lawn while the others were pretending not to notice. There was something on their barbecue pit, which was situated on the front lawn behind a wrought iron fence. Whatever it was, it smelled incredible. Yet inside, Draven cringed. The scene was completely ghetto, like they were walking through the projects rather than the Kenwood neighborhood.

  When Draven walked by these congregating, fornicating circus animals, he felt the weight of their collective gaze upon them. He looked over, took them all in. They were a gathering of mixed races—white, black, brown—and no one seemed all that concerned about them.

  “I wouldn’t go much further that way,” someone called out.

  Draven fought the urge to keep walking. Instead, he turned and said, “Why is that?”

  “Just some problems is all,” a thick Mexican girl was saying. She didn’t look like she’d been poor before all this, but she did have both strength and volume to spare in her voice, telling him she could get loud and mean if she so chose. “Someone burnt the mosque, pissed off the Arabs.”

  “Half the city went down in flames,” Orlando said.

  “Pretty boy like you,” she said, whistling long and low, “you don’t even want eyes on you.”

  “Are you talking to him or me?” Orlando asked.

  “Both of you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Draven replied.

  “You get yourself in a spot of trouble,” the guy manning the barbecue said, “we ain’t leaving a hot meal to help you.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” Draven said.

  Up ahead, they saw the mosque, a BP gas station and to the right of it a Ross discount store. All of them were blackened by fire. On the map, there was a line that said, “NO GO ZONE.” They were in that zone.

  Orlando saw this and said, “So are we turning back?”

  “No, we’re not turning back
.” Glancing sideways at Orlando, Draven said, “So is that all you brought? For real? A slingshot and a pocket full of rocks?”

  “I didn’t think we’d need anything. I mean, I saw your gun and thought you had that covered. Besides, I thought I’d be carrying stuff. You know, whatever we find.”

  “Do you even have a gun?” Draven asked.

  “I overheard Ice talking to my dad this morning,” Orlando said. “We lost most of the guns in the fire. The ammo’s gone, too.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “You’re aware of the situation, right?”

  “The obvious situation, or are you referring to another situation I’m not aware of?” Orlando asked.

  “We never met, but we lived next door, right?”

  “Evidently,” Orlando said.

  “Do I strike you as a psycho?” Draven asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well this is not me. And you can’t be you either. These aren’t ideal times, these aren’t peaceful times, and if you go anywhere without a weapon, you might as well just call it a life.”

  “My dad taught me to defend myself when I was younger. Besides,” he said, pulling out his slingshot, “this is just as good as a gun.”

  Orlando patted a slight bulge in his pocket, then said, “I’ve got six or seven rocks, all about the size of gumballs. Which means you have two shots and a knife, and I’ve got six or seven and you.”

  “This is war and war is messy,” he said, turning on E. 47th Ave. and walking cautiously, his head on a swivel. “It’s going to get violent—like really violent—and chances are pretty good that when you finally grab hold of this stark new reality, it’s going to change you for the worse.”

  “It already has,” Orlando replied.

  “Why, because you had to shoot a few rocks at the ginger nut job who burned down our houses?”

  “No,” he said, his face hardening under the admission, “because I knew we were going to kill her.”

  “Did you want to kill her?” Draven asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We used to think about things like breaking and entering as illegal and immoral. Now it’s just survival. We used to think about stealing as a crime, but if there is no law then there can be no crime. The most important thing you have to protect these days is your life, so you protect it at all costs, and one of the costs will be your mental stability.”