who was trying to pin him down until his comrades got there, but the brute was too strong. Seeing that his fists were getting him nowhere, Johnny tried a different tactic. Dipping his hand into his boot he came up holding a stiletto, which he shoved up into the man’s gut with all his might. The man coughed blood onto the airbrushed visor and fell to the side.
“See what the fuck you made me do?” Johnny said, getting to his feet. Though his voice was distorted by the small microphone built into the helmet, his intentions were clear as he retrieved the M-10. “Couldn’t lay down like the rest of them, could you? Trying to fuck up a perfectly good killing, huh?”
“P-please, man. Don’t kill me,” the brute pleaded.
Johnny looked at him almost compassionately. “You got heart, man, and that’s a good thing. But you chose the wrong side of the color line to throw in your lot with, which means you’re fucked. My niggaz from Harlem say y’all forgot your places on the food chain, and I gotta remind you. Nothing personal, baby,” Johnny assured him before cutting loose with the M-10 and finishing the young banger.
Even with the sirens in the distance Johnny took a moment to admire his handiwork before heading back to the fallen motorcycle. The smart thing would’ve been to leave the patchwork bike, but it held sentimental value to him. It was the first thing he could ever call his own, since leaving his old life in Mississippi as a young boy. He built it with his own hands and refused to leave it.
People were starting to stir, coming to their windows trying to be nosey, but when Johnny sprayed the front windows with the M-10 they thought better of it. True, it was overkill but Johnny Outlaw had made his bones by overdoing it. Satisfied that he had temporarily deterred any Good Samaritans from aiding the police, Johnny hopped back on the bike and floored it, leaving a trail of bodies and a ghostly howl in his wake.
HARLEM
J. B. BOPPED down Morningside Drive with his right-hand man, Steve. They had just come from the spot copping two twenties of haze and had two prime freaks waiting to help them smoke it up. When they got a dose of the date rape that J. B. had scored to drop in their drinks, the party would really be in full swing.
“You think they’ll go for it?” Steve asked J. B.
J. B. smiled reassuringly. “I don’t see why not. This shit is supposed to be off the chain. My man, Harv, gave a bitch a half of pill and she took cock damn near till the next morning.”
“I can’t wait!” Steve said excitedly. “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of one of them hoes.”
“Fuck that, Blood.” J. B. held up the baggie containing several white pills. “Once they get a dose of these, you’re gonna fuck both of them.”
As the two young men continued to walk and talk, a white Chevy Lumina was coming up behind them. There were three men in total occupying the vehicle, all motivated by one thought-murder. When the car was coasting along next to them, the driver’s side window rolled down.
“CRIIIP!” THE driver sang in a high squeal. When J. B. and Steve turned to identify the source, Bruticus stuck his arm out the window, letting the sun wink off the barrel of his.45. At first there was only silence and then came the thunder.
Two slugs entered Steve’s chest, cracking his breast plate, decorating the bench behind him with bits of heart and lungs. When Bruticus turned his hammer to J. B., J. B. was already sprinting in the other direction. The Lumina screeched and reversed after him, while another shooter leaned over the top of the car and tried to lay J. B. Trees splintered and glass shattered, but the shooter never hit his target.
J. B. DUCKED and zigzagged like a hunted animal. He recognized one of the shooters in the car as a member of a rival gang. Even though he had gone on a few outings with his new family, he had never done anything directly to any of the men in the car. He found himself running for his natural life, because he represented a different color. When he joined the gang, he thought it would be fun, but he would soon realize that banging was not a game; it was a way of life.
“FUCK IS wrong with your aim?” Bruticus barked at the shooter. “Lay that nigga down!” He steered the Lumina with one hand, watching the fleeing man over his shoulder. A taxi came around the bend on 116th, causing him to swerve and slamming the car into a parked Explorer. “Shit,” Bruticus spat, sliding from the car. “Take the wheel.”
THE EFFECTS of all the cigarettes had begun to catch up with J. B. as his chest started to burn. He knew that the only way for him to escape would be to cut through the park. That was easier said than done, because the next entrance was more than four blocks away. The loud crash to his rear caused him to spare a glance over his shoulder. The nose of the Lumina was jutting out into the street, while its rear was hooked on the bumper of an Explorer. He thought that luck might finally be swinging in his favor, but knew it to be a lie when he saw the driver climb out of the car and begin pursuing him on foot.
The fear of being gunned down in the middle of the street made J. B.’s mind race. He knew he only had one chance of escaping, but he didn’t like it. He looked over the wall of the park, at the grass that was easily twenty feet below street level. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leapt over the stone wall.
BRUTICUS WAS a large man, but he was by no means slow. J. B. had a head start on him, but he was closing the distance in good enough time. He watched the young boy veer from the street, and head for the wall. He knew that there was a long drop and figured he had him cornered. He slowed to a jog and made to dispatch his victim, until his mark suddenly jerked and leapt over the wall.
Bruticus ran to the wall and looked over in time to see J. B. picking himself up from the ground, and preparing to continue his sprint. Bruticus knew that if the boy got away, it would upset Pop Top’s plan. Leveling the.45, he got J. B. in his sights and squeezed the trigger once. J. B.’s calf exploded, knocking him to the ground. Bruticus pulled himself over the wall and dropped down to finish him.
The force of the impact sent shock waves from Bruticus’s ankles to his lower back. It hurt like hell, but he didn’t feel like anything was broken. After gathering himself, he walked casually over to J. B. who was trying to crawl away. The bullet had totally destroyed his calf muscle, but the fear of death wouldn’t let him give in to the pain.
Bruticus kicked him square in the ass. “Turn the fuck over, nigga!”
“Chill, man,” J. B. cried.
“Fuck that chill, shit. You knew the rules when you joined up, kid. You wanted to be a soldier, so now yo bitch- ass is a casualty of war.”
“I don’t want no beef with y’all. You got it!”
Bruticus chuckled wickedly. “Nah, I don’t want it, you take it.” Bruticus squeezed the trigger. Bullets tore through J. B.’s body and struck the ground below. A dust storm rose up around J. B., coating his face and body. The boy lay in the dirt with plum-sized holes in his chest and legs. Bruticus took a moment to spit on his corpse, before limping across the park to his waiting getaway car.
IT TOOK more than an hour, but Sharell had finally managed to fight through the traffic and make it to Harlem. Though she was officially off, she still found herself at her place of employment, St. Luke’s Hospital. She could’ve waited until she came back to pick up her check, but it allowed her time out of the house, which is what she needed since Gutter had her feeling like a sardine trapped in the house.
Instead of going directly to her station she decided to cut through the emergency room so she could holler at her girl, Rhonda, who worked as a triage nurse. When she passed through the automatic doors her senses were overwhelmed with the bullshit that was the emergency room.
As usual it was overcrowded with people in need of medical attention. In the far corner, an addict rocked back and forth, sweating like a runaway slave, waiting to see if there was an available bed in their detox wing. Another man was hunched over near the pay phone, nursing his hand, which was wrapped in bandages that were splotched with blood. A girl who didn’t appear to be more than seventeen or so cradled a newborn in her arms, while two more kids who couldn’t have been more than a year apart tore through the emergency room as if it was their own
