Kingdom of Shadows

“A good man’s dead.” Snow stepped closer. “Show some respect.”

“He fucked up and now we’ve all got blood on our hands.”

“What the hell would you know about it, wheelman?”

“Enough to know the stupid bastard could’ve gotten us all killed. And I didn’t hear you making any driver jokes when I was carting your sorry ass the fuck outta Dodge.”

“You’re working my last nerve.”

Landon squares his stance. “Blow it out your ass.”

Rooster steps between them. “Both of you cool it.” He knows he must get the crew focused, split the take and make arrangements to wrap things up one way or another. But it can’t be done out in the open, even in a desolate place such as this. One local police car or nosy townsperson passing by is all it’ll take to escalate things, and there’s been enough escalation tonight. No one was supposed to get hurt. The job had been meticulously planned, rehearsed and timed to the millisecond. Yet there were still mistakes, and what began as a robbery ended in a homicide, one guard dead, two badly injured. And now they’ve lost one of their own. They have to move and move fast. “We’re still on the clock, which means I still call the shots, so get your heads out of your asses and get back in the fucking game. Now.”

Snow points at Landon. “We ain’t done.”

“Any time, douche.”

Rooster stands his ground until both men drift away in opposite directions. “All right, let’s get inside and finish our business.”

Nauls, holding two large canvas duffel bags stuffed with cash, shuffles about like he needs a bathroom. “Can’t we find someplace else?”

“I don’t like this shit bin any better than you do,” Rooster admits, “but it’s out of the way and nobody should bother us here. Nauls, you stay with me. Landon, get the van off the street and under cover. Snow, you and Starker check the place out. It looks deserted but let’s be sure.”

“OK how come the two brothers got to check the farmhouse out?” Snow cracks. “We more expendable, that it? We ain’t special like you white folks.”

“Just get it done.”

Snow pulls two .45s from the back of his belt and turns to Starker. “All right, big man, let’s go.”

Apparently mesmerized by the field of rotting scarecrows, Starker does not respond. He stares off into the darkness as if in a trance.

“Come on biggins, time for some recon.”

Starker continues to stare at the horrible faces peering across the field through the darkness and fog. Rooster approaches him and cautiously places a hand on his shoulder. “Starker.”

He says nothing.

“Stay with me now,” Rooster tells him softly. “We need you.”

Starker remains locked on the field, one enormous finger resting on the trigger of the AK-47, the other hand sliding almost lovingly back and forth across the top of the weapon in a slow and steady motion. “Something’s not right.”

“You see something?”

“I feel it. So do you.”

He’s right, but Rooster can’t figure out how Starker knows this. Perhaps he hasn’t hidden his anxiety and uneasiness as well as he thought he has. “Maybe we should all go,” Rooster suggests. “Check the place out together.”

“It doesn’t much matter.” Starker blinks slowly, his eyes eerily reflecting moonlight. “We’re all gonna die tonight.”

* * *

Memories of Starker’s bald head covered in blood flashed before Rooster’s eyes, the huge man spitting and slobbering between horrific screams, choking on his own blood and bodily fluids while begging like a child for mercies he would never be granted.

The horrible sounds of that night were the last to leave him, fading gradually like the slowly dying things they were. And like the dead, a gruesome residue remained in their wake. A reminder of their power, perhaps, evidence that such figments of torturous nightmares had, in fact, existed.

Out in the open air the winter wind cut like a razor. Rooster held his ground at the mouth of an alley between a seedy bar and a blown-out storefront, his jacket collar flipped up to protect the back of his neck. A red neon sign advertising the strip joint two doors down blinked with a steady rhythm, painting his face in a strange and frightening haze. His headache had weakened, but a dull pain still lingered behind his eyes. He rubbed his temple and studied the passersby. Everyone on the street seemed suspect, every car a potential menace. He swore he’d seen the same black Crown Vic twice more since he’d walked the eight blocks from the payphone to the agreed upon meeting place, but of course there was no way to know for sure if it was the same vehicle. Even if it was, what would the cops want with him? He’d been doing straight time for years.

He returned his focus to the neighborhood. It was filthy and far from the safest in the city, but Rooster had a good vantage point, as from his position he could clearly see people approaching from either direction. Though like the rest of the city many of the buildings sat vacant and rotting, this was predominantly a commercial area that still crackled with intensity and life. Heavy traffic clogged both lanes, filling the air with a glut of sickening exhaust fumes, and numerous souls of varied descriptions hurried along the sidewalks, several scowling at him as if he’d done something to personally offend them but most with their heads bowed and eyes averted. At the end of the block an old homeless man collapsed on the sidewalk and lay still. After watching him a moment Rooster realized the man’s breath was no longer forming clouds in the cold air. Perhaps he’d died. No one seemed to care.

It was then that Rooster noticed a bald man of perhaps sixty standing across the street watching him, features unremarkable but for a pair of piercing ice-blue eyes. Dressed entirely in black—suit, shoes and overcoat—it wasn’t until the man glided a bit further down the block that Rooster saw the white collar and realized he was looking at a priest. The closer the man got the more disheveled he became, his clothes wrinkled and soiled and his face creased with age and looking as if it needed a good scrubbing.

Ignoring the traffic, the priest recklessly crossed the street, eyes locked on Rooster even after several drivers hit their horns and one car nearly struck him. While still several feet away, the priest raised a hand and pointed at him. “You, I—I know you!” he called. “I know you!”

Rooster shook his head and waved the man off, though oddly enough, the closer the priest got the more familiar he became. He couldn’t quite place him but was convinced he knew him from somewhere.

Just as the priest made it to the sidewalk, another man appeared out of the crowd and cut him off, blocking his path.

The afro gave him away. Snow, looking like he always had, dressed in jeans, sneakers and an old army jacket thrown over a sweatshirt, extended a hand, holding it up between himself and the priest as their eyes met. Neither moved; two statues in a sea of humanity.

Rooster stepped out of the alley, approached them.

The priest looked over Snow’s shoulder, enraged. “I know you!”

“Keep moving, padre,” Snow said evenly. “I ain’t playing with you. Move.”

Defeated, the priest slipped away, looking back every few seconds until he’d been completely absorbed by the crowd, carried off down the street with the rest.

Rooster started after him but Snow grabbed his arm, firmly enough to stop him but with enough restraint to let him know the move wasn’t a challenge.

“Let him go, man.”

“He’s right, I—we know each other, I—”

“Just let him go.” When Rooster relaxed Snow released him. “You don’t look no different.”

They shook hands. Snow’s palm was cold, rough and covered in calluses. “Neither do you,” Rooster sighed. “But we are different, aren’t we?”

Nearby, overhead trains rumbled along rusted tracks. The noise seemed to distract Snow for a moment.