King's War

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

King slouched over his knees. The pain in his side and neck faded into afterthoughts as he reached over toward his clothes. The ones he was brought in with had to be cut from him. Pastor Winburn had brought a change of clothes upon hearing King had awoken.

"What are you doing?" Pastor Winburn handed him his clothes.

"I need to see the body."

"You know I can't let you do that, King. Family only."

"I'm the closest thing to kin that boy's got."

"Still…"

"Do me this solid."

A black T-shirt with the word "Resistance" across the top. Underneath were portraits of his heroes. Sojourner Truth. Marcus Garvey. Angela Davis. John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Rosa Parks. Frederick Douglass. Harriet Tubman. Malcolm X. Dr Martin Luther King Jr. The shirt stretched over his muscular frame, showing off his thick arms. Pastor Winburn took the liberty of purchasing a new pair of black Chuck Taylors to replace his blood-splattered set.

Taking tentative steps, King walked slowly down the hall, his legs still getting used to being upright. He slung his leather coat over his arms in front of him, following Pastor Winburn as if a bereaved relative.

The cold room had a blue tint to it. A single body on a metal table, a sheet drawn over it. The medical examiner, a ghost in blue scrubs, pulled back the sheet. The side of Prez's face reduced to a hole exploded out; even cleaned up, a cavern of flesh and skull ruined his former eye. Scores of bruises riddled his chest. Some strange wounds not made by blade, gun, or fist had the stink of magic about them.

Cantrell worked a double tour, exhausted but undaunted. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he watched the pantomime play out from the next room. King broken up about the boy's death, his meaty hands slammed into his skull as he paced about. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. The boy was like they all were: born into a family, into a situation, given a lifetime of choices and experiences to shape what he became, takes the path of his life, and then it was over. All that remained were the people left in his wake who mourned him. Lives he touched, for good or for ill. The same ride for everyone. Cantrell gave him a moment after the pastor left before he walked in.

"I don't know what you plan to do or how someone like you carries this. Don't know if you pray, go see your pastor, or go to where you lay your head and plot your comeback."

"Might do them all." King didn't turn at the sound of the detective's voice. Prez stared at him. The hole in his face held a steady gaze and gave voice to all of King's doubts and failings.

"Let us handle it."

"You got any leads?"

"Do you? I know, I know. No snitching." Cantrell threw his hands up as if backing off.

"It ain't that. There's what I know versus what you can prove."

"What do you mean?"

"I know who did it, but can't prove it."

"Give me a name."

"What good's a name going to do you? You can't act on it. Can't get a warrant. It won't provide you any witnesses. I might as well tell you my horoscope for all the good it will do you."

"Every little bit helps."

"You know and I know Dred's behind this. Behind all of this mess. But you're trapped by rules and laws."

"And you're not? King, don't let me find you on the wrong side of some vigilante shit. I will come down on you just as hard as I would Dred."

"I know."

King returned to his room. Wayne. Lott. Percy. La Payasa. Lady G. They assembled at his word and waited for him. He paused to take in the scene. Here they were gathered together for the first time in far too long. His knights. Battered. Bruised. Tested. But they'd come out the other side. They weren't many, but they might be enough.

"What's the word?" King asked.

La Payasa stepped forward. "Dred's muscling up. Taking stock of who he got left." Unadorned, she didn't know how she fit in with this crew. They were family and she was the outsider.

"Making way the hounds of war." Knowing what it was like to be the new person in a tightknit group, King touched her lightly on her arm. His smile welcomed her as an equal.

"Something like that."

"Where?"

"Camlann." La Payasa's expression turned sour, as if she'd eaten some bad cabbage.

"What is it?" King asked.

"It's a place. Site of some new building project or something. But you don't understand. Word was loud on the street."

"Too loud?"

"Yeah, like they want people to know."

"A trap," Wayne said.

"That's what I think," La Payasa agreed.

"Then I'll give him a mouse to spring it," King said.

"King, I don't think that's wise," Wayne said.

"I can't ask you to join me." King turned to the rest of them. "Any of you. But I need to stop this madness."

"Then you'll need this." Lady G removed a bundle from her purse and handed it to King. The weight felt familiar and right as he unwrapped it. Even before he saw it, he knew part of him had returned. A 9mm, gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips. His Caliburn. "I kept it for you."

"Let's do this."

Lee's place consisted of a mattress and a box set as the lone furnishings in his bedroom. Plastic Totes held his clothes. Scattered newspaper and leftover Chinese takeout boxes buried the phone. Lee realized it took a particular brand of self-loathing to put himself through this relationship. On the good days, he rationalized that he was in this for the experience. Omarosa was a fine piece of ass and a great lay. And she provided solid intel as a notquite-on-the-books confidential informant. He wasn't planning on bringing her home to meet his mother. That conversation wouldn't go well: "Hi, Mom. This is Omarosa. She makes her living taking off drug dealers. She may even be a prostitute on the side, but she's hell in the sack. How many grandkids do you want?" It was what it was: itch-scratching. A perfect, walk-away arrangement. By all rights, checking his man card, he shouldn't have any gripes.

But then there were the bad days. The days when he woke up, alone, and had time to think about his life. The days when he suspected he was ultimately without anyone who cared about him. A boss who despised him, a partner who tolerated him, and Omarosa, a woman who expressed nothing but open disdain for him, fucked him as if he were beneath her — all but held her nose while doing him — and if she had two kind words for him, they were never strung together in the same sentence.

Omarosa slowly twirled before him, her hips moving in full controlled circles, each muscle knowing exactly what it was doing. All Lee could do was stand there like a grinning idiot hick — what she often reduced him to — simply happy to be in the same room as her. She gyrated close to him, her ass rubbing against his crotch and then pulling away. He reached out to grasp her, but she eluded him, while staying on beat to the music. She danced close again. He raised his hands, but stopped short, fearing she might abandon him again. With a tantalizing slowness, she peeled his shirt off of him, lifting it over his now-raised arms. His thin chest and muscled arms had a wiry strength to them. He thought better of wrapping them around her.

"How come we never go to your place?" Lee asked.

"Because I don't want you to know where I live." Omarosa took a half-step back. "What's the matter, too on point? Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Would you care if you did?"

"Would you want me to? Besides, you wouldn't survive in my world."

"I'm up to my shitter in your world now."

"Lovely. Anyway, despite where you think you are, you're not. You couldn't… swim in the waters I do." It was said that when the angels fell, the ones who fell on land became fairies and the ones who fell into the sea became selkies.

"I'm a pretty good swimmer."

"Not that good."

"Why you gotta be that way?"

"You need to know, all things come to an end."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning this is our last time together."

"Just like that?"

"How did you think it was going to end?"

"I…"

Omarosa pressed a lone finger against his lips. "It ends the way all stories do. With bloodshed. And anger. And pain."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's a thing tonight."

"What sort of thing?"

"King. Dred. Maybe the Mexicans."

"Fucking beaners in the mix? Where?"

"Camlann. The new site."

"Over by the zoo."

"Yeah."

"How are you mixed up in this?"

"Do you really want to know? Have you ever? Or would you rather do what you came to do?"

He knew much more than he let on. He could be a clever "cracker-ass cop" that way. It wasn't as if she were his only ear to the streets. He heard the whispers of the street thief called Omarosa. Talked about like she was a legend. By the time he realized he was sleeping with her, there was no way to bring her in and explain away that he'd been banging her for months. "When?"

"Everything will be over in the morning. One way or another, the story ends tonight."

"Shit, Omarosa…"

"You've got a decision to make. I won't be back again. There's too much blood on my hands. It may take decades to wash clean."

"Blood?"

"Tick tock. Me or the crews. You can't have both."

"Damn it, Omarosa. I ought to take you in."

"You could try."

A steeliness hardened in her voice. He'd heard it before though she attempted to keep it hidden beneath the velvety lilt of her voice and honeyed measure of words. But it was always there, sharp as a sword's edge. Just once he wanted to test her. To take her full measure. His weapon lay on his jacket in the chair, never far from him, especially when he was with her. Just once. Not that he knew what he'd do with her. Shit. Maybe Cantrell would know. He couldn't let her walk away. Not like this. He wanted to taste her one more time. Just once. He turned from her and scooped up his gun in the same movement.

When he turned back around, she was gone.

"Camlann," Lee said, hoping she could still hear him. "I'll see you there."

Rain drizzled, splattering on the oily surface of the street. They were within eyeshot of the Indianapolis Zoo, its trees lit with blue lights. Wayne turned the van off of Washington Street onto a little used drive under the bridge along the White River Parkway. The White River itself created a zone of relative peace, separating one world from the next. A nexus point, a natural ley line as Merle had once explained to them. The overcast sky drove a miserable chill into their bones. A mural decorated the wall, in a faux children's painted style. Blue, pink, and violet stick figures held hands while walking along grassy knolls toward a crude cityscape. On the other side, similarly painted rainbow-colored figures hung outside the windows of a school bus under a picturesque blue sky lit by a bold yellow sun.

The abutment of the bridge formed a concrete shelf littered with bags of trash and Styrofoam cups and plastic bottles mixed among the scattered leaves. The number 1516 etched into the concrete had eroded to the point where it read more like ISIS. The words "eat you good" had been spraypainted higher up along the embankment. And Wayne thought about trolls as a train rumbled above them.

Overgrown bushes obscured the trail beside the bridge, a leaf-strewn path of brown and yellow. Little more than ragged scruff known mostly to those who lived in the other Indianapolis. Away from the gleaming buildings of downtown and the bright light of tourist attractions. The invisible Indianapolis. Beneath bridges. Under the city. In abandoned lots. A wire fence provided an illusion of security, but the links on one side had been severed and it was drawn back as easily as a curtain. They entered a mini wilderness of brown grass, scattered bushes, and vine-choked trees. They weaved their way between the trees until the path opened up into a field. Then they came to a second ley line as the railroad tracks created a buffer, cutting off the outside world from the secret things kids enjoyed exploring and fantasizing about. Magical things. A world which made perfect sense to those still able to wonder and dream. This site was well chosen. Secluded. Cut off. The city fathers planned on dumping low-cost housing according to the Not In My Back Yard crowd. For Dred, it was an abandoned warehouse of stored magic.

A dull thud reverberated as Percy beat the train track with a tree branch with each step. Part of him wanted Had and Kay with them, but he knew they were better off with Big Momma. Safe. Despite how they had proved themselves, this was no place for so young a kid.

Plus, it was a school night.

In the distance, a train whistle blew as if conjured by force of will.

Standing at the convergence of the footpath and the train tracks, King stopped. A sea of rocks separated one stretch of woods from the more foreboding underbrush. He scoured the trees, the skyline, the railway. He brushed his forehead with the side of his hand, wiping away the sweat, and closed his eyes.

"Now's probably not the best time to catch a nap," Merle said.

"Merle." King's heart rejoiced at the familiar voice. "Are you a dream?"

"I've been called that."

"I've been tormented by dreams before." The dreams of he and his people were too coincidental. They harried their nerves and frayed their temperaments. His whole group was on edge for months. During that time, King had joined forces with Dred; Lott and Lady G… It was yet another thing King needed to pay Dred back for.

"Torment is being trapped in a barrel of eels without any soap."

"You're crazy."

"As are you. The story's about to come full circle."

"I can't tell anyone else, but I'm scared, Merle," King said. "They're all looking to me as if I know what I'm doing."

"You'd be a fool not to be scared. You don't really have much of a plan beyond marching in there and saying 'I'm King. Boo!'"

"I didn't have my wise counsel during the planning meeting," King said. "Besides, I got a few surprises left in me."

"Moving on in the face of fear, fighting for what's right, that is the definition of bravery." Merle took King's hand, first as insubstantial as a breeze, then solid as remembered flesh. "It's your cup. Drink its fill and don't be afraid."

King opened his eyes. Merle wasn't there. Lady G struggled on the slate-gray rocks. Her ankle gave out beneath her, but Lott caught her before she fell. Regaining her balance, she absent-mindedly reached for his hand. He took hers without reassurance. Whatever antsy dance stirred in Lott stilled at her touch. She quelled his disconnect.

There was no unhappiness in King. It was their life. She deserved the best. Someone stable, nice, who treats her well. Someone with a future.

"Hawk's out." Wayne broke the tension. "Looks like a storm's moving in."

"'Bout time. Been building for a long time," King said.

"What's the plan?"

"This is it." King gathered them around him. Lott, his right hand. Lady G, his heart. Wayne, his conscience. Percy, his faith. He could walk into Hell knowing they had his back.

"What? We show up," Wayne said. "Ain't but five of us. Ain't like we leading an army."

"Look, Dred's called for a summit meeting. He needed to pull together his whole crew to see what he was working with. It's all his top people plus his crew. They got numbers."

"What we got?" Lott asked.

"Five cold, wet fools," Wayne said.

"Six." A voice came from the underbrush. Lott and Wayne flanked King, ready for an attack. Her hand pulled back the branches, allowing Tristan to come into full view. "If you don't mind the company."

"Where you come from?" Wayne asked.

"Been here waiting. Saw you pull up."

"Waiting for what?" Wayne asked.

"Waiting to figure out my next play."

"What'd you decide?"

"Didn't. You all pulled up. You decided for me." Tristan came alongside them. "Time comes, a person's got to stand tall and do right."

"Way I figure it, we just need to take out Dred."

"Take out?" Tristan gestured a throat-slash.

"No, that crosses a line. But if he can be humbled before his people… challenge him for the right to lead…"

"You ain't exactly one hundred percent there, chief. Why not let Lott? Or Wayne?"

"Because it's my fight."

King no longer knew what was normal. In his gut, he knew exactly what he was doing, but had little idea why he was doing it. Things just needed to play out. All he needed to do was reach Dred, the rest would take care of itself.

At first glance, the greenery formed a smooth, thick grove, fairly impenetrable to incursion. Wayne formed a visor with his hand for closer scrutiny. A section of the undergrowth seemed to dimple. As he neared it the strange play of shadows revealed an entrance. He had traveled this way before. Once, with Outreach Inc. He suspected that the camp wasn't a live camp but a party squat. Towels and random pairs of shorts buried in the mud marked the path. He wasn't but a few meters in before brambles and burrs covered him. An action figure, Pyro — a villain of the X-Men — dangled from a tree. Two chairs — a burgundy car bench from the rear seat of a car and a green vinyl La-ZBoy — were arranged around a set of bookshelves. Like cupboards, the shelves kept clothes, candles, flashlight with a hand crank, and a set of toiletries from a more recent Outreach Inc. visit. A Bible rested on top of all of it. Off to the side, milk crates with toilet seat covers squatted over holes in the ground. Empty bottles of Cobra, Magnum 40, and Miller Lite littered the camp.

"It's like a tower of Babel of beer up in this piece," Wayne said. "Is it just me or is naming your beer 'Magnum' overcompensating?"

The rain increased. The dampness of his clothes irritated Wayne as much as the itch from the burrs, but he tried to keep a good humor about things. He stepped over half-filled bags of trash. The haunted echo of a train whistle blew in the distance. Everyone kept moving in a morose silence, except for the thick crunch of trodden gravel. Twigs snapped, leaves crunched underfoot, branches cracked with commotion as they skulked through the woods. These were city folk, not woodmen. A thin sheen of sweat dappled his brow despite the cooler temperature. One person through the woods was bad enough, but a half-dozen of them wasn't sneaking up on anyone even half-paying attention. Weeds choked off grass, which only grew in spurts and rough patches to begin with. Thickets like knots of foliage. King adjusted his pace so they could more silently make their way through the woods. A grumble of thunder pealed though the skies, refusing to fully open up.

"Down there." King drew aside the intervening growth. Through the barrier of foliage, he pointed toward a swift-flowing stream following a steep hillside of gold, yellow, and brown leaves. A long, secluded drive made worse by the muddy trail as the rain picked up to obliterate their view.

"This is their organizational meeting?"

"A ghetto pep rally," Wayne said.

"Quit playing," King said. "We can make our way closer to hear what's going on and see where we can make our move."

Camlann had the feel of refugee camp, with three-quarters of its occupancy slated to go as lowincome housing, people jockeying for position on the waiting list, each desperate to secure their own welfare, at the expense of neighbors. The Camlann experiment was what spurred talk of the threat to raze Breton Court. After the mysterious — though most suspected arson — fire burned the original Camlann to the ground, it dislocated many homeless squatters. City officials got it in their heads to construct low-income/transitional housing. Unfortunately, no communities wanted such a project in their neighborhood. Tenants worked together or crawled over each other, community leaders looked out for themselves. So the city designated an area near an industrial park as the new potential site. As the grandest of messes, it began with good intentions. The Camlann project was a bureaucratic mess. The city declared eminent domain. Thus the era of tenement housing and abandoned property left to rot ended with a whimper. A new era began, one of re-gentrification, locals pushed out by stingy agencies; inspectors in on the hustle; grant money thrown around; all while media and politicians promised a new day and new opportunities.

The abandoned construction site teemed with a few dozen hard-eyed thugs. Many played around, whooping and yelling. Dred was the last to arrive, cutting through the heart of the throng. Doling out fist pounds and shoulder bumps like a politician working the crowd. A few grumbled that was how they saw him, more politico than soldier. But they were hushed down by the reality of a lot of new vacancies having opened up at the top of their clique.

Dred was the undisputed general, their commander-in-chief. His troops would die for their colors, their crew, little more than urban kamikazes. Not caring if they lived or died, they were one-person suicide bombers. All he had to do was rally them, give them vision, promise money, and have a plan. He could've been a CEO or a politician with his skill set. Instead, he squandered it in blood feuds and magic.

"We ride together, we die together," Dred yelled, calling his meeting to order.

"Look around. See how they do us? They will build new projects to house us and tuck us out of the way so that we ain't inconveniencing anybody by struggling to survive. I don't know about you, but I needs to get mine. I ain't going to be satisfied with hand-outs, told what I can have and when I've had too much. We grew up in this shit. Our cousins, our uncles, our brothers… it's what we do. I'd say our daddies, but fuck 'em. Don't know what they do."

The line got laughs, which was sad to him in some ways. A little too on point.

"So we do this, swim in this shit, every day. Now, some motherfuckers just get to tread water. I ain't about that. We ain't about that. You feel me? If we gonna do this, then we do this for real. Playtime's over. This shit's about to get deep. And ain't no one gonna get in our way. Not the Mexicans. Not the police. Not King."

As King surveyed the area, a faint rustle of leaves behind him warned him. He side-stepped at the last moment, barely avoiding the charge of a shadow wraith.

"Look out!" King yelled.

The creatures sprang up from all around, tendrils of shadow lashing out, creeping along the ground like snakes erupting to wrap around them. The creatures rose out of each person's shadow. Lott punched his shadow self, his blows connecting with something solid. The creature slithered a step back, only then did Lott realize that it emanated from his feet. The creature looped itself around his feet, tripping him up, then poured on him once his legs were taken out from him.

Lady G's eyes widened in surprise then sprinted back the way she came. Another train whistle sounded, drowning out the sound of her footfalls through the brush. Branches slapped her in the face as she veered from the path directly through the copse of trees. She chanced a glance backward. Her shadow elongated, stretched further back like a rubber band caught on something. The line of the woods was only a few more steps away. The train whistle blew again, its rumble vibrating the ground beneath her. When she burst through the tree line, the train rumbled along the track, a slow-moving processional of cars stretching back as far as she could see. The train's engine was almost at the same point where she was, but she thought she might be able to beat the train, cross ing the tracks in time to get to the other side.

She broke into a sprint, her eyes fixed on the engine of the train. A warning whistle sounded again, imploring her not to race it. The inexorable grind of the wheels along the track wasn't slowing down for anything. She bolted the rush of air from the train catching up with her. Her arms pumped furiously. Her chest tightened. Only a few more steps and she might be able to make it. Her foot hit a patch of rocks that slipped from under her. Twisting her ankle, she tumbled to the ground, careening toward the tracks, but with slowing momentum. She came to a stop five feet from the tracks. The train cutting her off, she turned in time to see her shadow beast leap upon her.

Tristan slashed at them with her blades, but for every rent shadow, two others sprang up to replace it. Thick fingers gripped Percy's head as if attempting to separate him from his shoulders. The dark wraith hovered over him. Likewise another coiled itself around Wayne like an anaconda squeezing the life out of him. He couldn't work his hands free enough to grip the obsidian creature properly.

King's beast launched itself at him with maniacal fury.

King forced his hands into a defensive position, waiting to swing at the encroaching cast of shadows. He launched himself with reckless abandon, thrown off balance by his own attacks. Dizzy from pain and blood loss. The creature formed a mallet with its fists and pummeled King. Part of him wanted to curl into a ball as Dred's crew gathered around to watch the blood sport for their entertainment. They called for his death. He would show them how he would go out. His hand stretched, reaching out for the hilt of his Caliburn. His fingers scrabbled hungrily for it once they found purchase. He worked the gun into his hand and a renewed vigor filled him. The endless chorus of the poor and the powerless cried for his blood until a tiny voice cut through the din.

"Daddy?"

The crowd fell silent and parted as Dred escorted a little girl forward.

"Nakia?" King asked. Then the darkness overwhelmed him.

Lee parked in the Indianapolis Zoo and waited as he decided whether or not to call for backup. In his patrol car, alone. The situation seemed too large. He didn't know what was out there. What awaited him. The last time he was caught up in a situation like this was with the mad man, Green. Lee still remembered him lumbering toward him, no longer human-looking. A mass of flesh and branches, he carried a human head which it had just severed. It was just him. Scared. Not just fresh-out-of-the-academy scared, but down-tohis-core terrified. He might die tonight. Omarosa all but said she wasn't coming back. So he had to make a choice: to go on being scared (in which case he needed to be off the streets or quit); or to get over his fear (in which case he needed to get out of his car and risk getting his ass handed to him).

Lee picked up the radio. He wanted every available unit.

Like bundled packages, King, Percy, Lady G, and Lott were brought to the center of the Camlann site and deposited.

"You can give me that thousand-yard all day, King. I ain't afraid of nobody's stare. You may want to look around. These boys here, my crew, would just as soon shoot you if you looked at them funny."

"Nakia, you okay, baby?"

"She's fine, King. Just insurance."

"Hiding behind a little girl? That how your crew does it? A bunch of badasses against a little girl."

"You're going to want to keep a civil tongue, King. Or else I'll hand her over to a very special babysitter. You've heard of his handiwork with Lyonessa."

Noles stepped forward, his hair flat on his head and cut with a severity along his forehead. His face meticulously clean-shaven except for the razorthin goatee around his mouth and the growth of a beard only over his Adam's apple. A dress shirt hung loose on his frame, making him appear skinnier than he was. Only one half of his shirt was tucked into jeans. His eyes studied her in that way. They roamed and lingered.

Noles ran his large hand across the front of her pants while holding her firmly. She screamed, scared and confused, not understanding anything that was happening to her. Noles cried out in imitation of her, a mad howl in a falsetto voice. And laughed.

"Don't do this. It's me you want."

King was powerless to protect his princess. He pulled and jerked with all of his strength but was held firm. Fingers gripped tighter into his arms, nails driving into him. Jolts of fresh pain as they punched him in the side for struggling.

"Daddy!" Nakia screamed, her wide eyes pleading.

King begged for the strength to free himself, to help his little girl. His mind raced for any plan, mad or ingenious. Tears blazed hot trails down his face, his vision blurring. He slumped in his shackles, deflating. Beaten.

"That's enough, Noles. I just wanted King's mind focused so we could have a little chat."

"You know what your problem is?" Dred lowered on his haunches to get level with King. "You give a fuck when no one's paying you to give a fuck. You speak of peace. We aren't men of peace. Neither of us. Don't delude yourself. You earn peace at the point of a gat every bit the same way I do. You want to hit me, go ahead." Dred waved King's Caliburn in front of him. He reached into his dip to retrieve another. He held them both up, allowing the light to reflect from them. "A matching set. The way they were meant to be. You settle conflict the same way I do, except with hypocrisy. You think you're different. You try to be nice, normal. But there's a part of you that will never be that guy. Look at you. You're a facade. Your whole look is designed for everyone else. 'Look, but don't touch. Don't approach. Don't get close.' Like me. So desperate for folks to love you, yet so incapable of feeling love. You are easier to manipulate. You see yourself as their leader. Their pastor. Their shepherd. But at your core, you're still the insecure little boy you always were. Not sure of yourself. Not sure of your decisions. You're weak and that weakness can be exploited."

King's eyes bugged like disjointed marbles. His fists clenched. His chest high as his whole body shook with rage. With a snarl King turned and spat at Dred's feet.

"This is what I wanted," Dred said. "My birthright. The two reunited, the way Luther used to have them. A pair, never meant to be separated."

"Like us?" King asked. "You want me to join you?"

"We both know that would never happen. I'll make this simpler for you. All you have to do is give up and leave. You see, Indianapolis is all I know. Like you, I was born and raised here. These streets pump through my veins. So I can't leave. Nor do I really expect you to. "

King's chest tightened and his body trembled. Fear welled up in the back of his throat, and it had a coppery aftertaste. Grabbed by the forearm, shadow tendrils dragged him to the center of the room. He peered into the creatures' night eyes. He imagined his end might come like this. Surrounded by thugs, some armed with chains or bats or knives but mostly guns. He knew that to take a stand against them might end with his death. Execution.

"The storm is passing," he muttered. The rain fell lightly upon his shadowy form, as if attempting to cleanse him of the darkness of the night. He marveled at how far he had come, how much he'd learned in so short a time. Dred strode with determination and power. The Egbo Society controlled the gangs, the drugs, the money in Indianapolis, served at the pleasure of the Board of Directors and they to the Hierarchy. Not content to remain a lieutenant or a captain, Dred vied to get to the Board. For as long as he could remember, his ambition drove him to get the power and reign as the supreme power in the Egbo Society. Already he was one of the Ndibu, the high order of the Egbo Society. Soon he would have it all. Hands skeletal and gnarled, he uttered an incantation, a low whisper. Shadows danced about like ghostly dark flames. They lit along his body, wisps of black fire. He writhed in pain.

Dred had prepared a sacred place, carved out by his ritual. His pulse quickened. He lit a lone candle, and with its bare luminance, prepared the necessary instruments. Adorning the wall of the incomplete building were a legion of clay statues and wooden figurines, wrapped in twine, of various sizes, depicting personages of an earlier time. Three drums laid in wait next to the sacred vessels. Dred quickly rose and poured the water from the first vessel on his feet and then in a path toward them. He walked the water path to the rear, where he raised a small pot full of ashes. With them, Dred etched symbols along the beams.

Dred lowered his robe to his waist. Two yellow rings circled each breast. Below them, a white ring stamped his middle. Underneath it, two more yellow rings, forming a square on his chest. His back had the same pattern emblazoned on him, with the color scheme reversed. Alternating yellow and white stripes ornamented each arm.

Dred began to speak, his face falling into its shadows. "Ours is the house without walls. We call upon Obassi to guide and protect us. Okum ngbe ommobik ejennum ngimm, akiko ye ajakk nga ka ejenn nyamm."

The creatures' features morphed, becoming ebon sculptures of people he was unable to save or protect. Michelle Davis. Parker Griffin. Tavon. Rellik. Rok. Iz. Baylon. Prez.

Nakia.

No one thought to ask the question "Where's Baylon?" Not Dred. Not King. Not the knights. Not any of Dred's crew. Truth be told, no one cared. Except for one person. Omarosa cared where Baylon was. She cut through the underbrush like a deadly wraith. Snuck around the concrete debris, the spires of discarded rebar, the piles of brick, the mounds of gravel, with the ease of a lioness on the prowl. And she caught his scent, not too difficult to do with him smelling of graveside rot. A spark of interest flickered in Omarosa's eyes. He wouldn't be like any of the usual level of street trash she dealt with. However, his petty magic — parlor tricks, really — while they might have worked against other folks, she was of the fey. Her heightened hearing matched her heightened sight. She glided smoothly over the packed dirt, waiting for a telltale blunder or charge. Wisely, he didn't move. She turned her back. Not only was he upwind, the air thick with his stink of sweat and fear, his jackrabbit heart thundered in her ears.

His jogging suit reduced to a farm of mildew. His hair disheveled, whorls of knots. His complexion ashy, an ashiness that ran down to his soul. He was gone long before Dred had cast his spell which used Baylon's vitality to cure his paralysis, leaving Baylon little more than a shuffling husk. It wasn't the spell which broke him, it was the decision to use him for the spell. The betrayal. They were like brothers, Baylon had told himself. Dred came to him, chose him, found him, and said come do this thing with me. Together, they assembled the crew. Together, they ran things. Then King returned to the scene. It was like Dred forgot about Baylon and became obsessed with King. It wasn't as if Baylon wanted Dred to choose him over King, he just wanted to matter. Not be used and discarded.

"I'm surprised you're not standing with your boy," Omarosa said.

"I'm here. Where I always am. In his shadow. Supporting him as necessary." He continued to watch the ceremony.

"I'll never get you, B. Here Dred does you like he did, and you still here. That's some serious codependent shit right there. You're like a faithful puppy that no matter how's he's kicked, he comes right back to nip at his master's heels."

"Even the most faithful dog," Baylon turned to her, "can get kicked one time too many and not return home. Or if he do, it's to tear down the home from the inside to remind the master what all he's capable of doing."

"That's the difference between me and Dred. I got a dog and it comes home and starts chewing up my furniture, I just go ahead and put him down."

Omarosa trained her sawed-off shotgun on him.

"You all about business. I ain't holding, so this must be personal."

"You killed my brother."

"Who?"

"Colvin."

Baylon remembered.

The mad half-fey gestured furiously, his hand danced about. The occasional green gleam sparked, but dissipated as if shorted out. King strode toward him with furious intent. Colvin locked eyes on him, so focused he did not hear the click of a blade springing to life behind him.

Baylon fought for his throat, but Colvin twisted out of the way at the last instant. Not to be denied his opportunity, Baylon arced the blade again and buried the knife up to its hilt into the fey's belly. He turned the blade then drove it up, spilling his insides. Eyes splayed open in shock, his mouth agape as if pain was an entirely new sensation which caught him short, Colvin dropped to his knees.

"So, he was your kin. He needed to be put down."

"I don't argue that. He was of the land and I am of the sea. And I hated him with that special fury reserved for siblings. You understand the betrayal of a brother."

"Me and Dred, we were like brothers."

"But Colvin was still of the fey. He deserved to be taken down by someone worthy of him. Not some lap dog. No offense."

"None taken." Baylon began to move his hand. Omarosa checked him with a nod of the barrel. With a slow and deliberate motion, he reached into his pocket. He withdrew the ring Colvin had given Garlan. "I suppose you'll want this back."

Baylon rushed her. The shock of her recognizing Colvin's ring threw off the timing of her attack. Baylon possessed a speed that belied his condition. Adrenaline and the need for vengeance choked Omarosa, clouding her assassin's instinct. She staggered into his fist. It spun her around and his wizened arms wrapped around her. They pinned her arms to her side with her unable to find purchase. Face to face with him, she stared into his eyes. Cold, dead things without a hint of recognition.

Anticipating that she was about to head butt him, Baylon slammed her into the ground, allowing his full weight to smash into her back when they landed. He shuffled out of the way, landing a fierce kick to her side. A rib cracked. He brought his fist down, a hammer blow to her mouth. Pain wracked her. White-hot tendrils of pain shot up her neck into her skull.

She regained her footing, then entangled his legs with hers. Omarosa clocked Baylon in the face. She crouched with a feline grace, her hands a blur of stiff finger strikes. Baylon deflected some of them, but with his sluggish movements, he appeared to think about each blow, choosing to defend himself only against every third one. She struck several nerve clusters along his arm. His left arm hung at his side, useless. Her leg snapped forward, landing first in his side, then at his head. That was it. Half-kneeling, Baylon was already defeated, even if his body hadn't fully accepted it. Omarosa retrieved her shotgun.

"Dred didn't deserve you," she said.

"That's what was so sad. I knew he didn't and I served him anyway."

The shotgun at the ready, she squeezed the trigger.

"The game doesn't have to be played this way. So many bodies. So many lives ruined. You're destroying our community."

"Acceptable losses. Collateral casualties. You are a weak king making grown-up decisions. Your choices can end lives. You are arrogant and unworthy. You lack the strengths, the will, to use power. You spent a lifetime repressing your emotions, thinking that was the best way to act. All you did was button it all away, let it eat at you from the inside, spilling out in ways you couldn't control. You should give yourself permission to hate. It's cathartic. Freeing. Energizing. It can give your life fuel and passion. You've got enough hate for both of us. I'm just sad. This whole place makes me just… sad."

Dred addressed his assembled crew. He wanted them to witness King's absolute humiliation and know that it came by Dred's hands alone. "The crown is not for dreamers or idealists. Artists nor politicians. But men of steel. Men don't want unity. They want leaders. People who know how to use power. You are a weak king. A weak king knows nothing of power and how to use it. If you want to be king, sometimes you have to be willing to take what's yours."

Dred swung a haymaker right to King's jaw, the blow rattling his head. The rush hit him like a junkie sending a load home. It got his head up. Dred threw another punch, hitting him on the other side of the face. The beating got to feeling good to him. With his right, he hooked King a few times to the kidneys then mirrored the attack with his left. King looked over to Nakia and silently took the beating.

"Do you think you're some hero, King?"

"No, I don't," he whispered.

"You lie. To me, if not to yourself."

"Not anymore. I know what it's like to be caught up in your pain, your hate, your vengeance. It blinds you. Gets in your head so deep you can't think straight. You lose track of who you are."

"Damn you, King." Dred punched him in the eye. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He never expected King to switch sides and run with him as his second. Nor did he think King would rollover and leave Indianapolis to him. He did, however, want King broken. To have him plead for his life, beg Dred to stop. To turn over his crown before his people and Dred's. Let them all see who the bigger man was. But each blow King took only haggled Dred's nerves.

"What do you think you're showing your people, your daughter right now?"

"That I won't always be here to fight their battles for them. That they have to be willing to fight them for themselves."

The shrill peal of laughter froze everyone to their spots. Dred craned about, trying to determine where the sound came from. Heavy footfalls encroached from the tree line ringing the site. In her full war paint, La Payasa was the first to step out of the dense foliage.

"Smile now, cry later," she cried out.

With a simple application of makeup, she was transformed from an introverted, depressed, lonely, suicidal young girl into La Payasa: an extroverted, quick-witted and funny, sought out, welcomed figure who was powerful, both listened to and respected. The blood rushed to her skin as she led her shirtless cholos into battle. The entire scene devolved into utter chaos. The addition of the cholos added to the pandemonia. Those few with guns couldn't shoot: between the night and the close press of bodies, there were no clear shots.

They weren't alone.

Pastor Winburn led a dozen of the Breton Court residents into the fray. Barbers, delivery men, teachers, they rallied behind Pastor Winburn and represent for their community. They weren't there to fight, but they were there to stand tall and let people know they weren't going to be packed out of their own neighborhood.

Wayne held a man in a headlock, trying to keep him from hurting anyone. All he could think about was how he had officially entered a gray area when it came to client interaction and dreaded the idea of having to do the paperwork at Outreach Inc. on this encounter.

Lott evaded the initial volley of punches. Noles' fist struck like a warhammer. Through a dew of sweat, Lott gripped his bat with two hands against the downward stroke. The force of the collision reverberated through the handle. Lott kicked him in his undefended mid-section, then spun the handle about, connecting with the man's jaw. He made sure he stayed down before he moved on. A breathless love threatened to sweep him up in its intensity and bent him into fury.

Tristan, La Payasa, and Percy dove into the rest of the crew. Punching at the air, swinging just to be swinging, hoping to clock someone. Spinning his arms, kind of keeping his guard up, ready to jab at any near target. A cloud of dust was caught in the moonlight, like ground fog, kicked up as they skirmished. Bringing a fist down, but having left his feet to deliver the blow, there was no power to it. Jerked out of the way of the wide arc of the bat's swing. Heavy thwack to his body as he was hit with a bat when he connected the next time.

Tristan followed through with a slashing movement, driving several of her attackers to La Payasa. Planting her heel to the back of his knee, she dropped him. She reeled backward, dodging the jabs of another boy, her slight figure dancing about, easily evading him before wandering back within range to lay him out with a couple of punches.

Lady G gagged on the taste of soot. Gasping for breath, she woke to the smell of smoke. Fire ate through walls. Flames blazed up around her. She grabbed handfuls of air, fought the urge to drift into it, to drop her hands and run into it. The layers of clothes with which she wrapped herself: a T-shirt featuring a panther wrapped by a cobra under a grimy, faded blue hoodie, under a jacket that had seen better days. No matter the temperature, she carefully selected her wardrobe in order to hide her shape. She hooded her eyes. Lady G made her way to Nakia. Pepper spray in one hand, the other clutched after the girl.

"You're safe, baby. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Are you a friend of my dad's?" Nakia asked.

"I am," Lady G said.

"You're pretty."

Police sirens wailed. Dred's crew scattered, running wild through the mini-woods. The copse of trees offered few hiding places as uniformed officers swooped in. A police helicopter circled above them. Cantrell and Lee, trailed by a film crew, led the officers into the melee.

As soon as the chaos erupted, King threw himself into Dred. The Caliburns flew free. King quickly scrambled for the nearest one. Dred slammed into a girder then hunted for the other gun. King whirred and began blasting at the shadow creatures. His bullets tore through them, a stream of light trailing in their trajectory. With a grotesque twist of their mouths, the wispy substance dissipated like fog in the morning sun against the cleaving magic of the Caliburn. The ebon vapor tendrils faded into nothingness. Dred's face contorted into a mask of hatred and madness, though his eyes remained those of a little boy lost. He spied the Caliburn and dove after it, finding cover behind a pallet of bricks.

"Like I said before, for all your talk, in the end, you settle things the same way we do: with guns and fists," Dred said.

"I know. Most I can hope for is that when the cause is just, God will give me a pass."

"I'm afraid not, King. Luther's blood runs in both of us, my brother. There is a birthright to be claimed. We are Cain and Abel."

Brothers. Things began to make sense to King, but he didn't have time to digest the implications. He pushed the revelation to the side and rushed toward Dred, too close for him to get a clear shot. King used his Caliburn to close in on Dred's wrist, deflecting Dred's shot. The momentum threw him off balance, his gun drawn low.

Grappling in close quarters, Dred raised his leg with the hopes of throwing off King's aim, though King wasn't trying to shoot him. Dred straightened from his crouch after ducking a wild swing from King and slashed his weapon toward King's shoulder. King shifted to the side, blocking the pistol whip, and punched Dred. Twisting aside, bent at the waist, Dred's arms pinwheeled in a pendulum slice, crashing his gun-weighted hand into King's nose. Capitalizing on the lucky blow, Dred threw an uppercut which snapped King's neck backward. King sprawled on his back, dazed but still holding on to his Caliburn. When his eyes focused, Dred had drawn down on him.

"And so it ends."

"It doesn't have to be this way. We can find another way."

"King, the story ends the way all stories end: in pain and death."

"Please, Dred."

The sound of Dred's Caliburn firing caused King to fire. Lady G screamed. King managed to squeeze off three shots as the bullet punched through his shoulder and took a chunk of flesh out his back. Every action movie he'd ever seen had folks take bullets in the shoulder yet keep moving like they barely nicked themselves shaving. His arm refused to move, his fingers dancing off the edge of his hand to their own accord. Took a while to realize they throbbed to the pulse of his heartbeat. The pain exploded in his brain and all his body could do was drop where he once stood. The next bullet tore through his belly. He collapsed next to Dred, clutching his belly with his good arm. Dred's eyes stared at him, vacant and glassy, accusatory to the end.

Lady G ran to King. She stopped short when she saw how much blood there was. His mouth opened and closed. She dropped beside him, testing his hand in her lap. She held his hand, slick with blood, to his stomach, pressing to staunch the blood loss. He seemed so small in her arms. Dirty. Bruised. Not believing she deserved to mourn him, she let her tears run down her cheeks. Pulling his hand from hers, he brushed her hair from her face. A blood smear scored where he touched her.

"I got you right here." She put their hands on her heart. "I love you. You can believe that."

He knew it was too late for himself. He'd finished what he'd set out to do. He swallowed blood. His breath came in rapid flurries.

"I'm so tired."

He kissed her hand. "I understand something now. I wish I could start over and do everything right."

"I know. And you will always be in my heart."

A silence settled over the scene. Lott and Wayne wept in their own ways, to themselves. Percy sobbed uncontrollably. Pastor Winburn lowered his head. Omarosa slipped in and out of the scene to retrieve the Caliburns. Lott watched as she disappeared into the waters of the White River with them. She would find her way back to the lake. Paramedics pushed them aside to go through the motions of resuscitation, but it was too late.

King was gone.