The survivor

Ninety-Two

Striker reached First Avenue, where one of the Special Constables had set up a roadblock, preventing the traffic from turning north on Commercial. The Constable was a young kid, about nineteen, with a hooked nose.

‘Hey, kid,’ Striker said. He held up his badge to get the boy’s attention. ‘You see either of these two girls?’ He showed him his BlackBerry and paged between the photographs.

The kid scratched his chin. ‘There’s been a lot of girls.’

Striker’s BlackBerry buzzed. He turned away from the boy, looked at the screen, and read the incoming text: Got them B4 U. Turks Coffee Shop.

Striker replied immediately: Only 5 blocks. Meet U there.

He looked down the Drive. Turk’s Coffee Shop was not far under normal circumstances, but in this crowd it seemed like miles. Everywhere he looked, something blocked him — a guy on stilts, roaming the street; a tall makeshift billboard, selling next year’s Parade; and the outcrop of the stage, which cut Commercial Drive in half. Compounding all this was the firework and firecracker smoke — it floated through the air, ghostlike, greying everything in its path.

Striker frowned. Something didn’t feel right. His instincts were screaming. And before he knew it, he was fighting his way through the crowd, shoving people out of his way.

‘Asshole!’

‘Jerk!’

‘… the hell he think he is…’

The comments were endless, and he didn’t care. He pushed on with even greater force, until he made it to within a block of the coffee shop. At first, he saw nothing, and he hoped they had already left for the police cruiser, but then he spotted Felicia and the girls a half block down.

A cop, a nurse, and Little Red Riding Hood.

Striker crossed Charles Street, spotted the man in the hockey mask, and his entire body tensed. Flashbacks of the school shootings bombarded him, and at first, he thought he was reliving memories of the past.

But something about the man gave Striker the creeps. He was facing Felicia and the girls, just standing there, watching them. They were his entire focus. They were everything.

Striker ran towards them.

As he did so, the bass guitarist from the band jumped up on one of the stage speakers and began his intro. ‘You monsters having a good time?’ he yelled, and the crowd began to cheer.

Stage fireworks exploded, sending waves of green and red and orange flame into the air, and were followed by more trails of thick grey smoke. Someone set off a series of firecrackers. Bang-bang-bang-bang-BANG!

Striker sprinted down the sidewalk, slicing the crowd in two, knocking people over and sending them onto their asses. When the crowd thinned for a patch, Striker scanned the area, but could no longer see Felicia or the girls. An icy coldness pierced his heart, and he knew instinctively:

Shen Sun was here.