Part 13 (1/2)

The three of us walked outside. I had a weird moment where I held my hand over my brow, antic.i.p.ating that I'd have to s.h.i.+eld my eyes from the glare of the morning sun. It was always bright around that time of morning, glinting off rooftops and cars. But after a second, I realized what I was doing and lowered my hand. Cranston and Russ stared at me quizzically but didn't say anything. I grinned, embarra.s.sed. Then we stepped onto the sidewalk. Across from us, a trash can had fallen over, spilling its rancid contents onto the pavement. A dog was rooting through the debris. It had a collar and tags around its neck, and looked well-groomed and well-fed. Probably someone's pet. But when we approached it, the dog growled like a feral coyote, baring its teeth and lowering its ears and tail. We stopped in our tracks. With one last snarl, the dog turned and ran away.

”You think it's impacting the animals, too?” I asked Russ. ”You know, like it did us the other day?”

He shrugged. ”Could be. Or maybe they're just reverting to their normal uncivilized state, too.”

We started down the street. I noticed that a few of the buildings had broken windows or doors hanging open-their hinges and locks popped. They hadn't been like that the day before. I was sure of it.

There were five teenage boys hanging around the burn barrel on our street corner. Even though it was daytime, smoke and shadows obscured their faces until I got closer. One of them was occupied with a handheld video game system that still had power, and his attention was totally focused on that. But the rest of them looked up as Russ, Cranston, and I approached. One of them, a white kid whose baggy jeans hung low enough to expose three-quarters of his boxer shorts, stepped forward.

”'Sup, dog? What you need?”

I tried to hide my smirk. I had nothing against the dude's fas.h.i.+on sense or slang or intentional grammar-mangling. I've had plenty of friends who did the same thing. But two things were immediately obvious to me. One, if I wanted these guys to help us, I'd have to convince this de facto leader, and two, their leader was an idiot.

”What's up,” I returned the greeting. ”You alright?”

”We solid, yo. Just chilling. Know what I'm saying? Got to wonder who these three dudes are, steppin' to us on our corner, though.”

”Sorry for intruding.”

”So what you want? You here to break bad? Know what I'm saying?”

”Not really,” Russ said. ”You sound like you're auditioning for The Wire The Wire or something.” or something.”

The leader scowled. ”What you mean?”

”I mean that I don't understand a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing you just said. What language are you speaking?”

”The f.u.c.k you been smoking, old man? You looking to get your a.s.s stomped?”

I interrupted, before Russ could reply. ”We need some help. I asked around and heard that you and your crew are some good people to have guarding your back.”

He grinned. ”Word. People sayin' that for real? It's true. Our set rules this motherf.u.c.kin' street. Don't nothing go on without us knowing about it. Know what I'm saying?”

I thought about pointing out that before the darkness came, the only place he and his friends ruled was maybe the high school-and even that was doubtful. I swallowed my laughter and tried to appear impressed.

”I'm Robbie. This is Russ and Mr. Cranston.”

”'Sup.” He nodded at Russ and Cranston, then motioned to his buddies. ”I'm T. This is Irish, Stan the Man, Mad Mike, and Mario.”

All of them mumbled greetings, except Mario, who didn't look up from his game. T slapped the back of his head, and he almost dropped the unit.

”Where your manners, dog? Say h.e.l.lo, motherf.u.c.ker. Be polite and s.h.i.+t.”

”Yo, Tucker! You gonna make me blow this level! Been trying to get this s.h.i.+t for two days.”

”f.u.c.k that game. And how many times I got to tell you? Out here on the street, you call me T. You feel me? Do I call you Phil? No, I call you Mario, motherf.u.c.ker. So don't be calling me Tucker anymore. Tucker is dead. Know what I'm saying? Tucker was my slave name.”

Russ cleared his throat. ”Slave name?”

”d.a.m.n straight.”

Cranston seemed bewildered. ”But...you're white.”

”s.h.i.+t.” T snickered. ”You think I don't know that, yo? h.e.l.l yeah, I'm white.”

”Don't you think that calling yourself a slave might be disrespectful to those who are actually descended from slaves, man?”

”See, you thinking in terms of color, old hippie dude. We need to move beyond that.”

”But you're talking about slavery,” Cranston persisted. ”You're making light of one of the most horrendous things ever perpetrated by mankind.”

”Slavery don't know no color, yo. And I ain't making light of it either. I was a slave to my parents and s.h.i.+t. A slave to my motherf.u.c.king school. A slave to all their f.u.c.ked up rules. Know what I'm saying? But my parents ain't come home from work, and school's out forever, so now I'm free. I ain't a slave no more.”

Cranston opened his mouth to respond, but then he shut it again and simply stared at the teen. He looked bewildered. Russ looked annoyed. I thought it was funny, myself.

T turned to Mario. ”We got visitors. Say h.e.l.lo, stupid. Don't be a d.i.c.k.”

”'Sup.” Mario, aka Phil, turned back to his game.

”We need your help,” I repeated. ”You interested?”

”Yo, we for hire, if the price is right. Know what I'm saying? What you need done? And, more importantly, what you paying?”

”All in good time. First, I need to round up a few more people.”

”For what?”

”You'll see.”

We didn't have to wait long. The street began to fill, as people woke up and crept outside, staring up at the darkness with resignation-as if they'd hoped it would be gone. Many of them went back inside and shut their doors. Others snuck off into the shadows, probably foraging. A few of them gravitated toward us, looking for gossip or news. I noticed that n.o.body came out of the houses with broken windows or doors. I wondered if they'd been deserted before the looters had broken in, and if not, if there was anybody inside, injured or dead.

When we had about two dozen people within earshot, Russ hopped up on the hood of a parked car, raised his arms, and got their attention.

”Hey, everybody. Listen up! If you could gather around for a moment. This here is Robbie Higgins. He lives on this block, and he's got something you ought to all hear.”

I felt my ears burn and my cheeks flush. I've never been one for public speaking. When I was in high school, my girlfriend made me try out for the school play our junior year. I got a part in this thing called Scapino Scapino. I don't remember much of the plot-something about a bunch of Italians and two young lovers whose families didn't want them to be together. I played the part of a waiter. I didn't have any lines or anything like that. All I had to do was walk around in the background and bring food to the other actors while they delivered their lines. But even though I didn't have to speak, I was still scared s.h.i.+tless each time I walked out on stage. I felt the same way now. The people in the crowd were all staring at me. My stomach fluttered and cramped. Suddenly, I had to take a ma.s.sive s.h.i.+t. I clenched by a.s.s cheeks together and took a deep breath.

Russ gave me his hand and helped me up onto the car. The hood buckled under my weight. For a second, I thought we were both going to fall off. But we didn't. A few people laughed. Then the crowd fell silent again. I felt their eyes on me, and was afraid to look up.

”Make it good,” Russ whispered. ”And for the record, I still think you're f.u.c.king crazy and this plan sucks. But I've got your back.”

”Thanks,” I muttered as he hopped down.

I stared at the crowd. They stared back at me, their faces illuminated by flashlights and lanterns and chemical glow-sticks. In addition to T and his boys and Cranston and Russ, we had about two dozen other people. Men and women. Young people and old folks. Black, white, and brown. White-collar and blue-collar. If someone had asked me to describe the people of Walden, I would have taken a picture of the crowd and just showed them that instead. But despite their differences, they all had one thing in common. I saw it on their faces as I studied them.

Fear. They were all f.u.c.king scared.

And I knew how they felt because I was scared, too.

”Thanks. I appreciate you all giving me a moment of your time. I'm not a speech maker or anything. I was a pizza delivery guy until a few days ago. In fact, I think I recognize a few of your faces. Probably delivered to your house once or twice. Hope you tipped me.”