Demolition Love

13. BULLET

  No one seems to notice us.

  The As continue to batter Lawson, taunting him when he moves or cries out. More As heckle from the sidelines. For half a breath I stand in the space Lin just vacated, while my arm loosens its hold on the crutch, preparing to toss it aside.

  A bullet slams into the street in front of us, just beside the combatants, tearing up asphalt. My eyes close on reflex.

  Finally.

  Relief floods me like cool water on a sweltering day. For as long as it takes to blink, I know Lawson broke down and pulled his gun, and I’m glad, and I don’t know what my gladness means about who I am becoming. Then my eyes open and, aside from the broken cement, the scene in the street hasn’t changed. Lawson is still shielding his head with empty hands.

  “Stop.” The command reverberates over the crowd.

  Everyone freezes, even the A with a foot drawn back ready to drive into Lawson’s stomach. Because it’s a grown-up voice, augmented by megaphone, and there are neither megaphones nor grownups in D-town.

  We all turn to face the GeeGee guard stepping out of the shadows at the base of the Cross Bearer tribal house, to the left of The Dance. I recognize the guard from the Boundary, dressed all in black. She holds the megaphone in her left hand and an old-world gun in her right, the weapon trained on the A with a foot in the air. She also carries a sonic blaster slung over her shoulder, but blasters are no good in close quarters.

  “Stop,” she says again, not bothering with the megaphone this time.

  The A holds up hands and slowly lowers the foot.

  But Lawson uncurls and slides across the ground like a backward worm—ass scoot, feet to ass, repeat—away from the guard, toward the A. The guard strides after him.

  “Don’t move.” It’s not a command like earlier; she’s holstering her gun.

  The guard leans over Lawson, and he recoils, like I must have the night he first bent over me. She drops to a knee beside him and feels along his spine. She’s talking to him, too softly to be heard from where I stand, and he shakes his head. He tries to push her away, and she bats his hand aside like his strength counts for nothing. That’s the A’s fault. On a good day, she’d be toast.

  “Leave me alone,” Lawson says louder. “This isn’t your fight.” He grits his teeth and tries to rise.

  She does something—I think maybe just shove his shoulder and then catch him as he goes down—and the next moment he’s on his back on the pavement, and she’s patting him down. They converse some more, and whatever she says gets him to flip over onto his front. I hold my breath when her hands reach his waistband, but if there’s a weapon hidden there, she doesn’t advertise it.

  Restless shifting ripples through the crowd, starting with the Real Dealers, but it’s the Cross Bearer leader who steps forward.

  “You have—” The Bishop clears his throat and when he speaks again his voice has lost the uncharacteristic squeak. “You have no authority here.”

  The guard’s lips twitch, and the Bishop smoothes his shirt buttons.

  “Stand down,” he orders.

  Another bullet hits the ground, at the Bishop’s feet this time, and he jumps back with a squeal.

  My head swivels as I take in the new threat. The first guard is not alone; they have us surrounded. The rest of the guards wear various shades of gray, perfect for blending with an urban landscape. Ninety percent of them are guys—men—and one hundred percent hold semi-automatic handguns, with blasters over their shoulders for backup. No machine guns. Small consolation.

  “Get me a stretcher,” the first guard says, drawing my gaze back to her and Lawson.

  I must have missed something, because she’s got him in handcuffs. He wriggles on the ground. The sight makes my vision narrow and my scalp burn. Hasn’t he been through enough humiliation for the day?

  Two of the men trot off.

  “Captain,” another man calls. “Our orders were to not interfere, Ma’am.”

  “It’s on me,” the woman at Lawson’s side, the Captain, says. “I’m taking this boy to the hospital. He’s just a kid, O’Leary.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Lin is no longer with me. I glance around and spot her a little ways off, with a group of Real Dealers. Tribes have been edging closer together, forming clusters. My stomach sinks. The division will make us look weak.

  Kylie and Sam edge away from the other Bees, toward me. They stare at the ground, shoulders curled forward, seemingly harmless, which I suppose they are.

  I coax my fingers into unclenching. Okay, okay, I need to help Lawson. Step one, stop panicking. Step two…no idea. Lawson is still struggling ineffectually with the Captain. My hands ball right back up.

  “We thought you were going to do something stupid,” Sam says, coming up beside me.

  “I didn’t.” It’s not clear whether Kylie didn’t think I was going to take action, or whether she disagrees that action would have been stupid.

  “We have to do something,” I say. “We can’t let them take him.”

  “He’s not tribe,” Sam snaps.

  “So what?” I demand. “He’s a living being, isn’t he? I thought we stood for living beings.”

  Kylie sighs. “You’re speaking from your lust.”

  “Oh, right. I just want to keep him here so we can bang!”

  “Keep it down.” Sam’s eyes are wide. “They’re looking.”

  Running footsteps echo, and then the two men jog back into view with an orange plastic stretcher between them. The contraption is obviously a carryover from the old world, not yet replaced with a “positive” color like green or pink. The two guards bring the stretcher and lay it beside Lawson, who now lies facedown in the street with the Captain’s knee on his back. Some way to treat an injured person.

  I look around for the Real Dealers. They have to be up to something, right? Maybe I can lend my aid.

  Yeah, Aidan. You’ll be a huge help. You can act as a decoy, and get shot… I will! If that’s what it takes.

  Most of the guards watch the large cluster of As in the street. I would too; the A seem like the biggest threat, especially since they were engaged in violence when the GeeGee arrived. So when a roar goes up from the As and they charge out in all directions, the guards close ranks, letting the kids at the fringe slip through.

  The As crash through the clustered D-towners, shouting and pushing. Not doing anything but causing chaos as the other tribes either scramble out of the way or shove back. While the guards hesitate, exchanging confused glances, the Real Dealers rush in from behind.

  Between them, the two anarchist tribes manage to knock down and disarm a handful of guards, and the street descends into chaos.

  GeeGee orders must include not shooting us, because it’s all hand-to-hand combat. Bees drop to squats, protecting their heads with their arms, all except for me. I duck through the bedlam, once more aiming for Lawson. The rest of the tribes switch into street fighting mode. Numbers are heavy on our side, and D-towners have been scrapping our whole lives, but the guards are professionally trained.

  Warm, moist skin brushes my right hand, and I look down at the grubby fingers that wrap around my index finger. I tug to get away, but the grip tightens. I turn to meet the dark eyes of Lawson’s odd sibling.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “Lawson wanted you to be safe.”

  That one nods solemnly, but keeps holding on to my finger.

  I’m battered, dependent on a crutch, and running out of time, but I can’t leave Lawson’s sibling in the middle of the brawl. I twine our fingers and tow that one along. We slip through untouched and break into the open space surrounding Lawson just as the Captain and the two men lift the stretcher with him strapped to it. The Captain supports the left shoulder, one of the men hoists the right, and the second man holds the foot of the stretcher. Lawson catches my eye, straining to lift his head, and gives me a wild look.

  “Stop.” It’s amazing how steady my voice is. “Y
ou can’t take him.”

  The Captain looks over her shoulder. The six of us almost seem alone, an island of stillness in the roiling battle. The GeeGee’s guns are holstered, and their hands are full of stretcher; they can’t shoot me. Lawson isn’t light, so when I do something they’ll have to drop him if they want to use their guns. Falling could injure him worse, but Lawson doesn’t seem to mind taking chances. So I’ll risk it, just as soon as I figure out what to do.

  “I’m taking him,” the Captain says. Then, like she cares about him, about me, she adds, “He’ll be better off. Trust me.”

  I wet my mouth. “That’s what the Cross Bearers say about heaven.” My hands are trembling, so I stick them behind my back and fold them together.

  “We’re not going to kill him, I promise. Just get him the medical help that he needs.”

  “And then he can come back?”

  “Sure.”

  Yeah, right. They start walking, taking That Guy away.

  “Stop!” I scream.

  Cold metal touches my hand, and my fingers close around Lawson’s gun as his sibling shoves it into my grip. I whip it from behind me and point it at the Captain’s back. My hands shake so hard I’m sure it’ll slip out of them to the ground.

  The GeeGee glance back at my shout.

  “Easy now,” one of the men says. “You know you won’t hurt us.”

  “The Buddha forbids it.” The Captain’s gaze seems to see through me.

  Down to my undisciplined, impassioned, poor-excuse-for-a-Bee soul.

  My godfather introduced me to guns, and my hands remember. My thump finds the hammer, pulls it back. The GeeGee freeze for a second, but then the Captain nods, and they resume walking away. She’s so sure she knows Bees. All I have to do now is shoot the ground. It’ll be no different from tossing the grenade. But what if I miss?

  Big hands surround mine, and a heavy finger covers mine on the trigger. A net of ice closes over my scalp as the finger squeezes.

  Bang. The extra pair of hands absorbs some of the recoil.

  Click goes the hammer, without my participation.

  Bang. Like I’m the ghost of five-year-old Aidan, with my dead godfather’s hands trapping mine against the gun.

  The second bullet hits the guard supporting Lawson’s right side. The guard’s shoulder jerks, and his burden slips from his grip as he topples backward. The stretcher is falling, tossing Lawson onto his face. Beanpole guy—those are his big hands on mine—takes the gun as I pitch forward.

  I grasp my knees, vomit burning up my throat to spew all over my new shoes. Then I droop there, heaving.

  The shot guard doesn’t die. Of course not. Bulletproof vests. He just fumbles for his gun with his free hand. Like a signal has been given, all the D-towners hit the ground, just as the GeeGee open fire.