Blair, far more shaken up, manages to stay silent and follow her. But his hands are shaking. Watching the crowd, without making eye contact, I bring up the rear. The people in front of the store—two twentysomething women and a young man—instinctively part for their elders. They’re either not worked up enough to be violent or have correctly assessed my capabilities: afraid, not stupid afraid. Not yet, anyway.
The door remains shut when Allenby tugs on the handle. A man appears in the window, his thinning gray hair combed back tight, his light blue eyes wide with fear. I see Allenby’s lips moving, mouthing the words, “Help us,” without letting the crowd hear. She’s smart. Understands people.
I pause on the edge of the sidewalk, unsure if we’re going to make it off the street or if I’m going to reenact the battle of Thermopylae, by myself, while Allenby and Blair make a futile run for it.
For a moment, the old man doesn’t move, but the way Allenby is able to plead for her life, just with her eyes, is impressive. The man nods and unlocks the door.
The heavy, painted green door opens, its well-oiled hinges slipping silently, until— jing jing . A bell at the top of the door clangs loudly. The crowd starts, bouncing back like someone has just fired a gun.
The old man pushes the door open wide, allowing Allenby and Blair to hurry inside. I make a step to follow, but am stopped by movement at the fringe of my vision. The large man, whose build, crooked nose, and response to the ringing bell suggests a pugilistic history, strides toward me. I could get inside without facing him, but a man of his bulk would make short work of the door.
“You the jackass who switched on the music?” the pugilist asks as he wipes his nose with both thumbs, makes twin sledgehammer fists, and starts bobbing.
“Yes,” I tell him.
The crowd around us buzzes with excitement, eager for the violence to begin.
“I thought it was an ambulance,” I add. The statement makes the man pause for a moment, long enough for him to notice that I’m not backing away, nor have I taken up a fighting stance.
“Ain’t you afraid?” he asks.
I jab. The fast strike slips past his defenses, crushes his nose, and staggers him back. Before he has a chance to realize I’ve broken his nose, I kick him square in the nuts. The great thing about having no social fear is that I can fight dirty and not feel bad about it later. The pugilist howls and drops to his knees. I finish him off with a roundhouse kick that knocks him unconscious and spills him into the road. He’ll live, but he might not be able to reproduce, which is my little gift to the world today.
I glance at the crowd, which is stunned by the sudden and extreme violence. It’s more than they bargained for and didn’t go the way they expected. But it won’t hold them back forever, and now that I’ve hurt one of their own, they’ll be out for blood.
Moving casually, I step toward the shop and slip through the door, carefully closing and locking it behind me.
The shop is full of eclectic antiques. There’s a tall 1950s radio, glowing with power. A stained-glass lamp. A medieval helmet opened to reveal a secret decanter and shot glasses. I feel like there is someone I would like to tell about all this, but there isn’t anyone. My only friends are Shotgun Jones and Seymour, and their tastes run a little closer to the crap given away on The Price Is Right .
“Crazy,” Allenby says. She takes my wrist and pulls me away from the door. “This is Matt Williams.”
The old man nods at me.
“How can we get to the roof?” I ask.
He points up. “I live on the second floor. Fire escape goes to the roof. Stairs are around back.” He starts leading the way but isn’t going anywhere fast.
I snap my fingers at Blair. “Get to the roof. Make sure the chopper knows where we are.”
Blair runs for the back of the store. I hear his feet thundering up the staircase a moment
The door remains shut when Allenby tugs on the handle. A man appears in the window, his thinning gray hair combed back tight, his light blue eyes wide with fear. I see Allenby’s lips moving, mouthing the words, “Help us,” without letting the crowd hear. She’s smart. Understands people.
I pause on the edge of the sidewalk, unsure if we’re going to make it off the street or if I’m going to reenact the battle of Thermopylae, by myself, while Allenby and Blair make a futile run for it.
For a moment, the old man doesn’t move, but the way Allenby is able to plead for her life, just with her eyes, is impressive. The man nods and unlocks the door.
The heavy, painted green door opens, its well-oiled hinges slipping silently, until— jing jing . A bell at the top of the door clangs loudly. The crowd starts, bouncing back like someone has just fired a gun.
The old man pushes the door open wide, allowing Allenby and Blair to hurry inside. I make a step to follow, but am stopped by movement at the fringe of my vision. The large man, whose build, crooked nose, and response to the ringing bell suggests a pugilistic history, strides toward me. I could get inside without facing him, but a man of his bulk would make short work of the door.
“You the jackass who switched on the music?” the pugilist asks as he wipes his nose with both thumbs, makes twin sledgehammer fists, and starts bobbing.
“Yes,” I tell him.
The crowd around us buzzes with excitement, eager for the violence to begin.
“I thought it was an ambulance,” I add. The statement makes the man pause for a moment, long enough for him to notice that I’m not backing away, nor have I taken up a fighting stance.
“Ain’t you afraid?” he asks.
I jab. The fast strike slips past his defenses, crushes his nose, and staggers him back. Before he has a chance to realize I’ve broken his nose, I kick him square in the nuts. The great thing about having no social fear is that I can fight dirty and not feel bad about it later. The pugilist howls and drops to his knees. I finish him off with a roundhouse kick that knocks him unconscious and spills him into the road. He’ll live, but he might not be able to reproduce, which is my little gift to the world today.
I glance at the crowd, which is stunned by the sudden and extreme violence. It’s more than they bargained for and didn’t go the way they expected. But it won’t hold them back forever, and now that I’ve hurt one of their own, they’ll be out for blood.
Moving casually, I step toward the shop and slip through the door, carefully closing and locking it behind me.
The shop is full of eclectic antiques. There’s a tall 1950s radio, glowing with power. A stained-glass lamp. A medieval helmet opened to reveal a secret decanter and shot glasses. I feel like there is someone I would like to tell about all this, but there isn’t anyone. My only friends are Shotgun Jones and Seymour, and their tastes run a little closer to the crap given away on The Price Is Right .
“Crazy,” Allenby says. She takes my wrist and pulls me away from the door. “This is Matt Williams.”
The old man nods at me.
“How can we get to the roof?” I ask.
He points up. “I live on the second floor. Fire escape goes to the roof. Stairs are around back.” He starts leading the way but isn’t going anywhere fast.
I snap my fingers at Blair. “Get to the roof. Make sure the chopper knows where we are.”
Blair runs for the back of the store. I hear his feet thundering up the staircase a moment
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