The Object: Book One (Object Series) (5 page)

Sherman
snatched up the gun and then crawled to the back of the bus, the kid outside still bawling and firing shots into the front windshield.

When he reached the back,
Sherman
lifted the yellow lever on the emergency exit door and pushed it open, triggering an alarm.  He jumped out onto the pavement at the intersection of 2nd and St. Catherine, right in front of the Brick House community center.  It was almost full dark now.

He took off down St. Catherine.  The moment he was clear of the bus the kid whose grandmother had just been plowed fired at him and then gave chase, cursing and shouting, “You a dead man, bitch!”

Sherman
ran at a speed he didn’t know himself capable.  He veered to the left sidewalk, where the occasional tree or parked car would provide him some cover, until the kid joined him on the sidewalk, firing wildly.  A bullet tore through some tree branches up ahead, raining disintegrated leaves upon him as he passed.

He crossed the
1st Street
intersection, kept going straight.  He came to an exit ramp from the interstate and nearly made the mistake of taking it, but he quickly realized the incline would slow him down.  The kid was already closing distance.

Past the exit ramp he cut left into a yard that ran alongside some trees bordering a house on the corner of St. Catherine and Brook Street, and when he emerged from the trees onto the Brook Street sidewalk he collided with a young girl, sending both of them sprawling on the street and knocking the pistol from his grip and skidding across the pavement to the center line.

Sherman and the girl sat up at the same time and looked at each other.  Then
Sherman
dove at her and pulled her kicking and screaming to the short retaining wall just as two more gunshots rang out.

Sherman
peeked over the wall and saw the kid approaching at a fast walk.  He looked at the girl, wide-eyed and panting.  “If he gets me, run like hell.”

Then he went for the gun, expecting to be mowed down by gunfire, but instead he reached the center line, scooped up the pistol, and pointed it at the kid, who had run out of bullets and now stood in the street, producing a clicking noise as he continued to pull the trigger.

“Well go on then!” the kid shouted.  “Shoot me!  Do it!”  He began to pace back and forth and punch himself in the chest.

“Listen, brother,”
Sherman
started.

“You killed my grandma!”

“Nah, man, it wasn’t--”

“Shoot me if you got the balls,” the kid said.  “What are you waiting for?  Go on!”

“Come on, son.  You need to listen.”

Sherman
glanced over at the girl, who cowered against the wall, shaking.  The kid continued to scream and curse, and she reacted to each blast of his rage.

Sherman
fired the gun over the kid’s head and the kid backed away, tripped, sat down in the grass. 
Sherman
approached him quickly, gun trained at his face.

“Listen to me, son.  I’m sorry as I can be about your grandma, but I wasn’t the one drivin’ the bus.”

“You a liar, man.”

Sherman
smiled and plucked at his tattered denim jacket.  “Now come on, son.  Do I look like a brother with a job to you?  Seriously.  The man you’re after you done killed.  If I wasn’t so black you could see his blood on my face.”

The kid dropped his head and began to cry.  “That was my grandma, man.  I come to take her to church.  She thought the end was comin‘.”

“You ain’t got no other people?”
Sherman
asked.

“I got my boys,” the kid said.  “CNG, bitch.  Fuh eva’.”

Sherman
nodded.  “Two of your boys jumped me couple weeks back.  You get back to
Greenwood
you tell ‘em drunk
Sherman
let you live, you understand?”

The kid stood and straightened his jacket.

“CNG don’t give a
fuck
,” he said.  “We gon’ own this town now.  I get reloaded, I’m comin’ after yo’ broke stankin’ ass.”

Sherman
cocked the hammer on the pistol and the kid turned back up St. Catherine.

Sherman
called after him, “Go have a look for yourself!” he said.  “It wasn’t me, son!  You tell ‘em I let you live!”

The kid was gone, lost somewhere in the dark. 
Sherman
turned back to the girl.

“Young lady, you shouldn’t be out in the streets tonight.  It’s dangerous.”

The girl stood.  “I need help,” she said.  “Some men broke into our house.  I hurt them.  My brother and sister are still there.”

“Where do you live?”

She started to tell him but stopped.

“It’s okay, young lady.  What’s your name?”

“Lillia.”

“I’m
Sherman
.  I’m homeless and I’m a drunk, but I ain’t never hurt nobody.”

She stared at him for a moment.  Then she pointed towards the intestate and said, “My house is over there.”

He followed her down the street to her house.  The front door stood wide open.  Just inside he could see a lump moving and twitching at the bottom of the steps.

The girl crossed to the right side of the yard, waving him along.  “One of them is over here,” she said.

He came around the side of the house, where tall trees and the interstate obstructed the light from the street lamps, and found the girl standing at the hedges lining the house, pointing at a man who lay half-conscious and making motions with his arms as though backstroking in a swimming pool.

Sherman
pointed his gun at the man.

“Wait,” Lillia said.  “Don’t kill him.”

“Fine by me,”
Sherman
said.

Lillia backed away and called up to the rooftop.  “Drake!”

Sherman
looked up and saw two children standing on a small section of roof where the house was only one story.

“Lillia, look!” the boy said, pointing up at the sky.

Sherman
stepped around to where Lillia stood, and together they peered up at the object, where a number of tiny golden lights floated and glided like lightning bugs.  For several minutes they watched the little orbs grow bigger and bigger in the sky.

“What is it, Lillia?” said the little girl.

“I don’t know,” Lillia called up to her.

“Aliens!” the boy said.

“You go on up, get them children off that roof,”
Sherman
said.  “I’ll see to it this guy knows not to come back.”

“Thanks,” Lillia said, and then she took off around the corner.

Sherman
moved over next to the man in the hedges and tapped him on the leg with the barrel of the gun.

“Hey, man,” he said, pointing up at the sky.  “Check that out.”

Lights in the Sky

Sherman
held the gun on Ted while Lillia climbed halfway up the staircase to tie the nylon rope to the rail.

"Make sure you pull it tight, honey.  Put ol' Ted on his tiptoes."

"I'm a get you, just wait and see," said Ted.  He started to speak again but Lillia yanked on the rope, causing him to cry out.  "That's too tight," he said.  "This is inhumane."

"Like comin' after little children,"
Sherman
said.  "You're a grown man, Ted.  You ought to know better."

"Piss on you, blue gums."

Another jerk of the rope came from above.

Sherman
said, "Y'ain't helpin' your case none, talkin' like that."

With the rope secure, Ted was now tied at both wrists in a standing position against the side of the staircase, about halfway down the hall.  Trips to the kitchen would have to be taken through the living room.

"What now?" Lillia asked, leaning over the rail.

"You go on up and keep the children company.  I'll see what I can do about--what's your brother's name, Ted?"

"Kiss my ass."

"See what I can do about Kiss My Ass,"
Sherman
said.

Lillia nodded and jogged up the steps.

Sherman
waited until she closed the bedroom door and then he stepped around to the foot of the stairs, where Ted's brother lay moaning and bleeding.  His breathing had grown shallow and the pool of blood had spread to both corners of the bottom step, running in a stream to the base of the coat rack.  This presented the illusion that the coat rack itself was bleeding, until he turned back to Ted's mangled brother.  That bone sticking out of his arm churned
Sherman
's stomach.  Had he not already puked himself empty on the Tarc bus, he might just add to the mess right here.

He knew what he had to do, but he didn't know how to do it.  The gun was out of the question.  It would scare the kids and only add to the blood he needed to mop up so the children wouldn't see it.

"Hey," Ted said.  "How's my brother doin'?"

"Not good."

"How you doin' over there, Steve?"

Steve opened his mouth to respond and pink blood bubbled out.

"Your brother's dyin',"
Sherman
said.  "Looks like he got a rib in his lung."

"Call an ambulance!"

"We done tried that.  Couldn't get through.  This city's gone off its rocker--but I guess you know that already."

"Well then help him, I don't know.  Do something."

"I'm workin' on it."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Well, let's see." 
Sherman
crossed his arms, coughed.  "The plan, I suppose, is puttin' him out of his misery.  I just ain't decided on my method."

"Kill him?"

"He's done mostly dead.  Just needs that extra little push."

"You son of a bitch, you better not kill my brother."

Sherman
stepped into the hall to face Ted.  "Well then what do you think I should do?  Believe me, I'm open to suggestions.  Killin' folks ain't an every day thing for me."

"Take him to the hospital."

"With what?"

"My truck.  It's parked right up the street.  White S-10.  I got the keys right here in my pocket."

"Nah, no good,"
Sherman
said.  "Them kids don't need to be out traipsin' around in this craziness."

"Leave 'em here."

"With you?"

"I'm tied up."

"Soon as I'm out the door you'll be tryin' to work free.  Can't risk it, no sir."

"Then let me go.  I'll take him.  I swear you'll never see me again."

"Can't do it, brother."

"Come on, damn it!"

"Keep your voice down." 
Sherman
raised the gun again.  "I won't have you scarin' them kids.  No more."

"You gotta kill me or let me go," Ted said.

"Let's concentrate on your brother for now.  We'll get to you next."

Sherman
lowered the gun and walked through the living room, intending to find a good sharp knife.  Stabbing Steve would only add to the blood, but at least it wouldn't spray all over the walls.  He didn't have time to search for other options.  He still had Ted to deal with, then securing the house from other intruders.  He needed to find a television and see what they had to say about that big thing in the sky.

What he really needed was a pint of whiskey.

Before he reached the kitchen
Sherman
stopped at the couch, where his answer lay against the armrest.  A throw pillow.  Of course.  If you want to kill someone quietly, what better way is there?

He grabbed the pillow and stuck the gun in his back pocket.  The weight of it made his loose pants sag so low they were nearly falling off by the time he reached Steve.

"You gonna prop his head up with that?" Ted asked.

Sherman
knelt next to Steve and hitched his pants.  He took the gun out and placed it on the floor at arm's length.  Then he tried to position his knees clear of the blood as he leaned over Steve, gripped both sides of the pillow, and pressed it firmly into Steve's face.

Steve let out a muffled moan that sounded like an electric shaver.  His uninjured arm lolled and flopped like the severed tail of a racing lizard, striking the corner of the bottom step, then landing in
Sherman
's lap where it writhed about and grabbed at his shirt.

Sherman
turned his head and closed his eyes.  He began to count the seconds in his head.  How long does it take?   Ted must have heard the commotion because now he was calling out to his brother.  "Steve, you okay?  What's that son of a bitch doin' to you?  Hey--hey, whatever your name is!"

Lillia must have heard, too, because the bedroom door opened and closed upstairs and he could hear her little footsteps, one after the other, slowly coming down the steps.  When she stopped, he realized he was counting her footsteps and not the seconds.

"Hey!" said Ted.

Sherman
opened his eyes and turned to Lillia, who stood about halfway up the stairs, her fingers lightly treading the rail.  She stared at Steve--or rather the pillow on Steve's face.

"I didn't know what else to do,"
Sherman
said.

Lillia titled her head slightly.  "Is he dead?"

Sherman
slowly removed the pillow to reveal Steve's face, his wide eyes and open mouth.

"You kill my brother?!" Ted screamed.

"Yeah, he's . . . man, I don't think I've ever been so close to a dead--"

Suddenly Steve's body jerked and a mist of blood shot out of his mouth as he gasped for breath. 
Sherman
shrieked and reared back as if being thrown from a horse and said, "Oh Holy Hell, Steve, damn, you ain't dead!  Sorry for cursin', young lady."

"What's goin' on over there?" Ted asked.  "Somebody better answer me."

"Just hang on,"
Sherman
said.  He leaned over Steve again, and this time Steve made eye contact with him.  "Sorry, Steve.  Don't mean to drag this thing out so long.  I ain't no good at killin'."

"It . . . hurts," Steve said.  "Can't breathe."

"Well look, they ain't no ambulance comin'.  You know that, right?"

Steve nodded.

"I got a gun,"
Sherman
said, "but I don't know if I can do it, Steve."

This time Steve nodded aggressively, opening his eyes as wide as he could.  Blood bubbled up at the corner of his mouth and streamed down his cheek.

"What's he sayin'?" Ted said.

"He wants me to . . . to put an end to it."

"Well do it then!"

"I'm tryin' to Ted!"
Sherman
yelled.

"Please," Steve murmured.

If
Sherman
hadn't seen his lips moving he wouldn't have caught it.  He leaned far over and picked up the gun, righted himself, stood with one foot on either side of Steve's legs.  "Ted.  You got anything you want to say to your brother?"

Ted didn't respond. 
Sherman
peered around the side of the railing, thinking Ted must have succumbed to tears.  Instead he found Ted straining to peek up through the rails at Lillia, grinning.

"Might want to move over to the wall, honey,"
Sherman
said.  "Ted's got the angle on you."

Lillia looked around herself for a moment, then realized what he meant and jumped away from the rail as though it were electrified.

"No last words to your own family, huh, Ted?"

Ted grumbled to himself for a moment and then said, "Catch ya later, Steve."

Sherman
pulled back the hammer.

"Wait," Lillia said.  She turned and bounded up the steps, calling back, "I have an idea."

~~~~

Barry doubled parked in front of a taxi cab around the corner from the police precinct. 
West Jefferson Street
was barricaded by fire trucks, probably to make it easy for cops and city officials to get in and out without having to tear through the masses of belligerent fools wailing and pleading for assistance with their various problems.  People crowded the front and back ends of the fire trucks blocking the street, and officers in riot gear held the barrier.

"What'd you find?"

Jason was running through the contacts list on Wally's cell phone, looking for any names that might be Wally's supplier or employer.

"I don't know.  It's a bunch of chicks.  Kate.  Keisha.  Natty.  Momz.  Pizza Place.  T.  White girl.  My only guess would be T."

"Call it."

Barry scanned the sidewalks, studying individual faces, each frowning, cheeks wet with tears, noses clogged with snot.  "Too stupid to run," he mumbled.  "Resigned to whatever fate it brings them."

"What?" Jason said.  He pulled the phone away from his ear.  "Signal's weak.  Wait.  Okay it's ringing.  Shit.  Disconnected."

"Call it again."

"No I mean the number's been disconnected."

"Give me that."  Barry snatched the phone from Jason's hand and opened the door.  "Wait in the car."

"Gladly," Jason said.

Barry stood outside the car for a moment and checked his clothes for blood spatter.  Then he removed his handgun from its holster and inspected it, in case he had to check it in before entering the precinct.

He approached the crowd at the back of the fire truck and pushed his way through to the front of the barricade.  The tallest in the crowd, he scanned the faces behind the riot glass and helmets until he spotted one he recognized.  Bodies pressed into him on both sides, reeking of sweat, dampening the sleeves of his suit jacket.

"
Tyler
!  Hey!"  He whistled loud enough to soften the noise of the crowd for a moment.  Everyone turned to watch him.

"Barry!"
Tyler
called back.  Then he patted the arm of the officer next to him and said, "Hey, the tall guy--let him through."

Barry fought his way over to
Tyler
and slid through a narrow crevice he and the other officer made with their riot glass.  He jogged down the street around police cars parked at random and finally came to the swinging doors of the precinct, where a young female officer leaned against the wall crying, soaked in blood.  He stopped and looked at her for a moment.  Then he continued on into the bright fluorescent-lit lobby, where he spotted his brother, Derek, huddled with two other detectives near a row of water coolers.

As though sensing his presence, Derek lifted a finger without turning, then crossed his arms and continued with his hushed conversation.

Barry sat on a bench near the exit and waited--his brother liked to make him wait.  Even for the money they had smuggled from evidence and robbed from small-time drug dealers: Derek took it for a "safe waiting period," and when Barry's half came back it always turned up light by twenty percent.  "Handling fees and such.  You understand," he had explained the first time it happened.

The young bloody officer wandered through the door just as Derek finally broke from his secret meeting and approached.  Barry passed her close enough to catch a salty whiff of the blood.  When he reached Derek he glanced back and noticed the girl had taken his place on the bench.

"Madhouse, Barry, I don't have much time.  What is it?"

Barry spoke low.  "I need a name run."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Jesus, Barry, haven't you noticed the fuckin' Martian spaceship in the sky?"

"It's important," Barry said.  He moved in a little and gave Derek his signature grin, the one that meant money.  "Could be big, Derek."