Gun Ship Page 2

  Mom: Garrett picking you up from library?

  Justin: Think so—at 7:30

  Mom: Early shift in morn so going to bed. There’s spaghetti in the fridge. Just nuke it

  Justin: Thanks. Leaving here in a min...

  Suddenly, distant voices became more audible, emanating from beyond the nearest tall stack of bookshelves.

  Damn! Justin, slouching lower in his seat, readjusted his computer screen to be in a more vertical position. Still, he didn’t need to peer around his laptop to gain a clearer vision of what was happening. It was a bevy of chattering teenage girls. Chairs clattered and banged together as multiple backpacks thumped down onto the tabletop some ten feet away. Justin closed his eyes, his fingers poised above the keyboard. Perhaps they won’t even notice me sitting here. Multiple, competing female conversations were audible.

  “Mr. Rankin is a tool. Gave me a ‘C’ . . . can you believe that? A ‘C’, for God’s sake!”

  “Yeah, I had him last semester. So what’s with his teeth? Like . . . orthodentistry wasn’t invented yet back when he was a kid?”

  “Lisa, come here. Check out this text from Shane.”

  “Hey, anyone have a tampon?”

  Justin ventured a one-eyed peek around his computer. Terrific. Six girls were sitting there. Of course, he knew who they were—everyone did. All were pretty, essentially the most popular girls in school, and, like Justin, they were seniors.

  “You have to sneak out with me Saturday night . . . hit that party.”

  “Can’t. Babysitting.”

  “Huh? Really?”

  Then another backpack thumped down loudly onto their tabletop.

  “Hey girl . . . thought you were blowing us off!”

  “Sorry. Had to drop by my locker first.”

  Justin’s heart skipped a beat, recognizing the latest arrival’s voice. Aila. She was new to Bridgeport High this semester—new to Chicago. He was fairly sure she’d never given him a second thought, even though they’d been paired as lab partners twice in Chemistry. Not only was she quirky and pretty, she was also funny, and smelled amazing. Her chestnut-colored hair, scissored in an abstract arrangement of both short and long sections, somehow worked, looked cool. Not tall, although not short either, she wore brightly colored, mostly 80s-styled rock band T-shirts, skinny jeans, and unlaced boots. Kinda tomboyish—yet still all girl.

  Justin closed his eyes, then breathed in deeply, hoping to catch a whiff, the scent of her perfume. Did I really just do that? he mused, shaking his head, annoyed at himself for what he knew would be thought of as creepy.

  He refocused his attention on his laptop screen, studying several market bottom bouncers that intrigued him. Their RSI’s, Relative Strength Indexes, weren’t too bad . . .

  At some point, the nearby table’s loud chitchat had become muted. Justin’s stomach now tightened up, beginning to twist and knot. Someone giggled. Someone else hushed her, then more giggling erupted. Unable to breathe, Justin felt half his face glow hot with color. The other half, the mask of scar tissue, was impervious to such things. He listened to their rapid-fire whispering, only an occasional word decipherable.

  “ . . . didn’t even know he was here . . .”

  “ . . . lurking about . . .”

  “ . . . creeps me . . .”

  “Name’s Justin . . . yeah, Scarface . . .”

  If only he could disappear. Become invisible. He knew he should be used to such comments by now. He’d looked a monster to others as long as he could remember. Justin checked his watch. His ride would be waiting for him in a minute or two, so he forced himself to breathe in deeply to steady his nerves. I’ll do this fast. I won’t make eye contact. I’ll get up, hurry past them, and then scoot on out of here.

  Justin sat up and closed his laptop. Gathering up his loose papers, two pencils, and his iPhone, he quickly jammed everything into his backpack. He stood up, then tried to push in his chair. One of the legs had caught on something, so he decided to just leave it. Then he remembered and, turning back, grabbed up his hoodie off the chair. Fuck! He strode forward, keeping his facial expression impassive, like someone who couldn’t care less—perfectly fine with who and what he was. He ordered himself not to make eye contact with any of the girls. Don’t you dare! But damn it, he made eye contact. Aila was watching him as he strode past them. The only one at the table not hiding a smirk, or holding back a snicker, which was sure to follow.

  By the time he reached the front of the school library and had crashed through the double glass doors, he was cursing himself aloud. “You had to forget your stupid hoodie, bring more attention to yourself, didn’t you? Oh! And then what did you do? You looked right at Aila. You fucking looked straight at her!”

  Walking forward toward the front of the school, then out into the totally empty parking lot, he calmed down some. He checked his watch: 7:38. Digging his phone from his backpack, he dialed Garrett. He listened to it ring four times before going to voicemail.

  “Leave your message and I might get back to you.”

  “Hey, this is Justin. Um . . . were you going to pick me up tonight? Can you call me back? I’m in front of the school. Oh . . . and it’s almost 7:40.”

  Garrett, also a senior, lived in the house next door to his mom’s. He was everything Justin was not: popular, handsome, and a varsity football star—first-string quarterback, of course. Although, strangely, Garret was genuinely cool. He had always watched out for Justin, and saved him from needing to take the bus most days. Well . . . lately, not so much, but that was understandable. He was entitled to have a life of his own, too. Didn’t need to cart around the town freak each night and day. Justin looked at his phone and thought about calling his mom, but he knew she’d be in bed by now. She worked the early shift at the hospital. He thought about texting Garrett again, then shook his head. Jeez, get a grip, snowflake. You’re seventeen . . . walking a couple of miles won’t kill you.

  Putting on his sweatshirt, Justin pulled the hood up, then swung his backpack over one shoulder. Outside, keeping his head down, he headed off for home.

  It wasn’t long before he regretted his decision not to call his mother for a ride. Sure, walking home from school in the daytime was not a big deal. But after dark, forced to cross through one of the worst crime-ridden, gang-infested areas in all of eastern Chicago was not a brilliant move. He lived in Brightwood Manor, which sounded a hell of a lot nicer than it actually was. But to arrive there, he’d be crossing through the south section of Harland Park—part industrial wasteland, part slum apartment buildings, and part dilapidated, boarded-up housing ghetto.

  Justin walked in silence along Ashland Avenue, willing his pristine white Nikes not to make a sound. His mother would freak out at his shoe selection today. She’d never warmed up to him playing the stock market. Hated it, in fact, until she realized not only was he proficient at it, he was some kind of young virtuoso. Whereas some kids were child prodigy pianists, and could play Mozart or Beethoven while standing on their heads or whatever, Justin’s inclinations leaned toward cutting market losses quickly—making low-risk, high-reward trades. She capitulated her strong disapproval of his investment hobby by setting unwavering rules of the house. He couldn’t spend his fortune. Whatever money he made each month, beyond his $75,000 investing fund, went into ridiculously low-yield U.S. savings bonds—where it sat, ready for him to use when he turned eighteen. But he was allowed a pittance of spending money, for purchasing a few of his extravagances, as she referred to them. One such extravagance included his collection of rare, pricey athletic shoes. He displayed them all within an enclosed, tempered-glass display case that took up one full wall in his small bedroom. And his choice of footwear for today: the Nike Foamposite One—Sole Collector. The price? A mere $6,000 for the pair.

  Justin kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the cracked, fragmented sidewalk. Although there were streetlights all around, none of them worked. He ran his hand along the close-by chain-link fence. Beyond
, just off to his left, was an immense old factory—probably shuttered down soon after WW II ended. The building’s dark silhouette loomed up ten stories high in the moonless night. Every so often, a car passed him by, its headlights illuminating mounds of gutter trash. An empty liquor bottle, its Johnny Walker label reflective in the light. Justin noticed several hypodermic needles, a Hostess DingDong wrapper, and some old car part. Maybe a car’s side-mirror? Something like that—built back in the day, when such things were actually made of metal.

  Justin breathed a little easier, noting Mankin’s Liquor sign a few blocks ahead. Back to civilization! That was when he heard many footsteps—the heavy clomping of multiple pairs of shoes, worn by those who cared little about being stealthy. Someone was dragging something. What was that? The sound a metal pipe made when dragged along asphalt was meant to be intimidating. Meant to scare him. And it was working. Justin was not a particularly good fighter, although you’d think he ought to be, considering the number of times he’d been forced into altercations. They couldn’t really be considered fights though—since only one side threw punches. At nearly six feet tall, Justin had the size, just no fighting skills. He had one motto when it came to self-defense: duck and cover. His grandfather used to say that even the worst of hurricanes eventually lose their ferocity and blow back out to sea.

  Distracted by the sounds that followed mere steps behind him, Justin paid no attention to what might lay ahead of him in the darkness.

  A loud stomping sound, coinciding with the closest streetlights coming on, stopped him in his tracks. Cool trick, he thought, suddenly feeling like a stage performer beneath a bright spotlight. Without raising his head, he peered outward at what lay ahead—seven angry faces stared back at him. They were a mixture of white, black, and a few shades in between, but all with the same expression, and he had little doubt that an equal number of angry faces were stationed behind him, too. He knew these thugs were called the MP140s—as badass a Chicago gang as it got. Their gang name stood for Municipal Police 140, the radio dispatch code for murder. Dressed in baggy jeans, their pants hung low, baggy at their asses. And like Justin, they too wore oversized hoodies. Pistol grips peeked out from more than a few waistbands.

  Justin contemplated when he should enact his standard duck-and-cover routine. Staring at them, their eyes as dark and lifeless as the night itself, he knew that ploy wouldn’t cut it tonight. No. He was going to die, right on this shitty ghetto street, next to the guttered hypodermic needles and the faded Ding Dong wrapper.

  One of the gang members approached. Not the largest guy, just the meanest-looking one. His face was twisted into an angry snarl.

  “You in the wrong place, kid.”

  Justin thought about agreeing with him. Instead, he lowered his head. His oversized hoodie covered most of his face, hiding it in shadow.

  The thug stepped up to him, close enough to shake hands, or play rock-paper-scissors. Justin said, “Sorry. Shouldn’t be here. Um . . . stupid of me.”

  “Did I say you could talk? Are we like . . . friends here? Compadres? BFFs?”

  His peeps snickered.

  “I have twenty-three bucks . . . maybe I can buy . . . um . . . passage? Just this one time?”

  The gangster wore a surprised expression as he glanced back at his cronies. “You hear that? He wants to buy passage. He must have heard that in a movie, or something.”

  They all laughed—the ones in front along with the others behind him.

  “What the fuck’s that on your face, boy?” Taking a step closer, he tilted Justin’s head into the light. His eyes narrowed as he examined the facial scars, close enough that Justin could smell the guy’s dank breath. Justin figured the guy wasn’t that much older than himself. Whatever spirit had once resided behind those now-lifeless eyes appeared long-since gone. The gang leader, raising both hands up, slowly pushed Justin’s hoodie back from his head.

  The insults then came, some almost funny. Others, more biting than Justin was used to, stung a little.

  “What’s your name? Or should I just call you Scarface?”

  Justin had heard all the jokes, a lifetime of insults, most of them multiple times. “Don’t feel sad, don’t feel blue, Frankenstein was ugly too, or.” “I’ve seen folks looking just like you, but I had to pay admission.” “Did your parents keep the placenta and throw the baby away?” “Your face is so ugly, when you cry the tears run up your face.” “I heard you went to a haunted house and they offered you a job!”

  He finally interrupted the barrage. “Please! Just let me go . . . let me continue on my way.”

  The punch came so fast Justin didn’t have time to flinch, let alone react. His head whipped backward. Lightning bolts erupted in his vision. With his right cheek throbbing, Justin considered it probably would be best to just duck and cover up. Instead, he said, “Justin . . . my name is Justin.”

  The man’s eyes stared back at him. “I won’t kill you, Justin. But after tonight, you’ll learn . . . to never walk alone at night on one of my streets.”

  A car, or truck, or something equally big, was fast approaching, its dark shape momentarily blocking the illuminated liquor sign just down the road.

  “My name is Lewis. And this here is my twin brother, Harland.”

  Justin heard the other twin’s approach, caught him out his peripheral vision standing next to him at the curb. Like Lewis, Harland had a tangle of long, dyed-blonde dreadlocks falling free beneath his black ballcap.

  “And yes,” Lewis said, “I know . . . we look identical. Everybody says that shit. Drives me fucking crazy. I don’t think we look identical—similar, maybe, but not identical. He’s who he is, I’m who I am. But you probably know what it’s like hearing people say things you don’t want to hear.” Lewis, studying Justin’s scarred face again, asked, “Fuck, man—how’d that shit happen to you?”

  Justin didn’t like talking about it, but his cheek really hurt. To avoid another walloping, he said, “Happened when I was a baby. An explosion, of sorts.”

  This time it was Harland who spoke. “What kind of explosion?”

  “Meth lab . . . my mother, my real mother, was cooking meth. I was in a baby carrier, slung across her back. When everything went up in a firebomb, she died. And this scarring happened to me.”

  He saw a truck coming—almost upon them. Maybe fifty yards away. Justin wondered if he could somehow signal the driver, make some kind of hand gesture? What was the right hand gesture for “Help me, I’m about to be murdered”?

  Lewis said, “Shit happens, man, I get that. So yeah, we won’t be too rough on you tonight.” He looked at his brother. “Smack him around a bit, Harland. Then catch up to us. I got that meet I need to get to. Oh, and grab his fancy kicks. They look expensive.”

  Harland smiled back, clearly liking this aspect of gangster life.

  Chapter 2

  Loham Babar

  Wrigley’s Chewing Gum Factory—Bridgeport, Chicago

  Babar worked in the darkness, his physiology well equipped for extreme low-light perception. He was on the third floor of the Bridgeport Chicago Wrigley factory, originally built in 1911. Toiling within the long-abandoned 175,000 square feet of space, Babar had learned that the company’s signature chewing gum flavors, such as Spearmint and Doublemint, had first been manufactured here.

  Working now on the third floor—cutting a length of copper piping nested between two floor joists—he heard someone’s soft footfalls on the street below. Not very smart, walking alone down there at night, he thought.

  Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he moved across to an area open to the elements, one with a bird’s eye view down to the street below. He spied a lone hooded figure, wearing bright white athletic shoes, walking along the sidewalk close to the fence. You are indeed a fool, young human. Babar knew the gangs around here came in a variety of cultural ethnicities, and some even mixed. There were the Gangster Disciples, the Latin Kings, Surenos 13, the MP140s, the Maniac Latin Disciples, an
d the Vice Lords. Of course, the bigger-ticketed gangs, like the Crips and the Bloods, could also be found around here. Close to five hundred deaths a year were attributed to gang violence. Parts of the city were largely abandoned to the gangs, which for Babar’s purposes, was perfect. Few intruders dared to live around here. Especially since he’d affixed twenty-five “CAUTION—ASBESTOS” signs onto outer walls and signposts, placing them all around the dilapidated old building. The indigent and homeless, rarely particular about where they squatted, were not around. Absolutely none wanted to risk getting cancer. For the past eighteen months, Babar had endured few interruptions as he completed his important repair work far below, within the old factory’s subterranean cellar.

  Babar watched as two groups converged on the intruder. Ah . . . the MP140s. This was, after all, their turf. Counting fourteen in all, he realized he’d seen some of them before, even knew several by name. A sudden kick, and the streetlight illuminated. Yeah, they’d run this same scenario before too. Babar, standing more erect now, flexed his jaw muscles. He knew the young human below with the facial scars—had seen him often walking along the corridors at the high school, or waiting for a ride in the parking lot.

  Working as a janitor at the high school during the day, Babar recognized most of the students. What better way to hide from the world than to be in plain sight? He was well aware that within this vast universe, alien life was uniquely diverse. From the spider-like beings on Storg-world, a neighboring planet to his own Calunoth, to the more lizard-like people of PR99GWYN, here within frontier space, Babar had never encountered such a similar, dare he say identical-looking bipedal vertebrate. Knowledge of this backwater world, these humans, interstellar genetic cousins to his Parian race, had been a contributing factor to him coming here in the first place.

  He watched now as the boy’s hood was pushed back from his head. Taunts and insults followed. Whack! The sound echoed into the nighttime air. The solid punch to his scarred face came fast and hard, but to the boy’s credit he didn’t crumble, didn’t whimper like a wounded animal. Just the same, Babar clasped onto a protruding section of rusted rebar as poisonous anger coursed through him. His muscles tensed and his breathing slowed into what his people called Shajla, a mental and physiological state when one was preparing for battle. His voice, little more than a whisper, said, “Best you not harm that boy any further . . .”