Shadoe actually twitched when she heard the name. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to consciously remind herself to breathe. She was within an arm’s reach of the monster Crenshaw. The worst of the stories she had heard flooded back into her mind all at once. Visualizations of the things he had done since the world had gone to hell. She had never thought the man would be so attractive. Shadoe had always thought she would recognize Crenshaw the instant she saw him. She never would have imagined he would be the man who had playfully followed her all this time.
A year ago she had actually been contracted to hunt Crenshaw. He had always been just out of sight when she tracked him, always just a step ahead of her. Shadoe hadn’t had the chance to set up a trap for him or arrange for him to chase her in the past. After finding one of the gang camps left in bloody ruin in his wake she had decided he was not worth whatever the tribe offered her to kill the man. When she returned to the tribe that had contracted her they informed Shadoe they no longer desired Crenshaw dead and saved her from having to back out of the contract. He had apparently discovered the tribe desired him dead so he had taken matters into his own hands. Crenshaw had hunted and killed every member of the Diablos, a gang that had plagued the tribe since the small group of people banded together. As a peace offering Crenshaw had presented the head of the gang’s leader, a man who called himself Morningstar, to the tribe. The tribe had accepted the offering and that had been the end of it.
Shadoe still remembered the gruesome scene left in Crenshaw’s wake when he attacked the Diablos. It looked as though he had used no weapon other than his own hands. Never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that bodies could be contorted or pulverized as the gang had been. She had seen gore and death before, but never in such brutal fashion, especially not caused by just one man. There had been at least fifteen dead at the final scene, of that she was certain. Now she found herself aligning with the devil himself to accomplish something good, something noble. Maybe her friends in college had been right after all, maybe the devil just had a bad reputation because he refused to live by the status quo. Crenshaw definitely did not live by the status quo. The common belief was that there was strength in numbers. The only way to survive was to band together with likeminded people and try to live as a group. It didn’t matter if you were part of the more peaceful tribes or the violent gangs, there was strength in numbers. Crenshaw did not live by that belief. He was a loner. Everyone knew the man had no family, that he had no friends. If one believed the rumor, he had actually killed his own mother and sister so that he could continue living. There were many stories, but they all came to the same conclusion. Crenshaw’s family died at his own hands because he felt they were a threat to his survival.
“War?” Shadoe asked, “How do you expect to start and win a war against the Kings?”
“Darlin’,” Crenshaw smiled, “I thought surely you would know. After all you were the one who stumbled upon the remains of the Diablos.”
“How did you …”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head on that, goddess. We’ve got work to do and I know just the people for the job.” He moved away from the window and paused in the doorway, “You comin’?” Then he was off.
The speed with which he tore across the rooftops of the abandoned buildings led Shadoe to believe the only reason Crenshaw had never overtaken her in recent months was purely because he had not wanted to. She struggled to match his pace, and more than once he had to stop while he waited for her. It was unbelievable to think that someone so large could move so fast. It was no wonder the tribes feared him and the gangs hated him. They covered the city blocks so quickly she didn’t realize where they were until she jumped through the window of a building only seconds behind him and was taken aback at the sight. Crenshaw held a man with a patchy, dirty beard aloft by his throat with one arm. One moment the man was kicking Crenshaw in the chest in a poor effort to be released. The next he was a lifeless corpse. Crenshaw had broken his neck with one powerful twist of his hand.
Crenshaw pulled the man’s tattered, black shirt off him then used the man’s own knife to etch an upside down crown in his flesh that covered most of his chest and stomach; but he didn’t stop at that. Crenshaw then used the blade to peel the skin inside the design off the man’s body. He tossed the bloody piece of skin aside then stood to admire his work. He actually frowned as he looked down at the body. Shadoe could not imagine what would make him unhappy. The man was dead. There was a carving in his flesh depicting the Fallen Kings insignia. It was all she could think of to do. It was actually more than what she could think to do, she would have left the initial cuts without peeling the skin out of the center to make a cut-out. Then Crenshaw smiled. Before she could ask what he was smiling about he grabbed the man’s right hand, then while he held it in the air he drove his foot into the upper arm snapping the bone with a wet crunch. Shadoe gasped and covered her mouth in speechless horror when Crenshaw repeated similar actions on the rest of the man’s extremities. He broke both legs at the knee, the patella actually shot out the side of the man’s right leg which caused Crenshaw to laugh his approval.
“Wha, what the hell was that?“ when Shadoe finally found her voice it was barely more than a whisper, and Crenshaw seemed to be done mutilating the corpse. She had seen brutality in the past, but nothing ever came close to the satisfaction Crenshaw seemed to find in desecrating the corpse. She found herself second-guessing the decision to align herself with him. Perhaps he really was the monster depicted in the rumors. Perhaps he truly was the devil. Perhaps the Bible had been right and the devil was not misunderstood but truly evil.
“I’m starting a war,” was all Crenshaw said in reply as he looked around the building. He glanced around the room then walked out obviously not finding what he was looking for. A few seconds later he stuck his head back in the door and asked, “You don’t happen to be carrying about 40 feet of rope do you?” Again Shadoe was speechless. She had no idea how to respond. “I don’t guess you would. Stupid question.” Crenshaw came back in the room and slung the corpse shoulder before he left the room again.
Shadoe followed him uncertain of what she was supposed to do now. She never would have imagined that his idea of starting a war would be to find victims to slaughter and mutilate. She wanted to run. She wanted to get as far as possible away from this monster. But there was a part of her that was curious; it was a larger part than she would ever admit so she continued to follow him to the ground floor in silence. When they reached ground floor Crenshaw set the body down next to an open doorway before he peeked out to make sure there was no one near. Once satisfied the two of them were alone he tossed the corpse back over his shoulder and went outside. There was a window that had been boarded over around the corner of the building and on it was another gang sign, this one was the crude pitchfork marking of the Folk. Shadoe grinned as understanding finally came to her. There was a method to Crenshaw’s madness. The Folk and the Fallen Kings seemed to always be fighting over territory, though recently it seemed their violence toward each other had ebbed. It would seem that when Crenshaw was done there would be a war sparked between the gangs once again.
“I really hate to waste a good blade, but I guess it will have to do,” Crenshaw said to himself when he pulled the man’s knife out and held the corpse against the boarded up window by the top of the skull. Shadoe actually blushed as she watched the display of strength. He was holding the body against the wall with one hand, his left arm twisted so that his thumb gripped the left side of the man’s skull, and Crenshaw seemed to have no difficulty in holding the body against the wall. She couldn’t believe it. She was admiring the devil himself while he mutilated a corpse and rekindled the dying embers of a gang war. She would have been embarrassed by her fascination, but there was brilliance in his plan. Then with one quick motion he drove the eight inch blade into the man’s mouth and through the back of the skull effectively pinning the body to the wall. He looked at his work for just a moment with his hands on his hips, “I think I may be a bloody, fucking genius. I missed my calling in life as an artist,” he said. Crenshaw then strode back into the building with Shadoe in tow.
The day afternoon gave way to night and Shadoe almost lost herself as she watched Crenshaw start his war. The man was methodical, silent, and efficient. After the fourth kill she stopped trying to track the different ways he killed then mutilated the corpses. It was nearly sickening, but with each death she felt a grim bolstering in her desire to see each of the gang members die. She no longer cared so much as to how the war was started she was being given a tutorial in death dealing. Her first inclination that Crenshaw was a monster was supported with each desecrated corpse, yet there was a reason for each brutal death he inflicted. The killing spree raged across four city blocks of The Folk’s territory and involved five more deaths, each with chunk of flesh carved from the chest in the shape of a crown.
During the hunt of the fifth gang member Crenshaw had told her to wait on the rooftop for him before he disappeared into the darkness to follow the man. Despite her admonishment of herself she couldn’t help but feel excited with the thrill of the hunt. It had been so long since she enjoyed being part of a kill. Death had become her trade since the Reckoning Day, a way of life. It wasn’t something in which she found satisfaction, but at Crenshaw’s side, watching him deal out justice to those preyed on the fears and weakness of others, she was thrilled with each kill she witnessed. Crenshaw never gave her the chance to prove her worth. Each death was dealt with silent precision; the victim never knew there was something wrong until Crenshaw’s powerful hands were upon them, and at that point it was always too late.
Shadoe lost herself in anticipation of the last kill, imagining what gruesome horror Crenshaw had thought up in his last effort to start a war between the gangs. She never realized that someone had climbed onto the rooftop with her until she heard a boot heel scuff the roof just behind her. When she spun around she expected Crenshaw to be standing there looming over her, instead it was a skinny man with a pock marked face leered down at her crouched form. Shadoe reached for her pistol in her shoulder holster, but was not quick enough. The man had been was only two steps away from her when she realized he was there. The man took a running step toward her and drove his left knee into her face. She reeled away with the force of the blow, then everything began to go dark in a swirling headache when the side of her head struck the raised ledge of the building. Shadoe had the sensation of being drug a few feet before she felt the man’s hands pawing at her body. The last thing she remembered was the man’s rank breath on her face and the weight of his body on her as he fumbled clumsily with her top while he tried to remove it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Chapter 1 - Crenshaw and the Goddess
Crenshaw watched from a distance as the impossibly pale goddess picked her way through the rubble of the city. He had followed nearly every day he had seen her. Always curious as to how such a lithe beauty was able to survive on her own. It wasn’t that he had anything against women or their strength. In these days it was a rare thing indeed to see a woman able to not just fend for herself, but protect herself as well. He knew the guns she had strapped across her body, the knives sheathed on her thighs did a good deal to dissuade most of the riff-raff from venturing too close. The city wasn’t home to only the meek cattle who cowered in the shadows waiting to pick off those who were even weaker than themselves though. There were predators as well. Crenshaw had come to think of the violent ones as gangs, that’s what they reminded him of the most. The tribes, the organized groups who banded together for their own safety, normally sought peaceful measures. They even worked on a barter system of sorts with other tribes.
The tribes weren’t that smart though. They worked as family units of four to six usually. They would trade with other peaceful tribes, but they were often preyed upon by the gangs. The gangs were a different breed. Crenshaw despised them. He understood the need to survive. He understood the need for sacrifice. Donovan Crenshaw would sacrifice his own mother, his own father, his brothers or sisters if it had been necessary, but they did not survive. He was the only one. He was the survivor of his family. Maybe that was why he felt no attachment to the others he met in the ruins now. His own family had been destroyed therefore he cared not what happened to anyone other than himself. That could be so, but he was not concerned. He was a survivor. That was what he knew. That’s what the tribes knew as well. Even the gangs knew of him.
Now though he was concerned with the gun toting goddess. She hadn’t tried to lose him yet. That really didn’t mean anything. There were times when she was unaware of his presence, but mostly she either allowed him to follow her or not. Crenshaw always kept his distance. The rifle slung across her back was what he respected. He had seen her use the weapon before. It wasn’t for show like with the cattle. She was a survivor. She knew how to use the tools at her disposal. Maybe that was why he was fascinated by her.
The ruins were their playground. It was a twisted game of cat and mouse they played. Her slight agile frame would scamper through the destroyed buildings and rubble little effort while Crenshaw bounded along behind her. Sometimes he would try to conceal that he was following her, but mostly he liked it when she knew he was there. It was for his own safety honestly. If she knew he was there then she wouldn’t lead him to a sniper trap as she had done to others. She had even done it to him once. That was when he had discovered her weapons were not for show. She had led him into an abandoned warehouse several months ago when he had first noticed her form bolting through the ruins. She had known he was following her almost as soon as he had realized that’s what he was doing. He had entered the building and noticed she was on the catwalks. When he tried to follow she had fired two warning shots. The first hit a rusted soda can at his feet lifting it into the air almost to his waist, and the second hit the can again while it was still airborne lifting it higher. He had smiled at the display. Crenshaw could see where she was perched on the raised walkway and waved to her. He had simply walked back out of the building and left her alone for the most part.
There were days when he got curious though. He would follow her either until she lost him or he got bored with the pursuit. Crenshaw never tried to catch her after that first day. He was content to watch her from a distance, and that seemed to be her preference as well. This day seemed to be different. He wasn’t certain if she was allowing him to get close or if she were distracted by something else. She had yet to look back at him even when he had made an effort to be noticed so as to keep from being shot. He decided there was definitely something distracting her. There was no other explanation. She had to know he was there by now. He had to know what was keeping her focus away from him. The goddess was close to 200 feet ahead of him perched in the window of an abandoned building window watching something across the street out of his line of sight. The frustration at having something else hold the attention of his gun toting goddess when he wanted to play peaked his curiosity.
Crenshaw sprinted at the wall of the building before him and in two leaping steps up the wall he grabbed the second rung on the raised fire escape ladder. He pulled himself up the ladder quickly then bounded up the steps to the roof. Once there he glanced around and saw the upside down green crown painted on the roof access door marking the territory of the Fallen Kings. This was not friendly territory. The Fallen Kings were one of the gangs from which Crenshaw tried to steer clear. They weren’t like most of the gangs who only preyed upon the stragglers and the weak. The Kings were a force to avoid. When they struck the Kings typically did not leave survivors. Their symbol on the wall was enough to let any passersby know who was responsible. The Kings also had the reputation for taking the young as spoils. Crenshaw had never known what they did with the children they took. He had never cared, but now that he found himself following the goddess his mind wandered. It wasn’t so much that he was concerned, but now that he was there he almost felt compelled to take an interest. Almost.
Instead he crouched and quickly crossed the roof. Crenshaw paused for just a moment at the edge of the building before leaping down to the window ledge on the next building. He crouched there for a moment listening before he stepped through the window and made his way across the open area of the floor. There were burned and broken desks along with partition panels with a blue-gray fabric scattered about the room. It was the first time in several months that he had been reminded of life before the Reckoning Day. Office buildings and cubicles, people crammed into their little cages, hurriedly working to goal that would never bring them freedom. That was something he did not miss. He had been one of those people to an extent. The Reckoning Day had set him free to an extent. Crenshaw shook his head. It was not the time to muse about days gone by. There was a very real threat here. Not just with the girl, but should the Fallen Kings become aware of his presence it would most likely not bode well for him. There was a history between them. A bad history. A very bad history. Not that he was on good relations with any of the gangs, but the history with the Kings was personal. It was best they never knew he was near. He crossed through the debris of the world of the past and turned down left down the hall. Slowly approaching the window he had seen the goddess perched in a few minutes earlier. She was still there. She still watched the street below, but now she had drawn a pistol and had it pointed back down the hall at him. The girl stole a quick glance back at him then motioned with a wave of her pistol for him to come closer before she holstered it. So much for trying to sneak up on the gun toting goddess.
Her head was barely peaking over the window ledge as she watched the street. Crenshaw approached her quickly and quietly. He almost found himself almost running silently as he covered the distance between them before he stopped in the doorway and crouched, uncertain if he should move closer. He was uncertain if how close she would want him. “Well, c’mon, cowboy,” she said. Her voice was a husky alto, not at all what he had expected from her slight frame. “No point coming all this way not to see what almost got you killed again.” He started forward, this time at a crouch. She spoke again without looking over her shoulder. “Do be a dear and stay low though.”
He could hear the ruckus in the street now. Crenshaw had no idea how he had not heard it before. There was so much noise. It sounded as if there was a party or a fight, possibly both. The cheers and din were unbelievably loud, but it was their territory so there really was no reason for the Fallen Kings to be quiet. Theirs was a reign of terror for almost six blocks. He tried not to focus on her, but being this close he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering to her form. She was thin, but not unhealthily so. The goddess had long, shapely arms, but he could see the muscles. Apparently she didn’t depend solely on her guns. She was physically stunning. Her alabaster skin seemed even more pale with the black outfit she wore. The clothes were form-fitting, her top was sleeveless, and the pants had several cargo-style pockets. He guessed she had gotten those in what used to be an arms surplus before the Reckoning Day or shortly thereafter. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. Crenshaw guessed that if she were to let the hair fall loose it would be near the middle of her back. He had always liked women with longer hair. The most startling part was that she was clean. It was usually easy to smell a person once within a few feet. He paused a few feet from her drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to catch a scent of her. Somehow he didn’t trust his mind now that she was so close to him. Everyone had a smell to them, most had a stench since the Reckoning Day, but this woman, the goddess, was clean. Was that apricots he smelled? He wasn’t certain. Surely she didn’t have access to scented soap still. That had all been used long ago. He would have sworn only homemade soap was available now, but the scent was there now. She cut her eyes back at him after he didn’t move for several seconds and when he finally noticed she was looking at him she raised her eyebrows as if to ask why he had stopped.
When he was finally able to pull his attention away from the beauty beside him Crenshaw peeked over the edge of the window at the street below. There was a lot happening in the camp about half a block away. He had expected there to be more people for this to be the heart of the Fallen Kings territory, but before he could ask where all the gang members were he finally focused on the small ring of people. In the center of the circle was what looked to be a boy, maybe a young teen no more than 13 or 14 years old. Across from him taunting the child was the all too familiar form of the lead of the Kings, Solomon. Unlike his namesake, this Solomon was not a wise leader; he was a ruthless and violent leader who solved issues with his hands rather than his mind. The boy in the middle of the circle had young girl he was trying to keep away from the nine or so gang members who circled them while Solomon continued to taunt the boy. One of the men grabbed at the girl and when the boy turned to fend off the groping hands Solomon kicked the kid in the back. The boy staggered into the circle of men and it looked as though he got an elbow to face and punch in the gut for his trouble. When the boy turned around Crenshaw could see that it wasn’t a punch in the stomach, but a knife wound. The boy didn’t even raise his hands to his bloodied nose. Both hands covered the bloodied wound in his abdomen as he staggered forward and fell to his knees beside the girl. The child cried and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. The boy’s bloodied hands weakly reciprocated the hug and a moment later he fell to the ground.
The little girl threw herself onto the boy’s chest, her arms draped over him and Crenshaw could hear her screams and sobs from his perch. He felt a pang of sorrow for the child. The boy had the luck of dying quickly in the fight, but the girl did not have such luck. Crenshaw could only imagine what horrors had seen already and now that she was property of the Fallen Kings what terrors she had yet to experience. Solomon approached the child and pulled her away from the corpse, but a couple seconds later she tore free of his grip after biting his wrist and dove back onto the body. When Solomon approached again he wasn’t so gentle. He didn’t bother reaching for the child, he kicked her off the boy. His boot caught her in the stomach and lifted her several feet into the air as she flipped in the air before landing on her stomach. The girl rolled into the fetal position and rocked slightly on her side as one of the other men approached her. The man gripped her by a handful of hair and lifted her into the air, holding her in front of him much like lifting a cat by the scruff of the neck. He dropped her suddenly as he jerked his hand away and cradled his arm to his chest. The man spun in a quick circle then pulled his leg back to kick the child, but she had already charged at him and buried whatever object she held in the inside of his thigh.
There was so much blood. “Way to go kid,” Crenshaw whispered as he watched the girl try to fight the men. The one she had stabbed fell to the ground as he tried to cover the wound on his leg, but no one went to his aid. Most of the Kings laughed at him as the girl charged Solomon. She didn’t hesitate when he smiled at her, but it was no use for her to fight him. She had gotten lucky with the first guy, but Solomon rarely underestimated someone. When the girl swung the knife at him he caught her arm at the wrist then backhanded her with his other hand. Crenshaw felt his meaty hands tighten into fists as he watched, his knuckles were white with the pressure as he knew what would happen to the girl. The child fell to the ground and again Solomon planted a kick in her stomach and flipped her violently to her back. She tried to sit up for a moment before Solomon stood straddling over her. He gripped her dirty shirt and held her head up for a moment. It looked like he said something to her, maybe spit in her face, but after that he threw one quick, straight punch and her head lolled back. Crenshaw’s jaw tightened as he thought about the hell the child would experience soon. He wasn’t certain, but he had a good idea of what Solomon would put her through. He would discipline her, make her wish she had been the one to die instead, and when he was done with her he would pass among the other Kings. It was no secret what the gangs did with girls of all ages. It nearly turned Crenshaw’s stomach to think of it.
Solomon tossed the girl’s limp body over his shoulder unceremoniously and carried her into the nearest tent. The other gang members began to move away from the area. None of them bothered to move the corpse of the boy or the gang member dead at the hands of the girl. They hadn’t even tried to help him. One less mouth to feed. If he had been careless enough to get himself killed by a child then he wasn’t worthy of being a Fallen King anyway. Crenshaw was certain he would see the boy again. The Fallen Kings had a habit of staking their victims either near their camp or hanging them from light posts somewhere in their territory with their symbol carved into the flesh. It was a common practice among the gangs. It was a warning to those unaware enough to wander into their territory.
“That bastard,” the goddess said. “That fucking bastard.” She raised her rifle to take aim. Crenshaw hadn’t even noticed that she had pulled the weapon off her back.
“Wait,” he hissed as he slapped her right hand away from the trigger. “What are you gonna do? Kill them all from here? After the first or second shot one of the bastards would probably gut the kid just to make she didn’t survive even if they died.”
“They can’t do that,” she said. “They can’t. That’s, it’s, it’s just, it’s not …right.” She lowered the weapon and looked at Crenshaw. Hatred burned in her eyes. Crenshaw had expected to see tears welled in her eyes, but there was only rage and hatred there. “What would you have me do you big oaf? Just let them take the girl? Let those bastards do whatever they want and take the damn girl? Do you even have an idea what they do down there? Or are you so fucking self-absorbed you don’t care?”
“Chill goddess, just chill,” he said in a hushed tone. “There are other ways. It’s terrible, but this is life. This is what our city has become. Hell the entire world as far as we know!”
She looked at him quizzically. It was comical the way she cocked her head to the side, her ear almost touched her shoulder. “What?”
“This is what our world has become.”
“No, before that, what did you call me?”
“I didn’t call you anything. I just said to chill,” Crenshaw paused for a moment. Had he said it out loud? He didn’t realize he had done it, but maybe he had actually said it. “Goddess. I called you goddess,” he grinned sheepishly, almost apologetically at her when he said it.
She smiled at him then. It was a toothy, almost frightening smile. The kind of smile that bordered on mania. “I’m a gun toting, bible humping, gothic goddess, but you can call me Shadoe.”
“Well gothic goddess Shadoe, there are other ways of saving that child. The Fallen Kings don’t have insurmountable numbers, but there are several of them. I would guess close to twenty-five, maybe thirty. If you just start firing into them now you’ll get us both killed or damn near to it. And one thing is for damn sure. That little girl would be dead before you were able to pick off ten of those fucks.”
“So what is it you suggest, cowboy?”
“We start a war, darlin’, we start a war,” he paused for a moment and smiled down at her. She hadn’t realized how huge a man he was until that moment. She never would have imagined that someone so large had been able to follow and move through places as easily as he seemed to when he wanted to close the distance between them during their previous cat and mouse games. The smile on his face bordered on malevolence. In that moment she was never more thankful that he had never taken more than a curious interest in observing her. Chills crawled up her spine and gooseflesh popped up on her bare arms despite the late summer heat. “Goddess, call me Crenshaw.”
The tribes weren’t that smart though. They worked as family units of four to six usually. They would trade with other peaceful tribes, but they were often preyed upon by the gangs. The gangs were a different breed. Crenshaw despised them. He understood the need to survive. He understood the need for sacrifice. Donovan Crenshaw would sacrifice his own mother, his own father, his brothers or sisters if it had been necessary, but they did not survive. He was the only one. He was the survivor of his family. Maybe that was why he felt no attachment to the others he met in the ruins now. His own family had been destroyed therefore he cared not what happened to anyone other than himself. That could be so, but he was not concerned. He was a survivor. That was what he knew. That’s what the tribes knew as well. Even the gangs knew of him.
Now though he was concerned with the gun toting goddess. She hadn’t tried to lose him yet. That really didn’t mean anything. There were times when she was unaware of his presence, but mostly she either allowed him to follow her or not. Crenshaw always kept his distance. The rifle slung across her back was what he respected. He had seen her use the weapon before. It wasn’t for show like with the cattle. She was a survivor. She knew how to use the tools at her disposal. Maybe that was why he was fascinated by her.
The ruins were their playground. It was a twisted game of cat and mouse they played. Her slight agile frame would scamper through the destroyed buildings and rubble little effort while Crenshaw bounded along behind her. Sometimes he would try to conceal that he was following her, but mostly he liked it when she knew he was there. It was for his own safety honestly. If she knew he was there then she wouldn’t lead him to a sniper trap as she had done to others. She had even done it to him once. That was when he had discovered her weapons were not for show. She had led him into an abandoned warehouse several months ago when he had first noticed her form bolting through the ruins. She had known he was following her almost as soon as he had realized that’s what he was doing. He had entered the building and noticed she was on the catwalks. When he tried to follow she had fired two warning shots. The first hit a rusted soda can at his feet lifting it into the air almost to his waist, and the second hit the can again while it was still airborne lifting it higher. He had smiled at the display. Crenshaw could see where she was perched on the raised walkway and waved to her. He had simply walked back out of the building and left her alone for the most part.
There were days when he got curious though. He would follow her either until she lost him or he got bored with the pursuit. Crenshaw never tried to catch her after that first day. He was content to watch her from a distance, and that seemed to be her preference as well. This day seemed to be different. He wasn’t certain if she was allowing him to get close or if she were distracted by something else. She had yet to look back at him even when he had made an effort to be noticed so as to keep from being shot. He decided there was definitely something distracting her. There was no other explanation. She had to know he was there by now. He had to know what was keeping her focus away from him. The goddess was close to 200 feet ahead of him perched in the window of an abandoned building window watching something across the street out of his line of sight. The frustration at having something else hold the attention of his gun toting goddess when he wanted to play peaked his curiosity.
Crenshaw sprinted at the wall of the building before him and in two leaping steps up the wall he grabbed the second rung on the raised fire escape ladder. He pulled himself up the ladder quickly then bounded up the steps to the roof. Once there he glanced around and saw the upside down green crown painted on the roof access door marking the territory of the Fallen Kings. This was not friendly territory. The Fallen Kings were one of the gangs from which Crenshaw tried to steer clear. They weren’t like most of the gangs who only preyed upon the stragglers and the weak. The Kings were a force to avoid. When they struck the Kings typically did not leave survivors. Their symbol on the wall was enough to let any passersby know who was responsible. The Kings also had the reputation for taking the young as spoils. Crenshaw had never known what they did with the children they took. He had never cared, but now that he found himself following the goddess his mind wandered. It wasn’t so much that he was concerned, but now that he was there he almost felt compelled to take an interest. Almost.
Instead he crouched and quickly crossed the roof. Crenshaw paused for just a moment at the edge of the building before leaping down to the window ledge on the next building. He crouched there for a moment listening before he stepped through the window and made his way across the open area of the floor. There were burned and broken desks along with partition panels with a blue-gray fabric scattered about the room. It was the first time in several months that he had been reminded of life before the Reckoning Day. Office buildings and cubicles, people crammed into their little cages, hurriedly working to goal that would never bring them freedom. That was something he did not miss. He had been one of those people to an extent. The Reckoning Day had set him free to an extent. Crenshaw shook his head. It was not the time to muse about days gone by. There was a very real threat here. Not just with the girl, but should the Fallen Kings become aware of his presence it would most likely not bode well for him. There was a history between them. A bad history. A very bad history. Not that he was on good relations with any of the gangs, but the history with the Kings was personal. It was best they never knew he was near. He crossed through the debris of the world of the past and turned down left down the hall. Slowly approaching the window he had seen the goddess perched in a few minutes earlier. She was still there. She still watched the street below, but now she had drawn a pistol and had it pointed back down the hall at him. The girl stole a quick glance back at him then motioned with a wave of her pistol for him to come closer before she holstered it. So much for trying to sneak up on the gun toting goddess.
Her head was barely peaking over the window ledge as she watched the street. Crenshaw approached her quickly and quietly. He almost found himself almost running silently as he covered the distance between them before he stopped in the doorway and crouched, uncertain if he should move closer. He was uncertain if how close she would want him. “Well, c’mon, cowboy,” she said. Her voice was a husky alto, not at all what he had expected from her slight frame. “No point coming all this way not to see what almost got you killed again.” He started forward, this time at a crouch. She spoke again without looking over her shoulder. “Do be a dear and stay low though.”
He could hear the ruckus in the street now. Crenshaw had no idea how he had not heard it before. There was so much noise. It sounded as if there was a party or a fight, possibly both. The cheers and din were unbelievably loud, but it was their territory so there really was no reason for the Fallen Kings to be quiet. Theirs was a reign of terror for almost six blocks. He tried not to focus on her, but being this close he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering to her form. She was thin, but not unhealthily so. The goddess had long, shapely arms, but he could see the muscles. Apparently she didn’t depend solely on her guns. She was physically stunning. Her alabaster skin seemed even more pale with the black outfit she wore. The clothes were form-fitting, her top was sleeveless, and the pants had several cargo-style pockets. He guessed she had gotten those in what used to be an arms surplus before the Reckoning Day or shortly thereafter. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. Crenshaw guessed that if she were to let the hair fall loose it would be near the middle of her back. He had always liked women with longer hair. The most startling part was that she was clean. It was usually easy to smell a person once within a few feet. He paused a few feet from her drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to catch a scent of her. Somehow he didn’t trust his mind now that she was so close to him. Everyone had a smell to them, most had a stench since the Reckoning Day, but this woman, the goddess, was clean. Was that apricots he smelled? He wasn’t certain. Surely she didn’t have access to scented soap still. That had all been used long ago. He would have sworn only homemade soap was available now, but the scent was there now. She cut her eyes back at him after he didn’t move for several seconds and when he finally noticed she was looking at him she raised her eyebrows as if to ask why he had stopped.
When he was finally able to pull his attention away from the beauty beside him Crenshaw peeked over the edge of the window at the street below. There was a lot happening in the camp about half a block away. He had expected there to be more people for this to be the heart of the Fallen Kings territory, but before he could ask where all the gang members were he finally focused on the small ring of people. In the center of the circle was what looked to be a boy, maybe a young teen no more than 13 or 14 years old. Across from him taunting the child was the all too familiar form of the lead of the Kings, Solomon. Unlike his namesake, this Solomon was not a wise leader; he was a ruthless and violent leader who solved issues with his hands rather than his mind. The boy in the middle of the circle had young girl he was trying to keep away from the nine or so gang members who circled them while Solomon continued to taunt the boy. One of the men grabbed at the girl and when the boy turned to fend off the groping hands Solomon kicked the kid in the back. The boy staggered into the circle of men and it looked as though he got an elbow to face and punch in the gut for his trouble. When the boy turned around Crenshaw could see that it wasn’t a punch in the stomach, but a knife wound. The boy didn’t even raise his hands to his bloodied nose. Both hands covered the bloodied wound in his abdomen as he staggered forward and fell to his knees beside the girl. The child cried and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. The boy’s bloodied hands weakly reciprocated the hug and a moment later he fell to the ground.
The little girl threw herself onto the boy’s chest, her arms draped over him and Crenshaw could hear her screams and sobs from his perch. He felt a pang of sorrow for the child. The boy had the luck of dying quickly in the fight, but the girl did not have such luck. Crenshaw could only imagine what horrors had seen already and now that she was property of the Fallen Kings what terrors she had yet to experience. Solomon approached the child and pulled her away from the corpse, but a couple seconds later she tore free of his grip after biting his wrist and dove back onto the body. When Solomon approached again he wasn’t so gentle. He didn’t bother reaching for the child, he kicked her off the boy. His boot caught her in the stomach and lifted her several feet into the air as she flipped in the air before landing on her stomach. The girl rolled into the fetal position and rocked slightly on her side as one of the other men approached her. The man gripped her by a handful of hair and lifted her into the air, holding her in front of him much like lifting a cat by the scruff of the neck. He dropped her suddenly as he jerked his hand away and cradled his arm to his chest. The man spun in a quick circle then pulled his leg back to kick the child, but she had already charged at him and buried whatever object she held in the inside of his thigh.
There was so much blood. “Way to go kid,” Crenshaw whispered as he watched the girl try to fight the men. The one she had stabbed fell to the ground as he tried to cover the wound on his leg, but no one went to his aid. Most of the Kings laughed at him as the girl charged Solomon. She didn’t hesitate when he smiled at her, but it was no use for her to fight him. She had gotten lucky with the first guy, but Solomon rarely underestimated someone. When the girl swung the knife at him he caught her arm at the wrist then backhanded her with his other hand. Crenshaw felt his meaty hands tighten into fists as he watched, his knuckles were white with the pressure as he knew what would happen to the girl. The child fell to the ground and again Solomon planted a kick in her stomach and flipped her violently to her back. She tried to sit up for a moment before Solomon stood straddling over her. He gripped her dirty shirt and held her head up for a moment. It looked like he said something to her, maybe spit in her face, but after that he threw one quick, straight punch and her head lolled back. Crenshaw’s jaw tightened as he thought about the hell the child would experience soon. He wasn’t certain, but he had a good idea of what Solomon would put her through. He would discipline her, make her wish she had been the one to die instead, and when he was done with her he would pass among the other Kings. It was no secret what the gangs did with girls of all ages. It nearly turned Crenshaw’s stomach to think of it.
Solomon tossed the girl’s limp body over his shoulder unceremoniously and carried her into the nearest tent. The other gang members began to move away from the area. None of them bothered to move the corpse of the boy or the gang member dead at the hands of the girl. They hadn’t even tried to help him. One less mouth to feed. If he had been careless enough to get himself killed by a child then he wasn’t worthy of being a Fallen King anyway. Crenshaw was certain he would see the boy again. The Fallen Kings had a habit of staking their victims either near their camp or hanging them from light posts somewhere in their territory with their symbol carved into the flesh. It was a common practice among the gangs. It was a warning to those unaware enough to wander into their territory.
“That bastard,” the goddess said. “That fucking bastard.” She raised her rifle to take aim. Crenshaw hadn’t even noticed that she had pulled the weapon off her back.
“Wait,” he hissed as he slapped her right hand away from the trigger. “What are you gonna do? Kill them all from here? After the first or second shot one of the bastards would probably gut the kid just to make she didn’t survive even if they died.”
“They can’t do that,” she said. “They can’t. That’s, it’s, it’s just, it’s not …right.” She lowered the weapon and looked at Crenshaw. Hatred burned in her eyes. Crenshaw had expected to see tears welled in her eyes, but there was only rage and hatred there. “What would you have me do you big oaf? Just let them take the girl? Let those bastards do whatever they want and take the damn girl? Do you even have an idea what they do down there? Or are you so fucking self-absorbed you don’t care?”
“Chill goddess, just chill,” he said in a hushed tone. “There are other ways. It’s terrible, but this is life. This is what our city has become. Hell the entire world as far as we know!”
She looked at him quizzically. It was comical the way she cocked her head to the side, her ear almost touched her shoulder. “What?”
“This is what our world has become.”
“No, before that, what did you call me?”
“I didn’t call you anything. I just said to chill,” Crenshaw paused for a moment. Had he said it out loud? He didn’t realize he had done it, but maybe he had actually said it. “Goddess. I called you goddess,” he grinned sheepishly, almost apologetically at her when he said it.
She smiled at him then. It was a toothy, almost frightening smile. The kind of smile that bordered on mania. “I’m a gun toting, bible humping, gothic goddess, but you can call me Shadoe.”
“Well gothic goddess Shadoe, there are other ways of saving that child. The Fallen Kings don’t have insurmountable numbers, but there are several of them. I would guess close to twenty-five, maybe thirty. If you just start firing into them now you’ll get us both killed or damn near to it. And one thing is for damn sure. That little girl would be dead before you were able to pick off ten of those fucks.”
“So what is it you suggest, cowboy?”
“We start a war, darlin’, we start a war,” he paused for a moment and smiled down at her. She hadn’t realized how huge a man he was until that moment. She never would have imagined that someone so large had been able to follow and move through places as easily as he seemed to when he wanted to close the distance between them during their previous cat and mouse games. The smile on his face bordered on malevolence. In that moment she was never more thankful that he had never taken more than a curious interest in observing her. Chills crawled up her spine and gooseflesh popped up on her bare arms despite the late summer heat. “Goddess, call me Crenshaw.”
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