Broken Time

By Douglas J. McGregor

Society is crumbling before Jake McCluskies eyes. A desperate tension fills the streets as frightened people attempt to flee. The clock is ticking down to zero, but Jake has already lost all hope. As an extinction-class meteorite rockets toward Earth, Jake knows the end is near. But he is going nowhereor so he thinks.

Jake, a one-time promising author and now full-time bus driver, is still grieving and angry after the murder of his wife three years ago. Although he has chosen to live out his last days at home with his cat, Jake soon learns destiny has other plans for him. He has been chosen to fix timeand it is no easy repair. With crazed killers lurking everywhere, Jake embarks on a heart-pounding race through the empty streets of Queens, New York, in search of the Timekeeperthe only one who can send him back to September of 1938, when a college student important to the flow of time was brutally murdered during a violent hurricane. Now only time will tell if Jake can survive long enough to get there.

In this science fiction thriller, it is up to one man to find the Timekeeper and set things right before mankind disappears forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475956887

Douglas J. McGregor

Douglas J. McGregor is the author of nine action novels: Going Down Ugly; Limbo, Mississippi; That Special Knack; Killing Time till I Die; 8 Crazy Moments in Time; Off the Beaten Path; Itch; and most recently, Roadtrip 41. He is also the author and illustrator of the popular children’s book, Alphabet Town. A new children’s book entitled; Calvin Babysits the Zoo is due out in 2024.

Book preview

Broken

Time

Douglas J. McGregor

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Broken Time

Copyright © 2012 by Douglas J. McGregor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5687-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5689-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5688-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/05/2012

Contents

Part One      Chaos

1      Pop Goes the Planet

2      My Suburban Nightmare

3      Corporal X

4      The Trigger Men of Company X

5      The Lieutenant

6      The Old Shoe Store

7      The Ugly Truth

8      Ruthless Roulette

Part Two      With a Little Help from My Friends

1      Abandoned

2      Best-Laid Plans

3      Smoldering Suspicions

4      Unexpected Mail

5      The Mean Streets of Rockaway

6      Onslaught Aftermath

7      Only in the Movies

8      Terminated

9      On the Road Again

10      The Blood-Soaked Woman

11      Join Together

12      Demolition Derby

13      Consider It Stolen

14      The Boneyard

15      My Long-Lost Friend

16      The Repairman

17      Broadway

18      Gazing at the Enemy

19      If I Owned the Zoo

20      Impossible?

21      Eighty-Fourth Street

Part Three      A Reason to Believe

1      What Do You Think Is out Here?

2      Destiny

3      And the Sign Read: Hakenkreuz

4      Burning Down the House

5      One Way Out

6      Regifting Scoop's Gift

7      A Penny to Believe In

8      The Holland Street Blues

9      High School Confidential

10      Compassion 101

11      Bring It on Home

12      My Heavenly Ride

13      Cruising

14      The Cross Bay Bridge

15      Failure Is Not an Option

16      The Demon Went Down to Red Hook

17      The Timekeeper

Part Four      Another Time; Another Place

1      In the Middle of Nowhere

2      The Sultan of Brooklyn

3      Lunch with a Legend

4      Pigtown

5      The Cowboy from Brooklyn

6      Very Perceptive Indeed

7      A Brief Moment in Time

8      Can You Spare Some Change?

9      The Dark Alley

10      The Street Alley Bum

11      Life 101

12      Be Careful Whom You Trust

13      The Indian Moose Pawn Shop

14      A Penny from Heaven

15      The Fire and the Rain

16      The Earth-Bound Angel

17      The Hit Man

18      Forty-Ninth Street Showdown

Part Five      God's Fury

1      Things Are Different Now

2      The Woman with Two Premonitions

3      Ninetieth Beach Street—Holland

4      The T-Bird

5      My Guardian Angel

6      A Good Friend

7      Home Sweet Home

For Mom

I did the cover artwork myself. I first penciled the picture with a standard HB/2 pencil. Then I inked it. Once dry, I painted it using acrylic paint.

I would like to thank my wife and best friend, Barb, for her insightful comments. I would also like to thank my daughter, Ashley, and my son, Travis, for their love and support.

Part One

Chaos

1

Pop Goes the Planet

S ociety was breaking down before my eyes.

Everywhere you looked there were scared people. They were on the sidewalks, in the gutters, in the streets, going this way and that, back and forth like drunken ants, rolling suitcases, carrying knapsacks, and lugging boxes and bags filled with worldly possessions. They were fleeing from something that you couldn’t flee from, but hope kept them moving anyway.

I was all out of hope and had been for a while. I was also out of faith. The clock was ticking down to zero, and I knew it.

I watched the chaotic madness from the corner of Hillside Avenue and 130th Street in the Kew Gardens district of Queens. Everyone’s movements blended together into a colorful, scary blur, and I felt my sanity tug away from me. Then I thought of the train, and my heart rate sped up.

Train service was spotty at best now, though the gruff old guy taking tickets this afternoon when I left for the cemetery promised me that there would definitely be a 4:45 train. If I missed that one, well, I might be out of luck. And I didn’t want to be out of luck. Not today. I didn’t want to have to walk back to Rockaway through all this hysteria.

It was starting to drizzle lightly now. A huge mass of menacing gray clouds cast a gloomy pallor over the panicked masses, and I feared it was going to turn into something worse. I had no umbrella or raincoat. I hadn’t even thought about the weather today. It just didn’t seem important. But now it did. And I wasn’t dressed for the rain.

I wore a gray, hooded sweat top to ward off the mid-September chill; now that it was raining, I pulled the hood up over my head. I then fished out my cell phone from my pocket. It was just after four in the afternoon. I had five blocks to cover, so I knew I had plenty of time to make the train. Still, a sense of urgency pumped through me, and I started walking faster.

Blocking out as much of the crying, screaming, and sharp, desperate yelps surrounding me as I could, I trudged down Hillside Avenue, my feet plowing through ankle-deep trash. Garbage collection had been one of the first things to stop, and it looked like this part of Queens had sprouted up in the city dump. Black garbage bags were piled up along the sidewalk and in the gutters. A lot of the bags had been ripped open by stray dogs or rats or people looking for food, and the wind had taken the garbage and had blown it everywhere, so in certain spots you couldn’t avoid trudging through it.

Eerie tendrils of gray smoke drifted aimlessly through the street. Something close by was on fire, and maybe it was a blessing that it was raining because, like the trash collectors, the firemen were long gone, too. In fact, nearly every service had been suspended until further notice. Everyone was on their own now. Well, almost.

The National Guard had moved in at the beginning of the week to oversee the evacuation and police the area. It was a shame there was no one around to police them. I had heard horror stories about what they were doing. Shooting looters was one thing; shooting dogs and innocent people was something else entirely.

I hadn’t seen too many of them today. I would probably see fewer now that it was raining. And as I was thinking about that, happy now that it was raining, I spotted an olive-green army uniform in the chaotic rush of people. But it wasn’t a soldier, at least not from this era, but rather an old man … and I knew him.

Though I had a train to catch, I knew I had to intervene. For if I didn’t, something terrible would happen to this man, and if something terrible happened to him because I had ignored the situation, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself—not even for the last five days of my life.

I hurried toward him, weaving in and out of evacuees who, thankfully, seemed too preoccupied with their own troubles to worry about me, and ran right up to him as he stood in the middle of the street. He didn’t see me because he was too busy looking at the moving crowd. He was obviously searching for someone, and a sick feeling grew in the pit of my gut as I guessed who that someone was.

General? General? Are you okay? Where’s your wife?

He didn’t hear a word I said and continued to search the crowd. His real name was Harold Graves, but I called him General because he had been a career soldier and still preferred a military distinction. Granted, referring to him as a general was stretching things a bit, considering that during his military career he only managed to reach the lofty rank of sergeant. Still, be it sergeant or general, the old guy was in his eighties and, though he didn’t know it, suffering from dementia. Some days he knew what was going on; some days he didn’t. His medication helped—a bit, anyway.

He was dressed for the part: green army fatigues, probably from his Vietnam days. His boot laces were tied sloppily. It meant his wife hadn’t tied them.

I caught his attention, drawing close to him, and his eyes lit up with recognition. He straightened up, inching the strap on his rifle farther up on his shoulder, and smiled around his loose-fitting dentures before crisply saluting me.

I pulled down my hood, ran a hand across my head to sweep up my buzz cut, and returned his salute. What are you doing out here, General? And where is your wife?

He ignored my questions. Good to see you, Captain Jake, he said, all businesslike. Are you driving the handicapped bus today?

I shook my head. I just walked down from the cemetery. I was visiting my wife.

A look of sorrow crossed his face. Sorry about that, he muttered weakly. Then, in a stronger voice, he added, So that means you don’t have the bus?

Correct, General. The military confiscated all the buses for the evacuation. So I’m on foot.

That’s too bad. The bus would have come in handy. We could have used it to search the neighborhood.

A lump of hot fear bottomed out in my gut. Please tell me your wife isn’t missing.

Margery? Missing? Naw. And he shook his head. That old coot is like a lucky penny—she always turns up.

I had a good five inches on him. He was about five six or seven at the most; age, gravity, and that damn heavy rifle were making him stoop slightly, so he was even shorter now. His Afro, covered partly by a well-worn moss-green cloth patrol cap, was cut close to the scalp and graying at the temples. His dark face was heavily wrinkled as though he’d worried a lot in his life. Today he was unshaved. Another discouraging sight, for it meant his wife had not seen to it.

General, where is your wife? I asked pointedly.

He shrugged his brows. At home, I guess.

I sighed. Okay, great. She’s safe. Now what are you doing out here?

Defending the country.

From what? Wormwood?

The Nazis.

I raised a brow at him. Nazis, huh? Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure, he snapped, exasperated.

Don’t be angry. I just never expected the Nazis to rise up again.

Well, in truth, it’s only one Nazi. From what I understand, he’s lurking around in this neighborhood looking to kill someone. Talk on the street is that someone is the archangel Gabriel.

Angel, huh? I muttered, thinking, Why me? And why now? So let me get this straight, there’s a Nazi trying to kill an angel. Right?

Captain Jake, I’m not as senile as you may think, he grumbled. From what I hear, the Nazi is an SS scoundrel. And he’s a giant—almost seven feet. He’s driving an old black Thunderbird from the late fifties with a swastika painted on the hood.

You don’t say, I said, shaking my head slowly as I envisioned that. Well, I haven’t seen any cars like that around here. Nor have I seen any Nazis or angels. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?

His expression hardened, and he looked me square in the eye. I can tell by your tone, Captain, that you think I’m crazy, but trust me—I’m not.

I don’t think you’re crazy at all, General. It’s just that—

It’s too unbelievable to be believed? he questioned. Well, I thought the same way … until I laid eyes on the SOB.

You’ve seen this guy?

He pointed off down the road. Once, from a distance.

From a distance, huh?

I may be old but, like yours, my eyesight is perfect. I know what I saw.

Yeah, I’m sure your eyes are great, I returned. Listen, General, I don’t think it’s wise for you to be out here. I motioned at the bedlam around us. There’s a lot going on. And there are a lot of people. And maybe you shouldn’t be carrying a rifle.

The Nazi is armed. Why shouldn’t I be?

’Cuz the army is shooting people carrying guns. I don’t want you getting hurt.

I won’t get hurt. And if I do? Well, who cares? I’m an old man. But old or not, I’ve sworn an oath to defend and protect this country.

General, you swore that oath back in the 1960s when you were fighting the Vietnamese.

It still counts today, he shot back with annoyance.

Maybe so. But you’re retired. Better to let the younger soldiers handle it.

They’re too busy screwing up this evacuation to go Nazi hunting. And then he leaned closer to me and stage-whispered, Do you know they’re shooting dogs?

I nodded solemnly. Yeah, I heard they were killing strays.

They’re shooting anything on four legs, he said cryptically, shaking his head slightly. That just ain’t right. It just ain’t right at all.

I know.

And I’ve heard they’re shooting innocent people, too.

I bowed my head and sighed. I know.

A helicopter crashed into an apartment building over on Liberty Avenue last night, and I watched it burn to the ground. Dozens of families were trapped inside that building. He heaved a mournful sigh. The soldiers stood around and watched it burn. They did nothing to help.

Not knowing what to say, I shrugged and muttered, We are living in bad times.

I’ll say, he grumbled, shaking his head sadly. We’ve got a Nazi on the loose and this damn space rock to contend with. He raised a brow at me. Think it’ll miss?

I glanced skyward for a second. It might. We’ll find out tonight.

My gut says the nukes won’t work.

I shrugged. Remember, the nukes don’t have to blow it up. They just have to push it enough so it misses the planet.

I know, but I don’t think it’ll work, he said dismally. Then, in a brighter voice, he added, But do you wanna hear something weird? My gut says we still have a chance on this one. Something or someone—I don’t know which—will save us. Strange, huh?

Actually, I had a similar feeling but had brushed it off as nothing more than pangs of denial. But now I wasn’t so sure, for the feelings were growing stronger.

Maybe that’s why the archangel Gabriel is around.

Uh, yeah, maybe. Listen, General, You should get home. Your wife will be worried.

I’ll be home eventually, he replied. ’Sides, she ain’t herself these days on account of that space rock. Been reading the Bible a lot more. He eyed me sharply. Did you know that this thing that’s coming at us, this Wormwood, is from the Bible? A prophecy from the Revelation?

I heard, I said, nodding. It’s the sign of the apocalypse.

Apocalypse, my ass. It’ll take more than a space rock to wipe us out. I think the real sign of the apocalypse, Captain, is that we’ve got another infestation of Nazis.

I thought you said it was just one big guy in an old car?

Captain Jake, Nazis are like roaches. When you see one, you have to step on it quickly. ’Cuz if you don’t, you’ll be up to your armpits in them.

I think I should take you home.

I don’t wanna go home.

Have you taken your medication? I asked.

Medication is for sissies.

Still, it might be a good idea to take it. And you know what else might be a good idea? Might be good for you and your wife to go to an evacuation center. From what I understand, there will be buses leaving for Canada all night.

Too cold in Canada.

Dress warmly.

I don’t wanna go. He shook his head sternly. I’ve got a country to protect. And a Nazi to catch.

General, let Wormwood take care of the Nazi. Okay? Then, with a shrug, I added, Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to find a few Nazis in Canada.

Naw. There’s no Nazis in Canada. It’s too damn cold up there.

Maybe so, but I still think you should go.

He eyed me sharply. What about you, Captain? When are you leaving?

I’m not.

He looked mildly surprised. The evacuation is mandatory, you know?

I don’t care, I said, and shrugged. I’ve heard rumors that military desertions have skyrocketed. So I doubt there will be anyone left around here in a few days to enforce the order.

He nodded. I’ve heard the same rumor. And I’m glad you’re gonna stay put.

Well, I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to go with. Besides, I don’t like the cold either. Plus, Estelle—you know her, right?—well, she told me she isn’t leaving either, so I plan to take her for her dialysis treatment on Monday.

I thought you said the army confiscated all the buses.

I grinned.

Did you do something to the bus, Captain Jake?

Let’s just say I hope the army mechanics aren’t too thorough.

His dark eyes glinted with cunning admiration. Captain Jake, you are a resourceful character.

A lot will depend on how good the army mechanics are.

Whatever happens, I’m damn happy that you’re staying put. I can use the company, and the help.

Listen General, why don’t I walk you home? I know you live only a couple of blocks from here.

He thought about it for a moment. Well, might be a good idea to check in on Margery. Just to see how she’s feeling.

He turned then and skipped away from me. The crowd swallowed him up at once, and I yelled out to him, pleading for him to wait and come back. His hearing was not the best, and probably most of my words just got lost in the clamor of the evacuees. I fought my way through the crowd, looking everywhere for him—and that’s when I spotted someone else whom I recognized.

I stopped abruptly and stared. Could it really be him?

I couldn’t see him well; he was looking away; and there were people crossing my line of sight

He wore a blue suit and … hey, wait a minute, who wears a suit to an evacuation?

Something wasn’t right. And this guy was acting like the General, looking every which way, definitely searching for someone. And I didn’t think he was looking for a Nazi, or an angel.

Then he turned, and I saw him clearly.

And my heart nearly stopped.

2

My Suburban Nightmare

I had last seen Fischer Strickland three years ago. At the time, the son of a bitch was being dragged away in handcuffs after receiving a life sentence for murdering my wife. As the bailiffs carried the kicking and screaming murderer from the courtroom, I had felt a great sense of relief in knowing that he had been flushed from society and that I would never see him again. Or so I thought.

Well, surprise, surprise, he stood about ten feet away, smoking a cigarette as though he hadn’t a care in the world, all the while searching the crowd. He still hadn’t spotted me, and all I could do was stare at him, unable to believe it was really him.

He hadn’t changed any in three years. He looked just like I remembered him. His head was long and narrow, like an exclamation point, and his hair was shoulder length. He was clean-shaven. His cheeks were pockmarked with acne scars. A doughnut ring of flab hung from his weak chin.

He was better dressed than I was and looked to be wearing the same navy blue suit and red tie he had worn at his murder trial.

The first initial wave of shock that tore through me subsided like a breaking wave, and my stomach filled with panic. What the hell am I gonna do?

The National Guard was the law in these parts now, so if I had a problem I had to go to them. Problem was they were way too busy trying to keep society from crumbling around us to worry about an escaped convict. No doubt they’d just tell me to get on a bus and shut up.

So what could I do?

The answer was easy—nothing. I was powerless to do anything, and standing here looking at him was only making things worse for me. I had to get away from him. I had to get to the train, and as I went to hurry by him, he casually turned in my direction as he tossed away the last of his smoke. For a few seconds—seconds that felt like an eternity—we stared at each other.

Well, I’ll be damned, he said, a smile growing on his ugly face. He told me you’d be here. Looks like he was right.

I had no idea who he was talking about, and frankly, I didn’t dwell on it for long because I now had a real big problem to deal with—a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-or-so-pound problem.

Strickland’s pale face contorted with sudden fury. He hissed out curse words, and seized the front of my sweat top before I could even twitch, pulling me toward him. I smelled the tobacco on his breath. And I could feel his rage … and his hate.

I was told to shoot you, but I like subtlety better. And as the last word shot out of his mouth, he pulled a six-inch serrated knife from his jacket pocket with his free hand. I’m gonna gut you like a fish, McCluskie.

Fear exploded inside me and, with both hands, I shoved him as hard as I could. For some reason he wasn’t expecting it, and lost his grip on my sweat top, backpedaling to keep his balance. He recovered quickly though, and charged me, swiping the knife in front of him like a sword. I stumbled backward, my heart hammering in terror, and bumped into a short, fat teenager with long hair.

Watch it, the kid barked.

The kid was all of eighteen, short and so fat that he waddled when he walked. His brown eyes flashed angrily at the indignity of being bumped, and he whirled about, swinging his red suitcase at me. It was as large as suitcases come, looked to be real heavy, and it missed my shins by half an inch. Strickland, however, was not so lucky. The suitcase hit him square in the knee, and he barked out a string of curse words vile enough to set a nun’s habit ablaze.

He glared at the kid with ferocious anger and, without even reaching down to hold his injured knee, pulled a pistol from the inside of his coat pocket with the expertise of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. The pistol was equipped with a silencer—and where the heck did he get something like that?

His eyes were wide and filled with crazed anger, yet I thought he might just threaten the kid with the pistol. Back away or else type of thing. But no. The bore of his pistol suddenly flashed red and puffed out smoke like a belching dragon. The discharge sounded like a zinging pop, though most of the pop got swallowed up in the street noise. The bullet hit the kid square in the chest. The shot staggered him like a haymaker punch. He dropped his suitcase, clutched at his chest and fell to his knees, gurgling up bubbles of blood as he gasped for breath.

With the kid out of action and no longer a threat, Strickland turned to me.

He pointed the pistol at my head. My heart nearly stopped again.

I guess we’ll do this the easy way.

Frozen with fear, I watched the bore of his pistol flash red and puff smoke. An instant later, a searing heat grazed my cheek, and if I believed in miracles, I would have considered this to be one. But since I don’t believe in such things, I chalked his poor aim up to luck. His bad luck; my good luck.

The Asian man directly behind me, however, was tragically unlucky.

He and his family were a familiar sight, for only a couple of minutes ago, I had skirted around them. The father was a short, thin man with thick, black hair and black-rimmed glasses. He was loaded down with a bulging knapsack, leading his wife and two young kids toward the buses. At the time, I had felt a great admiration for him, for here was a man with seemingly everything a man could ask for in life—a loving wife and two loving kids. As it turned out, that was where his luck ended.

The bullet hit him between the eyes, blowing his glasses clean off his face. I watched in horror as the man’s forehead exploded open into a bloody chasm. His eyes rolled up white, and he crumpled to the sidewalk in front of his stunned family. Alive one instant; dead the next.

His wife let out a bloodcurdling scream so loud it could have shattered a wine glass. The scream, thankfully, shattered my sudden paralysis and jolted me to action.

I jumped over the dead man and dashed down the road, dodging in and out of small groups of people loaded down with luggage, many of whom seemed oblivious as to what was happening.

Strickland screamed out for me to stop, and an instant later, another pop from his pistol punctuated the Asian woman’s screams. Someone yelled out, A man has gone crazy! He’s shooting all over the place!

Screaming like kids on the playground, people scattered in all directions. I found the extra strength in my legs to run even faster.

3

Corporal X

S omeone had abandoned a steamer trunk in the middle of the road and, lucky me, I stumbled across the damn thing. One second I was running full out, the next second I was airborne. I flipped up and over the trunk like a prop comic desperate for a laugh and landed on my back on the wet macadam with a sodden thud that jarred every bone in my body and, for a few seconds anyway, left me dazed.

Luckily that dazed feeling passed quickly and I sat up, alarm bells blaring in my head—where the hell was Fischer Strickland?

I scrambled to my feet, searching the sea of people for the killer. Where are you? Where are you? Where the hell are you? I kept thinking, knowing all along that he could be anywhere—behind me, in fact, lining me up in the crosshairs of his weapon.

My brain screamed at me to move, and as I turned, I heard the well-oiled click of metal sliding across metal. I knew what made that sound, and my heart nearly tore apart with fear as I slowly turned toward the sound, expecting to see Fischer Strickland grinning at me like an evil clown.

But it wasn’t Fischer Strickland.

A young punk kid dressed in green combat fatigues leveled his machine gun at me. He had two stripes on his sleeves, so I knew he was a corporal. Not bad, considering his age; though, with the National Guard’s desertion rate at an unprecedented level, perhaps his promotion had merely been an act of necessity.

Military regulations had gone by the wayside, for gold studs lined the kid’s earlobes, and a large gold crucifix hung around his neck. I zeroed in on the crucifix. Was he religious? Did he have compassion? By the look on his face, I didn’t think so.

A half-smoked cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth. The smoke rose slowly, twirling upward, where it collected under the rim of his helmet before coasting up over the brim. He eyed me through the veil of smoke, a vein in his forehead twitching rapidly—and that, I knew, was never a good sign.

By the look of his uniform, it had been a tough week for the teenager. His pants and jacket were wrinkled like a well-circulated dollar bill and splattered with blood. No sense lying, the blood bothered me. What bothered me even more was that this punk’s name tag—sown on his right chest pocket—had been blacked out with felt marker. Obviously the kid didn’t want anyone knowing his name, which, let’s face it, was, once again, never a good sign.

Hands up! he growled sourly. Do it now—you son of—

Okay, okay, I shouted hurriedly and raised my arms.

We were about the same height—five ten or eleven—and he carried a little more weight in his shoulders and chest than I did. His black hair, curling out behind his ears, was hardly military cut, so it was a safe bet I was dealing with a weekend warrior called up to handle the crisis. He still had a light tan from the summer, which would have been more noticeable if not for the three days’ worth of patchy beard growth on his narrow, evil face. He needed a good night sleep awful bad,too, for purple half-moon pouches hung beneath his wide, hateful eyes.

The drizzle picked up a bit then, and I listened to rain drops ping off his helmet and the sound of his raspy breathing, waiting for him to speak. But he didn’t speak. He just stood there holding the weapon on me, not moving, not speaking, staring at me with wide eyes filled with vile hate.

Since he wasn’t talking, I decided to. Uh … I didn’t do anything.

You can tell that to your maker, he whipped back.

Listen, I’m innocent, okay? Someone else shot those people—really.

You got any final words, killer?

You can’t shoot me—I didn’t do anything.

He grinned around his cigarette. I can do anything I want now.

Then, from behind me, someone yelled out, Wait! I want to talk to that man.

The corporal’s bitter look hardened even more, and he sighed with annoyance. You just got lucky. And to think I didn’t think luck existed anymore. He tossed the last of his smoke out into the street and grumbled, Looks like you get to live a few minutes longer.

I didn’t do anything, I pleaded. It was Fischer Strickland.

I don’t care who did it, but I know one thing, you’re paying for it.

Listen—

Shut up, he barked. If you’ve got anything to say, tell my sergeant.

4

The Trigger Men of Company X

T hey came out of the moving crowd, six soldiers, swarming in around me, their machine guns pointed at my head. Fear tore through me, and I kept wondering, How the hell did this happen? All I wanted to do was visit my wife at the cemetery. And now this. Guess I should have stayed home with the cat.

The soldiers were all male and, except for one, all young punks. And, like the corporal, all their uniforms were splattered with blood, and all their name tags were blocked out with black ink.

The older guy, the sergeant, was the size of a linebacker, with wide shoulders, a thick, powerful chest, and arms that looked to be about the size of my legs. His skin was as black as the night sky, and his face had a waxed, jellied quality to it. His eyes were narrowed and angry. His cheeks were pudgy. He needed a shave. Come to think of it, they all needed a shave.

Keep the crowd moving, he bellowed at his men, and came up beside the corporal, unsnapping the flap on his sidearm. Once again, that was never a good sign, and I decided to keep my mouth shut for the time being. The less said the better, right?

Why’d you stop me? the corporal asked abruptly.

I gotta talk to him first, he replied with a sneer. Why the rush, anyway? You got somewhere to go?

The corporal glanced upward. It’s starting to rain.

The sergeant chuckled, and then turned serious. What do you know about this clown, anyway, Corporal X?

Nothing, he returned as though it were a stupid question.

Then why—

He was running, Sergeant X. Now let’s shoot him and get inside.

What’s with the X’s, I wondered, and decided that, yet, once again, it was not a good sign.

Sergeant X stepped up to me and stared into my eyes, hoping, I suppose to intimidate me. Little did he know he didn’t have to bother; I was already intimidated enough as it was.

He pushed his helmet up on his head, and I saw that he was bald; at least the part I could see. He snapped his fingers at a Hispanic private and ordered, Frisk him.

The kid jumped to it as though he’d been zapped with a bolt of lightning. He shouldered his machine gun and ran up to me like he meant to tackle me. He roughly patted me down, finding only a ring of keys, my cell phone, and my wallet. He handed them to the sergeant and stepped away.

Where’s your gun?

Don’t own one.

I see, he said, obviously not believing me. He drew out my driver’s license from my wallet and studied it for a moment before turning his nasty gaze on me again.

So you’re Jacob McCluskie, he said in a rough, cigar-burned voice. Five ten, blue eyes. Born July 7, 1977. He looked at me and grinned. Lots of sevens there, huh?

Yeah, I guess.

Says here you live in Rockaway. Which means you’re outside your territory. Don’t you know there are extraction points in Rockaway, too?

Extraction points?

Yeah, there are evacuation buses leaving from there as well.

I’m not here to take a bus.

His eyes widened slightly. Oh? So why did you come up here? To kill the Chinese guy and the fat kid?

It sounded like the name of a new sitcom, and if not for the gravity of the situation, I might have laughed.

So? Why did you do it?

I didn’t do it. Fischer Strickland did it.

Who the hell is that?

He’s a convict. He must have escaped from jail. You guys have to capture him before he kills again.

As the sergeant went to respond, the walkie-talkie on his belt crackled with a sharp hiss of static and a stern, male voice said, Bravo Company X—over.

The sergeant looked down at the walkie for a moment and then back up at me, deciding to ignore the call.

Bravo Company X—over.

He ignored the call.

Bravo Company X—I know you can hear me. Proceed on the double to extraction point B. Fights have broken out near evacuation buses. More crowd control is necessary. Over.

The Hispanic kid, his eyes filling with fear, caught the sergeant’s attention. Are we gonna go?

Sergeant X grumbled to himself, lost in thought for a moment. He then dropped my possessions on the road. The wallet and keys landed fine; no damage. The cell phone bounced once, and the case cracked. I decided not to express my outrage.

The sergeant unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and turned now with a puzzled frown to Corporal X. That sounded like Phillips on the box.

Maybe the colonel is taking a break.

Yeah, maybe, he muttered, and pushed the button that turned off the walkie-talkie.

Are we going? the Hispanic kid asked again.

The sergeant ignored him again, and turned his attention to me. Okay, where were we?

Fischer Strickland, I replied. You know, the murderer who broke out of jail.

He didn’t break out of jail, he said. "A judge ordered