Flynn
The sun is starting to go down. I’ve been walking ever since I left Katie and Lance at that bar. Brilliant hues radiate out over the city. No reason to stop now.
My legs ache. My feet and ankles feel like they’re callused and blistered beyond recovery. But still I keep walking. Doors close on either side of me, parents bringing their children in, keeping them away from the dark. And from those who roam the dark. They only come out at night.
The streets of Santa Espera can be dangerous when the sun goes down. It depends on where you are, of course. And who you’re with. And who you are. The Bullets jacket I wear gives me some amount of immunity. But I’m not safe from everyone. And when word gets out that the Bullets are falling apart, that immunity will fall apart too.
A couple of hooligans standing on a corner look up and see me approaching. Their eyes take in my jacket … and they walk away.
Maybe it hasn’t fallen apart just yet.
There have been times when I’ve felt more at home in Santa Espera at night than I have during the day. There’s more freedom. More space to move around. Rules slough away like wet tissue on skin. All that exists are the rules of the gangs.
But I felt that more strongly when the Bullets were in their prime. Before all this shit started with the drugs and Will Silver and the Chains and Trista. Trista. What am I doing with her? Why can’t I get her off of my mind? She only wants what’s best for her, and yet still I find myself wanting her. Why is that? Why?
My feet keep me moving. The sun continues its descent. The streetlamps pop into life and illuminate the sidewalks below. But not the dark alleys. Not the corners, where the evil things lurk.
If Will Silver weren’t here anymore, would those dark corners still be a threat?
Questions like this plague me. This city would change — of course it would change — were the plan to kill Will Silver actually go through. But whether it would change for the better is hard to say. Maybe somebody else would come and take over? Maybe the economy would drop so low that only illegal enterprises would rise up. Who’s to say? Maybe Will ended up creating an unstoppable force, a perversion of the difference between right and wrong. Even if he went, this progeny of his might continue to thrive, might usurp his power and become something that he alone isn’t capable of?
Ah, what the hell am I talking about?
My feet keep me going. Keep walking, despite my body’s cries for rest.
Where am I going? Where do I want to go?
My bike. It’s back at the headquarters. I left it there when I went with Lance to try to bust Trista out of jail. The warehouse is about an hour’s walk from here.
Well, what the hell else am I gonna do?
I turn and start walking in that direction. As I move I see the dregs of this city start to materialize, coming out of the woodwork. They huddle together in the shadows. Others approach them, swap money for drugs, start fights on the streets and in the alleys. Spray paint mars brick walls and the broad sides of trucks and vans. Some people scuttle away when I walk past them. Others don’t.
I don’t approach anyone. I don’t interact with them. And they don’t approach me. If it weren’t for my jacket, I’d probably have been robbed blind by now. A big guy like me — I’m intimidating, but enough guys with lead pipes would take me down no problem. That all stops because of who I am. Who they think I am. Just because of the jacket I wear.
I wonder if Trista knows about all this. She must, as a former cop. At least abstractly. But I wonder if she knows. If she’s really experienced it. She told me she was in Petty Theft. It doesn’t sound like she was ever a beat cop. Maybe she never got a taste of what the seedy underbelly of Santa Espera is really like. Sal might have told her bits and pieces. But words only go so far. You really have to experience it to know.
And I wonder if she accounted for this. For the sludge at the bottom that might be stirred up and set free once Will Silver goes. If he goes. If this even ends up happening at all.
Because if she hasn’t accounted for it … then she’s got her work cut out for her.
Ah, why do I care so much? She as much as told me she has no need of me. The Bullets are done. She and I are out. Will cottoned on to our plan, so that’s out the window too. And she’s more than capable of getting something done by herself. So why do I care so much? Do I actually love her? Or is it something like, what’s that thing called? Stockholm Syndrome? Where you sympathize with your captors? Even though she’s all but pushed me away, I can’t stop myself from loving her.
Or maybe she gives me something I can’t get anywhere else. It’s true, that I haven’t felt like this about anyone since Elizabeth. I might even feel it more with Trista than I did with her. It’s hard to tell. All that happened so long ago, and my memories are getting confused. But I feel something with Trista. Something like … I don’t know. A sense of freedom. A sense of possibility.
Like when I’m with her, I can do more. I can be more. Before I was with her, I felt stuck. Stuck in my adolescence. I wanted to just be young, joke around, get drunk and go riding with the Bullets and smash things. I was never into the actual gang parts of being in a gang. Hurting other people? Nah, not my cup of tea. But breaking the law and doing whatever the fuck I wanted? Yeah, that was my shit.
But Trista showed me there was more. Even if she didn’t know that she did it, she did. When I was with her, it’s like I saw the next phase of my life light up, whereas before that it had been dark. I saw what I could be. I saw my potential, as a high school guidance counselor would put it.
I enter the warehouse district and walk along the familiar path on my way to the Bullets’ headquarters. The moving is slow compared to being on a bike. Similar-looking buildings pass me by, over and over again, until finally I come upon our warehouse. There’s only one bike sitting outside: mine. I walk over to it. It looks fine. Part of me wondered if they were going to trash or steal it, considering what happened. What Trista and I did. How everybody was reacting.
I look around. It’s quiet out. I decide to go inside, heading through the front door. The warehouse is dark, so I turn on the large overhead fluorescent lights. They flicker on, spraying cold, white light down onto everything.
The place is a mess. It’s completely deserted, and it’s a mess.
My boot scrape against the concrete as I walk in, the only sound in this vast, open space. The table has been knocked over. There are broken beer bottles sitting in pools of spilled beer. Bullet casings are scattered over the ground, and walls and shelves show the damage those bullets made. A dark red splotch on the ground shows me where somebody died. But it’s not where Chloe and Matthias were. Somebody else died.
That Slinger. Lance told me and Katie about what happened. I look around, trying to visualize it. Jake, his crew. Trista and Lance. And then Will Silver. And Jake’s pregnant girlfriend, Merryn. And his sister. That pile of debris is by the door and I walk over to it, look behind. There are some shards of broken black plastic and bits of metal, but that’s about it.
I should have been here. I should have been with Trista.
But I wasn’t. Instead I left. Trista called to me, but I didn’t turn back. But she didn’t come after me. Is it my fault? Hers? I don’t know.
I leave the warehouse and walk to my bike. Get on. Start it up. My feet and legs thank me for the rest, and then curse me when the engine’s vibrations start. Still, I pick them up as I ride out of the lot, out onto the street, feeling the cool, slightly damp wind push into my face and hair.
Where am I going? I don’t know. I could go home. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be alone there. I want to stay out.
Point Blank isn’t far from here. I rev the engine and turn out onto the streets. The traffic is lighter now. My bike dips and dodges between cars, passing them quickly, speeding through lights just before they turn red.
Taking a right, I ride down our street until I reach the bar. And then I pull over to the side of the road, not turning into the lot. The lights are on. Bikes and cars sit outside, people mingling, talking, smoking and drinking bottles of beer, bottles of something stronger hidden in paper bags. Snorting bumps of white powder off their fingernails and the backs of their hands.
I could go in. But something’s holding me back. The place seems strange to me now. Foreign. It’s like I’ve never been here before, even though I’ve been here a thousand times. Maybe the Bullets are in there. Maybe they’re not. What would they say if they saw me? Would they try to kill me? Would they pretend I wasn’t there? I don’t know which would be worse.
I breathe a sigh. Check for oncoming traffic. Take a U-turn on the road and ride away.
Where am I going?
The Bullets are gone. Trista is gone. I’m alone. I have nobody. Some people wish for this kind of freedom. I can leave now, just like I told Trista I wanted to. Get out of this city. Just leave it all behind.
But Trista.
I don’t know why. Why? Why do I feel this connection? Why can’t I make it go away? She holds me back. Like a band, traveling from the middle of me to the middle of her. It can stretch, but it doesn’t seem to break. And I feel it, pulling me to her, trying to drag me off of my path to wherever she is.
I want her. I want to be with her. I can’t explain it. I can’t say why or why not. I just want her. I want to be with her, now.
And then a voice, loud and clear in my head: So do something about it.
I blink, the voice’s word resonating in my skull. The road seems clearer now. The sidewalks and people are more in focus.
Of course. Of course! All this time I’ve just been whining, complaining about everything that’s been happening around me, and in the meantime I’m just standing here, like a lost child, just letting it all happen. Why don’t I do something about it? Why don’t I fight back? I keep saying I want Trista so much? Then fucking prove it.
So what can I do?
My fingers drum on the handlebars. Street lamps pass me, my bike taking me from one circle of light to another. Somebody grunts in an alley as I pass by.
What can I do? Something to impress Trista. Something to let her know that I’m serious.
What does she want? She wants Will Silver dead. That’s at the top of the list. But I have no idea where he is right now. And even if I did, surely he has security. I couldn’t just show up at his door and shove a gun in his face. I’d die.
So what else can I do?
I could get at Will Silver some other way. His business? No, what would I do? The drugs connection with the cops might have been an option, had he not already killed that police captain on his own.
Wait a minute … the drugs!
The facilities, the ones Maddox had us all gut out and set up. I know where they are. I know where they all are. Their ins and out.
My heart start beating faster. I’m getting excited. Of course! I could do something. Steal their supplies or trash the buildings or something. I figure out where the closest one is and turn my bike, banking a hard right onto a side street to get me there quicker.
Ten minutes later I’m stopped in the shadows of a run-down business district. Small, single-story buildings populate the area. And there, in front of me, is one of the facilities we outfitted, complete with wire mesh-covered windows and myriad security cameras.
My heart is hammering. I should have eaten something. I feel weak, but exhilarated, like I drank way too much coffee on an empty stomach. I shut off my bike’s engine and climb off, the gravel crunching under my boots as I walk over to the building.
Nobody’s around. My ears are perked, but all I can hear is my own footsteps. I stick to the shadows. The cameras don’t have a wide range of view, but their quality is good enough that they would pick up my face. I step up to the edge of a shadow, facing the front door. Take my gun out. Cock it. Bringing it up, I aim at the camera that’s pointed right at that door.
BANG!
The device shatters and pieces scatter against the side of the building, raining down upon the ground. I stop, stand stock-still. Waiting to hear if anybody else is here. Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. No sound. I’m safe.
I put my gun back and walk up to the front door. Kneel down, take a lock pick set out from inside my jacket. It’s a good skill to have, and one that lends itself well to having illegal fun. Plus, not a lot of people know how to do it, so it always impresses.
It takes me a few minutes but I get the cylinder to turn, unlocking the door. I stand up, push it open.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm system. The panel is on the wall. I step over and punch in the code. The system turns off. Maddox never bothered changing them after we finished our work. Beside the panel are the light switches. I flick them on.
The inside of the facility blinks and becomes illuminated as the lights come on. It’s white in here. Sterile, and white. There are tables in the center, creating an island for a workspace. Tables along both long walls too, with storage underneath and on shelves at the far end. Large plastic trays, bottles and jugs full of different liquids. On the tables are vials, flasks, plastic tubs, digital scales. Small plastic baggies. Filing cabinets. It looks like half the space is dedicated to production, and half to packaging. There are fire extinguishers stationed every ten feet along the walls.
They tell me what to do. My heart is pounding again as I look around. I’m almost salivating. I step inside, feeling out of place in this cold, industrious environment. I shouldn’t be here. But that isn’t stopping me. I get up to the shelves on the opposite wall and look at the jugs of liquid. Bleach, chlorine, distilled water. And then I see it: plastic gallon jugs filled with a clear liquid, the familiar flammable sign stamped in bright red on the label.
Acetone.
I pick up two jugs, spin their caps off and break the safety seals. Then I go to pouring.
Disgusting, pungent odors fill my nose and I have to turn my head as I splash the liquid all over the tables, the shelves, along the walls and onto the floors. Moving backwards I coat the place, spraying it side to side, until I reach the wall where I came in. One of the jugs I toss back into the facility, watching it spin head over heel, acetone flying out of it in a fanning arc until it crashes onto the ground. The other jug I take with me, dribbling a trail of the volatile stuff out the front door, taking it ten feet away until I stand up, toss the job back into the facility.
And then I take a lighter out of my pocket.
I look at the open door, the light spilling out of it, and out the mesh-covered windows on either side. There’s still no other sound outside. I remember coming here with the Bullets, Maddox telling us what to do. Us tearing down the inside — it used to be an insurance company until we bought the building. Drinking beers, laughing, having fun with our friends. But all that is over now.
I light the lighter and lower the flame down to the liquid.
It catches immediately, fire running quickly along the trail towards the open door. I get up and take some steps back. As soon as the fire passes the threshold I watch it spread, fan out quickly, filling the interior with flame and shooting out an enormous heat. A few seconds pass, and then …
BOOM!!!
I’m rocked back, the plume of flame that came out the door only just missing me. The lights go out, but they don’t matter anymore. The windows inside the mesh have exploded, and I hear intermittent pop! pop! noises coming from inside.
BOOM!
Another explosion. Fire is blackening the insides, spilling out the broken windows, the open door, reaching up to the night sky and sending out billows of thick, black smoke.
It’s time to go.
The roar of flames drowns out the sound of my boots on the ground. It even drowns out the sound of me starting up my bike. I straddle the vibrating thing, watching the building burn. I feel mesmerized by it. The bike engine rumbles as everything in the building falls apart, burns up to nothing. And as I watch, it feels like a part of me is burning up with those flames. But the funny thing is, I don’t think it’s a part of me that I’m going to miss.