This time, Cal let Tina join him at the window. Even from a distance, Cal could see that the cop was a big man, a slab of meat made even more imposing by the added height of the horse. The looters stopped like figures in a strobe, watching him. He gave the reins a shake. The horse cantered forward, closing the distance as the cop drew out his nightstick.
Then as if a switch had been thrown, the looters surged up over the cop. Shouting and cursing, they grabbed at him, tore away his nightstick, snatched at the reins. Panicked, the horse reared with a scream, dumping the beefy man off. He hit the ground, with a thud that Cal felt in his bones.
Maddened, the horse was kicking, spinning. The looters ducked and collided to avoid it, gave it a wide berth as it reeled and then ran off into the night. The cop struggled to get to his feet, slipping on wet pavement. A sharp cry-Cal couldn’t tell if it was the cop or one of the others-and they were on him again.
“Stay here.” Cal was headed for the door.
“No, Cal, don’t.” Tina grabbed for his sleeve. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay. I’m just gonna. .”
“Gonna what?”
She echoed his own thoughts; he didn’t know, either. He rushed to the kitchen. In the darkness, he peered at the drainer, caught the dull glint of metal. Reaching out, his hand closed on the cool plastic handle.
Tina’s eyes went wide as he emerged with the big Ginsu knife in his hand. A few quick strides and he was at the door, unlatching the chain, snicking back the deadbolt. “Lock it behind me.”
He shot her a last, quick look. “I’d call 911 if I could,” he said, an apology, and was out the door.
Cal took the three flights full out, two and three stairs at a time, grasping the wood banister as he swung around on the narrow descent, breathing hard.
His palm hit the door onto the street, sent it flying, and he leaped the final few steps onto the pavement. The hot smell of garbage, a chaos of voices, the sound of blows.
They were thirty, forty yards off on the corner, and at this distance, all he could make out was a dark mass of struggling bodies clumped together. For a mad moment, he had a sense that he was looking, not at a group of people, but an impossible, inhuman beast, flailing legs and arms, howling its rage through gashes of mouth.
Then the illusion was gone, and Cal could see the big cop on his feet, a wounded bull ringed by wild dogs. They were hanging on his arms, his neck, pulling at him, pummeling him as he wheeled about, trying to drag him down. Booty from Patel’s littered the sidewalk around their feet: useless batteries, packages of cereal, burst cartons of milk. The cop was trying to drag his gun clear of the holster, but other hands interfered, grabbing and clutching.
He shoved them off, yanked the pistol clear in a wide arc. But one of his attackers smashed a big hair spray can into the cop’s face. He roared, and the gun went flying end over end toward Cal. The automatic bounced once, twice on the asphalt and lay still, twenty feet away.
Bellowing curses, the cop battered at his attackers, keeping them busy, their attention on him and not the weapon. Only one came after the gun, a rangy teen in black jeans and a Misfits T-shirt with a grinning death’s head on it. He saw Cal’s knife, skidded to a stop, still poised to leap.
Cal raised the knife. Get back. The youth feinted left, Cal swung the knife, and then the blade tilted at an odd angle, fell free of the handle and clattered to the pavement. Shit.
Misfits straightened. “You buy that from TV?”
Cal felt sick. “Yeah.”
“They all crooks, man.”
Incongruously, Cal noticed that Misfits’ hair was patchy, with bald spots showing, cut to look like a radiation victim. Why would anyone want that?
They stood eyeing each other a moment and then, both with the same thought, dived for the gun. Stomachs and chests skidded along the rough asphalt. Cal landed closer, his outstretched hand inches from the blue-black metal, while Misfits’ fingers clawed at an impossible ten-foot gap. Not a chance!
Cal reached as Misfits’ black-makeup-rimmed eyes bloomed desperation, went glassy-and the gun slid from beneath Cal’s fingertips and jumped into Misfits’ hand!
Still on his belly, Cal looked at the gun in cold astonishment. Misfits, too, was peering at it amazed, an expression that melted quickly to pure, nasty joy.
Scrabbling to his feet, he locked his spooky raccoon gaze on Cal and ever so slowly pulled back the bolt.
I’m dead. Cal knew in the time it would take him to stand or roll out of the way, he would be shot.
There was a muffled whack. Misfits let out a cry, went down on one knee, revealing a figure behind him hefting a big wrench. Cal was astonished. It was the elevator mechanic-what was her name? Colleen-from his office building. She raised the wrench for another blow.
“You fucking cunt!” Misfits swiveled to get a bead on her, but she brought the wrench down again, putting her weight into it, laying into his shoulder. He screamed and stumbled sideways, clutching the gun with both hands, staggering into a crazy, frantic run away from them. Cal could hear him spewing a litany of physical acts and body parts as his footfalls faded off down the street.
Colleen had already turned, plunging toward the fray with wrench swinging. Cal rolled to his feet and joined her, grappling, kneeing, twisting arms and wrists.
“Vamoose! Get outta here!” Colleen’s voice was as cool and unyielding as marble. The looters fled, slipping on broken booty, scrabbling up a few boxes and vanishing into the night.
Cal straightened, gasping with the adrenaline rush. “Did you see that? With the gun?”
“What?” Colleen, who wasn’t even breathing hard, knelt by the cop. He sat wheezing on the curb, slumped like a sack of potatoes.
“You all in one piece there, friend, or are we gonna have to fetch the Superglue?”
“Nah, I’m on top of it.” He coughed wetly, spat, struggled to rise, sat down again with a grunt.
“Take it slow,” Cal advised. “No one’s on the meter here.” Still seeing the muzzle of the gun, he thought momentarily of Tina, looked up at his window. It was dark within, but even so he felt her eyes on him. He lifted his hand, tried to keep it from shaking. We’re okay.
The cop felt along his bruised jaw, touched his bloody nose gingerly and winced. “Damn, they broke it.”
A box of Kleenex lay where one of the looters had dropped it. Cal tore it open, handed the cop a wad of tissues. “Here.”
“Thanks.” The cop was breathing easier now, and, in the moonlight, Cal could see he was older than he had looked in the heat of battle, fifty at least, face all furrows and hard wear. “You two were a couple of knights in armor.”
Cal shrugged it off. “I live right here.”
“Me, I’m just down there.” Colleen gestured toward the far end of the block. Then, noting Cal’s surprise, asked, “What?”
“Nothing, it’s just you live somewhere, you have no idea-”
“We don’t exactly belong to the same clubs,” she said coolly, and it brought back their meeting in the lobby, forever ago this morning.
The cop tried to stand again. Cal gripped him under one arm, Colleen the other, until he was sure of his footing. He waved them off, grateful. “You better get back indoors.”
“You have any idea what’s going on?” Cal asked.
A hard cast came over the cop’s face. “No, but it’s a holy mess. Some of my boys saddled up, headed over the Queensboro Bridge. It’s the same there. Same as far as the eye can see. Could be the whole world, for all we know. It’s down; everything’s down.”
Cal glanced at Colleen and was gratified to see she looked as chilled as he felt. “But, hey,” she was saying, “the government’s gotta be-”