Luke could tell from Kenny’s frantic waving that it must be urgent and made his descent. Kenny had sensibly positioned himself far away from the few remaining sun-worshipers, and as the beach was practically deserted, Luke couldn’t resist the urge to show off his talents and ‘buzzed’ Kenny. He swooped down low, aiming to fly straight into him at full speed. Kenny saw the imminent danger at the last second and turned to outrun the inevitable impact, when Luke skillfully raised himself up and flew several inches over Kenny’s head making him duck and swear.
Luke stalled the craft to land gently on the empty stretch of golden sand right behind the cameraman.
“You are one crazy sonofabitch,” he cursed, handing Luke his clothes.
“What’s up, man?”
“A riot. Come on, get changed, let’s go.”
“Where? Any deaths?”
“Where else? And of course; plenty.”
They leapt into the news truck and Kenny burned rubber, peeling from the beachfront parking lot. He jumped through the red lights and took the corner on two wheels in his desperate rush to be the first news team on site.
Luke slipped on a shirt and tie, making himself presentable. He found it difficult to dress as the truck lurched, squealing around the bends. He patted down his hair, and checked out his appearance in the truck’s vanity mirror.
The streets looked more depressed and covered in graffiti the further they drove away from the ocean and the closer they got towards Liberty City.
20:25 PM
Overtown, northwest of downtown Miami, originally called Colored Town during the Jim Crow era of the late 19th and early 20th century and designated as a ‘colored’ neighborhood after the creation and incorporation of Miami in 1896. The residents barred from entering the nearby middle and upper income white areas of Miami Beach and Coral Gables without having the required passes.
Overtown had served as the place to stay overnight for the black mainstream entertainers of the day such as Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Nat King Cole, who not unsurprisingly were forbidden from staying at the venues where they had just performed, such as the Fontainebleau Hotel and the Eden Roc.
As the I-95 interstate highway and other freeways were constructed, they fragmented the neighborhood, the district suffered serious decline, and the area became economically destitute as businesses stagnated and closed and the region became a ghetto.
The inhabitants migrated to the Liberty Square housing project, built during the 1930s the first of its kind in Southern United States in response to the deteriorated housing conditions of Overtown.
The civil rights act dramatically altered the neighborhood as increasing numbers of lower income and welfare-dependent families swamped to Liberty City following their displacement from Overtown, leading to large-scale ‘black flight’ as middle and higher income families moved out to suburban areas like Florida City and Miami Gardens.
Crime grew prevalent in the increasingly poverty-stricken region during the 1960s. The ensuing problems of the poor and disenfranchised most notably culminated in the race riots of 1968, but still erupted into violence and large-scale disturbances to this day.
“Christ, it’s hot!” Luke said, leaping from the news-truck. He looked presentable above the waist in a smart shirt and tie, yet still wearing his Hawaiian shorts and flip-flops, as they would be out of shot during his report. The police cordoned off the area with tape strung across the street blocking their progress. He watched the riot from the safety point. “Is it me, or are there more crazies than usual?”
Kenny hoisted the news camera to his shoulder, and then jumped back in fright. “Shit!”
“What’s up?”
“A Goddamn rat.”
“Where?” Luke asked in alarm.
Kenny pointed. “There, and there! Christ, this place is crawling with them. Fuck, I hate rats.”
Luke kicked out at a rat and it scuttled away as dusk settled over the projects highlighting the burning flames of a looted store.
He positioned himself and made sure that the plumes of thick, black smoke would be in shot. He checked his tie, cleared his throat and counted down to the report. “In three, two… one. I’m Luke Spencer reporting from Liberty City, where, once again, the city is in flames as the police fight a losing battle trying to regain control of the streets—” he paused as rapid-fire from a machine gun echoed around him. “Their grievance, it seems, is due to the latest round of government cuts that have left the city woefully underfunded and naturally the poorest areas are the hardest hit. When will—” He stopped dead as a rapidly accelerating police car hurtled in their direction, Kenny filmed the retreating car as bullets from a rooftop gunman chased the vehicle down the street spewing up dirt.
The Police officer leaned from the passenger window, and shouted to his colleagues, “Pull back! Pull back!” He paused to sneeze. “Get everybody out! Go!” The police car zoomed off, leaving them dumb-founded.
A nearby cop waved to them. “You heard him, get going!” He scuttled off to a safer point. Luke shuffled after the cop, until he was distracted, then ducked under the tape and made his way closer to the action.
21:20 PM
Lieutenant Graves slumped against his ratty mattress propped against the wall of his crummy apartment in the Liberty City projects. He folded his eyelid back and inserted a hypodermic needle loaded with the heroin he had stolen earlier into the underside of the lid. He had to inject into his eyelid as the coast guard did cursory checks for track-marks on their personnel. Therefore, Graves had gotten devious; sometimes he injected between his toes, or the soles of his feet, and one time, only one time, into his penis.
He squashed down into the mattress to get more comfortable and waited for the narcotic to do its work and relieve him of his miserable existence. He scratched under his armpit and discovered that his fingers were wet. “Hur? What the fuck?”
He lifted his sweat-stained t-shirt and found the black swelling in his armpit. He pushed against it and it burst covering him in thick, oozing pus “Argh!” He recoiled as discharge ran from the lump. What the hell? he thought. He checked under his other arm, and felt a similar bulge. He stood and checked the growth in his broken shaving-mirror, and noticed his torso covered in raised boils and bumps. What is this? He gazed at his reflection for a long moment.
He scratched his balls and froze.
“Oh no…” He dropped his shorts and discovered buboes developing either side of his groin. “No, no, no. Not good.”
Bright light lit his room. A searchlight of a police helicopter shone a beam through his cracked window. He jumped back into the shadows instinctively. He sneezed and blood streamed from both nostrils. He wiped his nose on his arm, horrified by the amount of the blackening fluid. He squatted down on the mattress as the drug weakened him, and he slowly shut his eyes, but even this simple action caused blood to squeeze from his tear ducts. He touched his face and choked back tears unable to believe that his eyes were bleeding.
The roar of the helicopter got louder and the searchlight flicked around his grimy slum. He lurched under the mattress, grabbed his Sig Suer service sidearm, “Hey! People are trying to sleep in here!” He yelled and emptied the chamber aimlessly through the window at the noisy helicopter.