Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

Samuel stomped his feet hard on the concrete to fend off the numbness in his legs, a trick he learned during cold winters in Chicago.

He pressed his face against an antique shop window, but only old furniture, dusty lamps, and an assortment of dull, lifeless figurines, the kind you might find on many grandmothers’ mantles, stared back, sparking not a single bit of interest. His stomach tightened. I want to go home.

He looked around the dimly lit, nearly barren, street lined with small shops and stores all closed for the night, and felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He sobbed. I’m lost. He steadied his breathing, lungs grateful for the rest, took another long look down the street, and then headed in the opposite direction at a brisk pace.

“Excuse me, can you help me? I’m lost,” Samuel pleaded to an old man toting two brown paper sacks.

The old man reminded him of the cartoon character he’d seen on old cartoon reruns on Nickelodeon, Mr. Magoo, with his big bulbous head, thick glasses, and total confusion. The old man gave an indifferent huff, humped his shoulders and kept walking, mumbling under his breath in Italian.

Samuel spotted a young couple walking toward him, arm in arm, and stepped in front of them. “P-P-Please, I’m lost,” he stammered, his eyes filled with tears. “Can you help me?”

The young man, a Brad Pitt clone, pulled out several coins and dropped them in Samuel’s palm. His girlfriend, apparently moved by his generosity, kissed and hugged every inch of his face. The young lovers crossed the street, lips locked tight, as though the ten year old was never there.

The darkness brought a stiff, cold breeze that cut through Samuel to the bone. He continued down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward for warmth. Most of the buildings he passed were empty. The longer he walked, the more the area took on the ambiance of a cheap horror film. Samuel forced himself to think, what should I do?

He looked around for a policeman, a taxi driver, anyone who looked official, but saw nobody. Think! Think! Samuel stopped. Of course, the Embassy! The U.S. Embassy!

He spotted a woman, who looked to be about his mother’s age, walking across the street in the opposite direction. He ran over to her, shaking, nervous. “Please, I’m looking for the U.S. Embassy. Can you help me?” he frantically asked.

The woman, tall with long reddish hair, and a mosey nose, furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“The Embassy,” said Samuel, struggling not to scream. “I need to get to the U.S. Embassy.”

“I no understand,” said the woman, confused. “What’s Embebe?”

“No, Em-ba-see,” he repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“American’s Embassy.”

The woman ran a hand back through her long, silky vines. Finally, a look of recollection lit up her face. “Oh, American’s, Em-baa-see.” Samuel, encouraged, wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Yes,” he said. “I need to get there. Can you help?” The woman, now happy she could be of assistance, pointed down an alley to a well-lit street about fifteen hundred feet on the other side.

“American Embassy on Vittorio Veneto.”

Samuel slowly repeated the street named. “Vi-tor-ia Ven-e-to.” He said his thanks and gave her, to her astonishment, a tight, extended hug, then sprinted across the street into the alley, a smile chiseled on his face.

He wondered what his parents would say to him. What he would say when he talked to them. The pain in his legs disappeared. His head cleared, which made him run faster. I’m going home!

A sudden slap burned across Samuel’s face. He saw a spark of light, flew backwards up off his feet, and crashed to the ground, hitting the back of his head on the pavement.

“What are you doing in my alley?” a voice demanded in broken English. “You don’t have permission to be here.” Samuel dazed, his head pounding, tried to shake it off, and wobbled to his feet amid scattered laughter. When his vision cleared, he saw four boys, two who looked to be around his age, and two older, standing in front of him.

“I said, what are you doing in my alley?” repeated a skinny kid with dark hair and a handsome face. He appeared to be the oldest.

Samuel continued to shake his head, trying to rid himself of the ringing in his ears. “What, huh?”

The skinny kid moved closer. “You’re trespassing. You’re not supposed to be here,” he repeated in Italian.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Samuel. “I don’t speak Italian.” The boy turned to the others. “Americano, a fucking Americano.” He looked back at Samuel. “My name is Carlo,” he said, in butchered English. “What are you doing in my alley?” Samuel, his heart a bass drum, bent over to catch his breath. “I’m lost, and I’m trying to get to the American Embassy. Please help me.” Carlo, his green eyes pools of fierce deceit, pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it between his lips, but didn’t light up. “Why should we help you? What’s in it for us?”

Nervous, Samuel stood up straight and examined each boy closely.

They looked like hardened criminals to him, and even if he were at full-strength, he knew he couldn’t take them all at once. Two of the boys circled around to his rear.

“I don’t have anything,” Samuel told them through gritted teeth. “I just want to get to the Embassy.”

Carlo signaled to one of the boys behind Samuel, who proceeded to rifle through his pockets. He found the money the young couple gave him earlier. Smiling at his apparent discovery, the black-toothed boy with a pug nose handed the money to Carlo, who examined it, then stared hard at Samuel.

“What is this?” asked Carlo.

“I forgot about that. A man gave it to me earlier.” Carlo slapped Samuel back to the ground. “Bastardo!” Samuel, flat on his back, closed his eyes tight and balled up his fists, teeth grinding. Tired, frustration turned to anger. He pushed himself up so fast, and with such force, the boys all jumped several steps back.

“Leave me alone,” he bellowed, meaning every word of it.

“Look, its John Wayne,” scoffed Carlo, laughing. “Bang, bang, he’s going to get us all.”

The boys all laughed, several grabbing their sides. Samuel fists tightened. He rushed Carlo, growling like a mad dog, tackled the older boy, and wailed on his face with everything he had left. The others, momentarily stunned, snapped out of it and jumped Samuel, pulling him off their leader. They tossed him to the concrete, pounding and kicking his face and body.

“Stop!” ordered Carlo, now on his feet, wiping his bloody nose.

“Hold him up.”

The boys lifted up Samuel, battered and beaten. They had to hold him up to keep him from toppling over. Carlo pulled a knife from his sock.

“So, Mr. John Wayne, let’s see how you like the blade.” Samuel struggled to break free, but with each strain and pull his energy drained away. Carlo stepped forward. Samuel lifted his head, snot running from his nose, face blazed over with rage, and with all his strength, smashed his foot into Carlo’s groin. The Italian boy dropped the knife, curled over, and crashed back to the ground. The others loosened their grip. Samuel broke free and ran. He heard fast footsteps behind him but didn’t turn around. The closer he got to the street, the harder he pressed. Ten feet from his goal, two strong arms wrapped around his waist and snatched him to the ground.

Samuel rolled over onto his back and looked up at a chubby, round-faced boy with bushy brown hair and elephant ears. He wanted to fight back, but could barely breathe because of the boy’s full weight pressing down on his chest. Samuel turned his head. Down the alley, he watched Carlo, assisted by the others, limp toward him, demon possessed. The fat kid on top of him picked up a fist-sized rock and raised it over Samuel’s head.