Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

Rusty was scared, and his mouth was dry.

At least the knife in his shoe felt reassuring.

But not much.

As they passed the burning piles of garbage and refuse, the sky darkened appreciably. It was still early, not quite four yet, but the day seemed blacker than any Rusty could remember.

Fish tooled the beat-up Plymouth along the bumpy road, avoiding chuck holes and pits in the packed dirt. “One of these days, dammit, I’m gonna crack a parts shop and get me enough cams and crap to juice up this buggy.”

Rusty didn’t answer. He had more important things to worry about.

If he chickened here, he would not only have to ward off the antagonism of the neighborhood for the rest of his days—that was minor compared to what else would happen. Dolo would have to live him down, and that could mean any number of things in the streets. She might have to get more deeply involved with the Cougie Cats and their illegal activities. He had gotten Dolores into the Cougie Cats at her own request, and even though she was his sister, or perhaps because of it, he would have to watch out for her as much as himself. She was in the gang for keeps; she liked it, liked the excitement of it. So he had to make sure her row wasn’t as hard as his own to hoe. If he had trouble, he had to make certain she didn’t get the stick side of it.

It surprised him, suddenly, that he should think of his sister. She meant a great deal to him, and yet he hardly gave her a thought; the gang had taken up too much of his time. But she figured in this big. He had to watch himself. And then his ma. She would be bugged in the street. His old man…

That crumbum wouldn’t have to worry, but if he was here, maybe he could have done something, maybe he could have helped. Rusty set those bitter thoughts aside. Pa Santoro was a wine-gut, and there was no help coming from that angle.

The heap pulled around a bend, and Rusty saw a dozen or so cars all drawn into a circle, their noses pointed into the center. The place was crawling with kids, and a great cheer went up as they saw him in the front seat.

Rusty’s belly constricted. He didn’t want to fight Candle; he didn’t want to fight anybody. He wanted to go home and lie down, put on some records and lay very very still. His belly ached.

Fish took off at top speed around the ring of cars, spraying dirt in a wide wedge as he rounded the circle on two wheels. It was all Rusty needed to finish the nerve-job on him. He leaned against the right side of the car, and puked so hard he thought the tendons in his neck would split.

Fish was spinning the wheel as Rusty came up with it, and his eyes bugged. “Hey, man! What the hell ya doin’?”

He slammed his foot on to the brake pedal and the Plymouth ground to a skittering halt, the tires biting deep into the dirt of the dump grounds and spinning wildly.

The car stalled, and Fish was out, around the other side and opening the door in an instant. He grabbed Rusty by the collar of the boy’s jacket, and hauled him bodily from the car.

The kids were running over from the circle, violence lighting up their faces. What was happening there? This was a real kick!

Fish pulled Rusty down and the Puerto Rican boy fell to his knees in the dirt, Fish still clinging to his jacket. He began dry-vomiting, hacking in choking spasms.

Finally he slapped Fish’s hand away, and laid his palms flat on the ground, tried to push himself up; it took three cockeyed pushes till he was standing unsteadily. Everything was fuzzy around the edges and he could only vaguely hear the jeers coming from the crowd.

“Man, what a punk he turned into!”

“Chicken all the way. No guts.”

“Candle’s gonna slice you up good, wait an’ see.”

Every face was one face; every body was a gigantic many-legged body. He was swaying, and he felt a hand shoved into his back, and, “Stand up, fer chrissakes!”

His throat chugged and he thought for an instant he was going to bring up what little of his lunch was left lying uneasily in his stomach. But it passed as he gulped deeply, and he began to get a clear picture of what was around him.

He saw all the faces. Poop and Boy-O, Margie, Connie, Cherry, Fish beside him looking angry and worried at the same time, Shamey, the Beast, Greek, Candle with his eyes bright and daring, and—he stopped thinking for a moment, when he saw her.

Weezee. She was here too. Who had brought her?

He started forward in her direction, but Candle moved in and stopped him. “She came with me. I brought her. Any complaints?”

Before he could answer, Weezee started to say something. “I couldn’t help it, Rusty. He saw me—”

“Shaddup!” Candle snapped over his shoulder. He turned back to Rusty. “You got any beefs, you can settle ’em the knife way.”

The sickness and the fear had passed abruptly. Rusty was quite cold and detached now. If it was a stand Candle wanted, all the rest of these sluggy bastards wanted, then that was what they’d get. Right now.

“Who’s got the hankie?” he yelled.

Magically, a handkerchief fluttered down on to the ground between the two boys. Neither touched it. Candle’s arm moved idly in his sleeve, and the switchblade dropped into his hand. Even as he pressed the stud and the bright blade flicked up, Rusty was bending sharply, and he came erect with his own weapon in his fist, already open.

They faced each other across the white handkerchief, and then Candle watched stonily as Rusty bent down and picked it up. From the crowd cries of “Get him! Sling him!” and, once in a while, “Go, go, go, chickie-man!” rang out.

Rusty shook out the hankie and put one corner in his mouth, wadding it slightly behind his clenched teeth. He extended the opposite corner to Candle delicately, and when Candle took it, his eyes were sharp on Rusty’s own.

Caution: when you knife fight, don’t bother watching the knife as much as the other guy’s eyes. They tell when he’s gonna strike.

Candle knew it, and took the hankie in his mouth with care. He maneuvered his tongue and teeth a bit till the cloth was settled properly. They were separated across a two foot restraining line of taut cloth, their backs arched, their bodies curved to put them as far away at swinging level as possible.

Then they circled.

Keeping the knife tight in the fist, keeping the hankie tight in their mouths, they stirred the dust with their heavy stomping shoes as they walked around each other.

Then Rusty swung.

He came out with the blade from the right, swinging hard and flat-stepping in. Candle jumped back, sucking in his belly just as the knife zipped past. Rusty sliced nothing but air. Then he was off-balance, and Candle jumped, bringing the blade up from underneath in a splitting swing. Rusty careened sidewise, dragging Candle with him, and the knife lanced past the Puerto Rican’s right shoulder.

Circling again, circling carefully as Candle bit down harder on the hankie, and Rusty made a fist with his free hand. They moved around each other slowly, like two tigers smelling each other’s spoor.

Every few seconds one would make a sharp, starting movement, and the other would leap back, dragging the other with him. They were feeling each other out.

Suddenly Candle cut sidewise, let the hankie loosen and sag in the middle, and he was in close. One arm snaked around Rusty’s shoulder, and his knife arm came back for the kill.

Rusty screamed loudly through the hankie, and twisted hard, throwing his hip into Candle. The stout boy was rocked by the blow, and fell back. Then Rusty was on him.

The knife came up once…

… and down once.

And Candle was through fighting.

Rusty stood looking down at the boy. The blood had begun to stain the ground around him, and a fine trickle emerged from the Mongoloid mouth. Candle died as he watched, with a sucking gasp and open, staring eyes.