Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

I fired and caught the first one in the left leg. He slipped over and crumpled onto his side, moaning and clutching the shattered shinbone. The second one was too close to stop, and had his arm back for an overhand swipe with the knife. It was the ratty-faced kid that had pushed me off the cliff.

I couldn’t help it—all I could see was that knife, so I fired at it as it slipped toward me. The shot went past his arm and caught him just under the nose. The bullet plowed upward and the back of his head flew off. He fell forward, just a lousy bloody wreck, and I shoved the knife hand aside as he fell. He tumbled on top of Steckman, who wasn’t completely out and who was just rising. When Steckman saw what was on his back, he screamed like a woman, high and thin, and fainted.

The other six stopped cold. They didn’t want any more of that jazz. I felt sick for a moment, thinking how I’d killed a kid, but then I remembered what Harrison had said about how Pessler’s face had been stomped to goo. Then it didn’t bother me so much.

I staggered back till I had them all in sight, and suddenly I felt the ceiling lowered down on me. “Back up, and drop those shanks,” I mumbled. Things were starting to ooze off into grayness. I had to keep my eyes wide open and focused on them or I’d lose them, too.

I heard the switchblades drop dully to the rug, and they backed against the wall.

“You didn’t come from Brooklyn, did you?” I rattled. They shook their heads.

One of them gave a belligerent half-laugh, said, “We live eight blocks away from here, off Broadway. You thought we’d be a whole lot longer comin’. But Steckman gave us the word.”

“Now we’re going to wait for Harrison and his squad boys,” I said. I choked the words out, and the kids didn’t look too worried about matters.

They didn’t say a word. I leaned against the piano and waited.

It seemed like forever. I could feel the blood oozing off down my arm and leg, and all the clubbings I’d taken in the past few weeks were finally adding up. How I’d kept going till now suddenly shocked me. It seemed fantastic, but nervous energy accounted for most of it, and good condition answered the rest.

I glanced down at my wristwatch. It had been a good twenty minutes since I’d spoken to Harrison. Maybe the sonofabitch didn’t believe me!

I didn’t have a very long while to think about it though. Abruptly, somebody drained all the juice out of me, and I felt myself tilting over. The gun dropped out of my hand, and as the grayness closed in I saw the kids dipping for their shanks, with hell in their eyes.

A weird thought about all the times I’d been unconscious lately popped into my head as I fell:

What a helluva way to go through life!

I came to with the sweet young thing just focusing in, and beyond her the black-and-white bespectacled kisser of Harrison.

“I made it,” I said, duck-rasp.

“Yeah,” he said. For the first time, the slob smiled. “There’s money in this for you, Campus. Nice reward—totes up into four figures.”

I grinned back at him, and my head started playing the Anvil Chorus. I could feel the adhesive pull of bandages on my arm and thigh. “Reward, huh?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Know what I’m going to do with it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “What?”

“I’m going to buy you a pair of roller skates, you creeping, crawling slob!”

He didn’t smile—but what did I care?