Marc Zicree - Magic Time

Concerned, Cal brushed her bangs aside to put a hand to her forehead. Her hair was sweat-soaked, her fever flaring with her upset.

She tried to wriggle free of his hand. “Leave off, Cal.”

“Let’s decide this dispassionately, okay?” He stood, took a few quick steps toward the bathroom. “How ’bout, if it’s still working, we let Mr. Thermometer-”

The crash of glass outside stopped him. He turned to see Tina rise and step to the window. Cal covered the distance in a few strides, eased her out of the line of sight. “Stay back.”

Shouts echoed from the street, the words indecipherable. Cal had to peer sharply down to locate the source in the sullen dark.

“Oh, man,” he said, dismayed. Tina was edging laterally, trying to see, but he kept her back from the window.

“What is it? What?”

“Patel’s.” The market’s windows were broken, the shattered glass glinting on the pavement. He could make them out now, eight or ten men and women, pulling at the bars on the windows and doors, struggling to pry them open. He thought of the snowstorm that had socked in the city last winter, this island where every saleable item had to be shipped in, how hoarding had flared like wildfire, the shelves stripped clean of milk and bread and Pampers.

And this was no snowstorm.

Past the market, dim shapes flitted along the darkness of Broadway, barely seen except where one or two bore makeshift torches.

Cal glanced over at Tina, her face pale and scared. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’ll be gone soon.”

A staccato sound echoed up that Cal didn’t recognize at first. Then it clicked in: hooves, horse’s hooves. A raspy voice boomed, “Back off, all of you!”

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.