Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

She thinks about where she can establish a new free zone. It’s getting harder and harder to find an unspoiled hole in the wall that’s fairly clean, uncrowded, cheap, family-owned, and open all night. It’s not that these places don’t exist, just that it’s become trendy, especially among the Canal Zone crowd, to find and usurp them, make them into clubhouses for whatever the ideology of the month might be.

There was a place over near the vocational school that had been shut down for about ten years. She’s heard someone — Shaw or maybe Peirce — mention that it was up again and running. She’ll find time to swing by, make an inspection, see if it fits her basic needs.

She glances out the window again and sees a motorcycle pull up behind the Barracuda. It’s one of those glitzy new models, a bullet bike, controversial because of its too-powerful engine and the absurd speeds it can reach. It’s an import, all metallic red and gold with silvery, speckle-paint lightning bolts slapped on the bulging gas tank. The rider, of course, is dressed all in leather, pants as well as coat. Zippers everywhere. He’s got one of those enormous high-tech helmets on, matte black and smoked visor. It makes him look like a robot extra in a pricey science-fiction movie.

He’s sitting on the bike as it idles. He seems to be looking at the back of the hand he’s just pulled a glove off of. He raises his head for a second, looks at the back of the Barracuda.

Lenore’s stomach starts to tighten a little. She raises herself up slightly off her seat, leans closer to the window. The biker pulls his glove back over his hand. He starts to pull down the zipper on his coat. Lenore is half standing in her booth, her nose almost touching the glass of the window.

Then she sees it. It’s hanging from a black stretch-strap around the biker’s neck. She sees him cradle the main body against his chest as he starts to pull out from the curb.

“Everyone down,” she screams, trying to lunge from the booth and at the same time pull her weapon from its holster.

The biker screeches into the street. He’s got enough distance to pick up a head of speed before coming parallel to Rollie’s Grill. He angles his Uzi straight out from his body like some new mutant appendage, a third arm that can pump a projectile at over twelve hundred feet a second.

The barrage hits the diner like the sound of a long string of wired-together firecrackers, amplified to some awful level as they pop off one after another in perfectly timed microsecond intervals. The bullets come in at window level, glass shattering, shards raining in a line down the wall of booths. The screams seem to come a second too late and they’re all that Lenore can hear as she jumps down the three small brick stairs to the outside pavement, sinks into a leg-spread stance, and manages a single burst from the Magnum, before the untouched biker rounds a corner and is out of her vision.

She stands frozen for a second, then reholsters the gun and bounds back into the diner. The screaming continues, but it’s degenerated into a more common jag of hysterical crying. Customers are sitting in shocked, breath-grabbing hunches, glass still resting on their shoulders and laps. Uncle Jorge is already on the wall phone screaming in Spanish, “Ayúdenos! El está muriendo!”

Lenore focuses on him for a moment, then makes herself approach the counter, lean her torso over the marble countertop, and look on the sight of Lon cradled on the floor in Isabelle’s arms, blood flowing down from pathetically small openings in his neck and chest. There’s a gurgling sound that’s achingly clear through the collective moan and cry of the diner.Harry is on knees at Isabelle’s side, his hands held together, flattened into pathetic pancakes, pushing down gently and futilely on his cousin’s chest, blood oozing between the spaces of his fingers no matter how firmly he presses them together.

Harry’s head is shaking in short but violent jerks. Isabelle’s eyes are closed. Someone has grabbed the phone from Jorge and is yelling an address in English. Lon is motionless. His hand grips a spatula. His blood has made it down his waist apron to his knees.

Now the gurgling begins to come and go and the change makes the noise even more awful. Sirens begin to become audible in the distance. Harry pulls his hands up from the wounds and covers his own face. His mouth opens and he lets out sounds, maybe words. It’s still a language that Lenore doesn’t know.

There’s a logic that says that the last thing a mailman would want to do in his off hours is walk. But like everything else, this is not always the case. Ike enjoys walking on the good days. On the bad days, he needs it like food and shelter, a condition of survival. But today has gone beyond the definition of a “bad day.” Today has become something that just a week ago his imagination couldn’t conceive of. Today is a living horror story, a nightmare all the more sickening in its clarity, in its total sensual capacity. Today is like the vision of hell that every black-habited nun warned him about in his innocent childhood. Terrors your small brain cannot even picture, Mr. Thomas, terrors that are never-ending, eternal and absolute, pain and revulsion and sorrows beyond anything anyone who ever walked this sinful planet could ever concoct.

The one thing the nuns were wrong about, the one thing Ike would actually find amusing at any other time in his life, is their idea that most of this terror and horror and sorrow was caused directly by carnal thought and deed. And this just isn’t the case. The sex came after the horror, Ike thinks. The sex came later. It didn’t cause anything. It was caused. By, he doesn’t know, confusion and desperation and plain fright.

Afterward, neither he nor Eva knew what to do. She disappeared into the bathroom. He went to the window and peeked through the blinds and when he didn’t see Lenore’s car, for some reason he was relieved. When Eva came back into the room she was dressed. Ike sat in bed, silent. She leaned over to him, one knee up on the mattress, kissed his forehead, and said, her voice sounding like someone else, someone in a movie unsure of whether to cry or laugh, “I’ll call you when I know what I’m going to do.” Then she left and he was alone in the green duplex again.

And rather than be alone he decides to walk. He heads for downtown thinking he’ll hang around the mall, eat something fried at a kiosk, read magazines in the bookstore. But when he reaches the mall entrance, he goes past it and veers toward the Canal Zone.

When Ike was in college, the Canal Zone was just getting its start as a self-segregated neighborhood for the local art crowd. Back then it was just one more run-down industrial section in another northeastern town on the slide. Each small manufacturing operation that packed up and headed for the Sun Belt left the Zone with one more unused, century-old, red-brick mill. At the time, there was little call to turn the old factories into hip, upscale condos, and they sat empty until one by one, small art groups, each with a different axe to grind, began to move in and stake claims.

Now, a decade later, the Canal Zone is Quinsigamond’s own East Village. It’s got half a dozen theater groups, performance-art clubs, countless galleries and boutiques and gritty little cafés. There are political-fringe headquarters and all kinds of subterranean co-ops and communes. There are constantly weird, ragtag parades being run through the streets, bizarre posters being slapped up on stop signs and mailboxes in the middle of the night. There’s a lively, if not yet hard-core, drug trade. And on every corner there’s at least one character who, in another, older time, might have been referred to as a hipster.