Fresh bread. The smell is strong. It hits my nose like a punch. I can almost feel the warmth. It's close. Close, crusty, fresh.
How stupid do they think I am? Pretty stupid.
I don't care. I been around this 'hood for a long time. I'll be around awhile longer. I got to admit I don't feel too great today.
Pretty cheap. Been feeling cheap all morning. Don't matter. I'll see what happens with this fresh bread.
The gunner will be up high. Field of fire. The guide will be lower. Got to be a guide. Low. I'll be lower. Sewer rat again.
Good old sewer.
Dark. Count to fifty. Slow. Let the eyes get used to it. Cold down here this time of year. Sniff the air. Think about it. Mold. Rats. Rat-piss. Old garbage. No guide-smell — no toilet water. Only toilet water.
Time to move.
Forty yards. My feet have eyes down here. I guess I'm proud of that. I know this sewer. It's mine.
Pay attention, fool. These guys might be good. Could be a trapper-keeper down here. My bud Gimper got caught in one when he was little. He was lucky. It cut his foot clean off.
Check the scum. Left. Right. Middle. No marks. My little scum patch is virgin. Nobody's been down here. Up the ladder. Slow now. Get used to the light.
I fixed this storm drain myself. Easy out. Easy in. Great view of the street.
The street don't look so good right now. It's gray out there — clouds, smog, muck, whatever. Winter. The stores across from me are empty, of course. Black holes for windows and doors. Give me the shivers even though I know nothin's in there. Dead dog smells deader than ever. Gimper got some good meat off that dog. Quite awhile ago. Its eyeballs are gone. Old truck looks the same — rust, no wheels, no windows.
Ah.
There it is.
The bread.
Buns. Great big bag of hamburger buns. Torn open. Three or four rolled out. Very artistic. Even some golden arches on the bag.
Very stupid. They want me to think a delivery truck come down here? A truck come down here and dropped a big old bag of buns right on my doorstep? There ain't no McDonald's within miles of here. Nothin' but street kids around here, not many of them since the last sweep. The gangs don't even recruit here no more. It's just a kill zone. A kill zone for them and the ricos. Not the cops. They don't care.
A kill zone with buns. Sure.
Sit tight, though. Those buns are worth sittin' tight for a morning. Something might turn up.
I'll be damned. Here it comes. A Goat — raggedy blue sweater, raggedy pants, no shoes, short hair, big eyes. The Goat bends down, picks up a bun, starts nibblin'.
Street-kid huntin' has been going on for years. Started in Brazil.
Pretty crude at first. It's a real sport now. This kid's a Judas Goat — where'd I hear that? — meant to get all us stupid kids out after those buns. Not this stupid kid.
That stupid kid.
Fong — Fong from two streets over. Peekin' out that door across from me. His assortment of cousins are probably hidin' underneath those black windows. I know what he's gonna try. Oughta know better. Must be real hungry, him and his cousins.
There he goes. Zip. Behind the truck. He's fast, gotta give him that. Even auto-fire wouldn't have got him. Fast won't help him none with part two, though. It's fifteen feet from the truck to the buns. Dead open. Heart of the kill zone. That little Goat is chowin' down on her bun.
Fong holds up one finger. Fifteen kids jump up from behind the windows. They're screamin' and throwin' rocks. Fong holds up two fingers. Two decoys, one from either direction, zigzag down the middle of the street in the general direction of the buns. They're screamin' too.
No fire yet.
Fong, you fool.
He goes for it. Flashes his speed. Turns it into a leap. Leaps into a turn. Lands. Grabs the bag.
A hollow-point removes the middle of his chest and his spine. Have it your way, Fong.
The decoys continue zagging and zigging as he falls. Fire shifts to them. One shot crashes out. Another. It's my turn now.
Twenty-five feet from me to the buns. Ten feet past that to the space I've made under the truck. Don't think. Dive. Dive, roll, run.
Run, stupid. You're coming from an unexpected place at an unexpected angle. It'll take time for the gunner to pick you up. Time for him to track you, aim and fire. About two more seconds.
Grab the bag away from Fong's dead fingers. The Goat, she's in front of me. Damn!
There's a bullseye growing on my back. Green and yellow flashing lights. Push her out of the way. Push her OUT of the way.
Fong's dead eyes look up at me. Fool, fool, fool. FOOL.
I grab the Goat's hand and pull her along with me. I shove her into the hole underneath the truck. I duck. A round shatters against the solid steel of the truck bed. Hot lead peppers my neck. I roll into dark cover.
Safe.
Safe and lucky.
Got the shakes. I should. Lucky — I hate lucky. Smart keeps you alive. Lucky won't. The gunner missed when I ducked. Lucky. I shoulda been long gone before he had a chance to aim. Why?
Something moves next to me. The Goat. Why'd I bring her along? She's nothin' to me. Just a little kid. The guide picks her up; she gets killed some other day. The guide leaves her; she's dead meat out here. Fong's boys would cut her throat and cook her in a minute. Why did I grab her?
I'll think about it later. Got to keep movin'. I grin. Got me a bag of buns. Got me a Goat. Got me a way outta here nobody knows about.
It's quiet out there now. I can see one of the decoys leakin' on the street. A rock-thrower's hangin' head down out of a window, too. I'm all the action that's left.
Soon, the guide will come out and scalp the dead ones. I hear fancy-pants ladies up in the hills like to wear scalp-patch headbands. Makes people think they're Baaaad. The street price for kid-hair is fifty. Up there it must be a thousand. A lot more if a vid of the killing goes along with it. Bet that turns the boyfriends on. Hey, no child left behind.
I'm all the action that's left. And I'm leavin'. Crawl to the curb side of the truck. Pull the Goat along behind me. Another storm drain. I've fixed this one up, too. Mr. Gunner would have me cold if I stuck my nose out. Nope.
Down the drain. So long, Mr. Gunner.
We got a good place in a basement, Gimper and me. Three ways out. No obvious way in. Lights, fridge, everything. They used to cut the 'tricity except when there was a hunt. That was a bigtime tip-off, so now they leave the juice on down here all the time. All you got to do is tap into the main.
Lights are on. Gimper's sittin' on the bed. I say, "Hey, Gimp."
Gimper looks up. His pale face shines almost like another light. My skin is much darker than his; he's almost a whiteboy. He nods, "Who's that?"
"A Goat. I picked her out of a setup."
"What you gonna do with her?"
Good question. I look down. I look up. I don't look at Gimper.
"Well, I thought she might stay with us for awhile. Look, I got some buns, too."
He ignores the buns, "Stay with us? Why?"
"She's just a kid."
"Yeah. About four. Useless."
I don't answer.
"Why didn't you leave her?"
I look at Gimp, "She's just a kid. She deserves a chance."
Gimper spits on the floor, "Nobody deserves nothin'." He looks at me. "You know that."
I know that. I know it.
A minute goes by. Gimper finally says, "It's been six months since Joey got killed. We could use some help around here. Maybe she could clean up, or something."
"Yeah," I keep my eyes down.
"Hey,"
I look at him.
"Mendoza's coming back.
"He see you this morning?"
He did. I nod.
"You wanna leave?"
I do.
"Go ahead. I'll talk to him. Might have to take him over to Ventura and 7th. Some stuff over there he might want."
Mendoza's the big Coyote around here. He deals in street kids — servants, slaves, bio-replacement sources, you name it. He usually checks with us every couple of weeks. I ask, "Why's he comin' back?"
"It's Christmas. Santa comes twice a year." Gimper shrugs, "Hey, he pays for info. I got some. Missed him this morning."
"Yeah," I nod, "you did."
"So go ahead and split."
"Gimper," I look at him, "take care of the Goat, will ya?"
Gimper looks down, "Sure."
I go, but I don't go far. Restless. Can't sit. Can't stand. Can't walk around. Yeah, and still feeling pretty cheap. Shouldn't let Mendoza bother me so much. Should go back and watch out for Gimp and the Goat. I should.
I do.
I always move quiet. Quiet as a spider. Slip back into our place like cobwebs falling. Good thing. Mendoza's already there.
Gimp is on the floor. Blood is dripping from a big cut on his forehead. He's out, but I can see he's still breathin'. He tried to help the Goat.
Goat's on the bed. Mendoza's standin' in front of her. His back is to me. I hear him unzip his pants, watch them drop to the floor. I pick up the two-by-four leaning against our door. I step closer to him. He unpeels his underpants from the bottom of his belly.
Gimper was wrong. People deserve to be treated right, with respect. And there are some things nobody deserves. Not the Goat. Not even me.
God damned Mendoza. Made me feel cheap this morning. Gonna do it to this four-year-old kid now. No way.
Mendoza's underpants drop down around his ankles. Now's the time to hit him.
I do.
I crack that two-by-four across his shoulders and neck. He goes down, but I know he's not out.
I grab Goat and pull her toward the sewer entrance. Mendoza staggers to his feet, sees us duck through.
He's after us.
No choice now. Gotta go for the refuge. Goat can't run fast. I won't leave her for Mendoza. She's scared now, pulling against me some. Luckily the refuge isn't far. I pull her through the puddle and up on the nest of tires I've made.
Maybe Mendoza won't see the turn. It's dark in here. Can't fight him. He's too big. Lard top to bottom. But there's muscle under the lard.
I know.
He's here. Six feet away. My eyes lock with his. There's red in them. He's gonna kill this time. He's sweating. The smell of his sweat turns my stomach. Always did. Better say something.
"Mendoza, leave us alone."
He smiles, or maybe he's just showin' his teeth.
"We'll go. Won't bother you no more."
No answer.
I add, "Sorry I hit you with that board."
Big mistake. Shouldn't have reminded him. He clenches his fists, lifts his arms, comes for us. is foot splashes down in my puddle.
No choice again.
I been holdin' a wire wrapped up in a piece of inner tube. The wire is hot, 12,000 volts hot. I stick it in the puddle.
Fried Mendoza.
I pull the wire up outta the puddle and put it back in the tube I got nailed to the back wall. I look at Mendoza. He's face down in the puddle, steamin' and poppin' a little. That worked pretty well.
I look at the Goat. Her eyes are wide and her breathin's kind of hoarse. I pat her on the head, feel soft curls flatten beneath my palm. She won't look at me.
I speak to her, "You won't feel cheap this morning. Come on, Goat. Let's go."
We rise, step around Mendoza, "Gimper and me are gonna take care of you. Gotta another bun for ya."
She takes my hand.
Robert Walton is a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. He's made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite. Three of his speculative fiction stories about climbing have been published in the Sierra Club's Ascent. A dramatization of another story, "Three's a Crowd," was broadcast on KUSF 90.3FM San Francisco, and was broadcast subsequently on National Public Radio. His story "Perfect Partner" was recognized in the Kendall Mountain Literature Competition. His story "Don Francisco Rides to La Paz" won the 2008 Saturday Writers short story contest.