I hiked across the Eisenhower and up an exit ramp. A single building squatted over the highway. It was an old Schlitz beer plant, four stories high, with an S stamped in white stone on the redbrick facade. They weren’t making Schlitz anymore, and the plant looked empty. Perfect for my shooter.
On one side of the building I found a service entrance swung open on its hinges. I checked the first three floors. Empty. A set of steel stairs took me to the top. A single window was open, a thick black pad on the cement floor beneath it. I looked out at the Ike and the L train. An emergency vehicle, lights flashing, was just pulling up. I watched as men in NBC suits climbed out. It was a tough shot but doable. I stepped back from the window and examined the shooting pad. Then I walked the bare, empty space. He’d been here. And didn’t leave anything behind. At least nothing I could see.
I checked my watch. Eleven minutes since the shot was fired. I took some pictures from the window and some inside the plant. Then I went back down the stairs. My best chance would be to walk the neighborhood. Maybe my shooter was hanging around. Waiting to see if he needed to finish the job.
In an alley behind the plant, I stripped off the NBC gear and stuffed it into my pack. I was still in an infected zone but didn’t give a damn. Besides, it was hard to get at my gun, and that could be a health hazard with more immediate consequences.
I started down an adjacent street that ran parallel to the highway. The houses here were built cheek to jowl. Four thin walls covered over by a tar-paper roof. Cracked stoops and crabgrass. Everything drenched in the grimy haze of Eisenhower exhale.
I counted four homes burning. Three others in various states of smolder. The street was filled with broken glass and garbage. Sheets of paper blew in sudden drafts of wind and random pieces of furniture lay in pieces everywhere.
I turned a corner and stopped. A woman sat in a recliner in the middle of an intersection. I pulled close and took a look. The woman looked back, a puckered hole in the middle of her forehead. A handful of small dark birds appeared overhead, wheeling suddenly and flicking away. The trees were naked and black in the wind.
At the very end of the block, two kids slipped past. One carried a paint can and a brush. He splashed his friend with a smear of red and ran. The second followed the first, their laughter tumbling through canyons of quiet. Somewhere behind me, a support beam popped from the heat and buckled.
I ducked off the street and leaned up against a two-story bungalow that was still intact. A blind flickered and a set of eyes appeared. I waved, asking whoever was inside to open the window. The eyes disappeared and were replaced by the barrel of a large-caliber handgun.
I took that as a hint and walked back down the street. One of the burned-out shacks had a large red X painted on what was left of the door. I kicked my way through some loose timber and stepped inside. The smell of gasoline was heavy in the cramped hallway, and there were two bodies lying underneath a set of windows. One looked like he might have died of smoke inhalation. The other had taken the better part of a shotgun in the face. I tried the windows. They were nailed shut.
I took pictures of the door, windows, and bodies. Then I walked to the back of the building, into what had once been a kitchen. The windows here were also nailed shut. As was the back door. I had just forced it open when I heard the scrape of a boot outside.
The first thing I saw was the church, the cross on its pitched roof set ablaze by the morning sun. On the church’s front steps stood Ray Sampson, maybe thirty feet away. He had what looked like an NBC mask sticking out of his jacket pocket. On his knees, in front of Ray Ray, was Marcus Robinson. Behind him, bald head gleaming, Jace. Marcus had his hands clasped over his head. Jace had a pistol idling near the back of the kid’s skull. I looked around for any sort of sniper rifle between the three of them, but only saw a cut-down pump lying on the ground. The gang leader squatted on his heels and touched Marcus’s shoulder. I couldn’t hear what was said. The kid’s face never registered a tick of emotion. Ray Ray stood and stepped back. Jace braced his feet and gripped his gun with both hands. Marcus Robinson didn’t know it yet, but he had maybe five seconds to live.