The Nervous System (8 page)

“Right, my nizzle. Gun on the floor, hands on the dash.”

Kid does like he's told, keeping it cooler than I would have expected and thereby goosing my ill paranoid vibe.

Thinking about them Hellfires. Seen them atomize small towns.

“Kid, grab that fucking com and tell the chopper to back the fuck off.”

“I'd have to … I'd have to put the helmet back on.”

Think about this.

“Naw, fuck that, start her up and let's go—I mean let's go
now
.”

He does as he's told, the chopper's blades loud even inside the cab here, presses the ignition button and pulls out onto the avenue, sideswiping an actual
rickshaw
, Jesus Christ, Asiatic eyes wide in some sort of headscarf as the driver disappears beneath the vehicle. We bounce ever so slightly and slide off headed the wrong way down Avenue of the Americas, southbound.

There's a half-assed blockade at 40th Street, a couple blue-and-whites, NYPD Chevy Volts (real cop cars, it's been awhile). And another JLTV, moving too slow down 40th to beat us to the intersection.

Couple beetles on foot, trying to work it all out … Here comes one of their own vehicles, dudes are all what the what, one of them raises some sort of carbine, but it's way too late, we're on top of them, careening off one of the police vehicles and spinning it sideways, we're past them, the two crabs laid flat, a cop getting out of the Chevy and ducking back in quick because:

The chopper comes in low and close, very close, and hangs on our bumper, its runner about six feet off the blacktop, risky business. It could cut loose with the gun (fuck, or missile) at any time, no problem.

The vibe is
ill
; the vibe is overkill, headed downhill quick. I drop into the wheel well.

“Oh Jesus. Aw shit,” says my companion, saying it for me, he's really sweating now, gripping the steering mechanism. “I don't think they'd—”

Ah, but they do, they open up on us with the chain gun, “bulletproof” tinted plexiglass absolutely everywhere, All-America is hit countless times, I have to gag as his blood Pollocks my face and suit (thankful the suit, as mentioned, is a dark brown, thankful for my mask, these small things), even as I'm reaching for the bottom of the steering wheel to steady us I'm thinking blood on wool,
blood
on
wool
, it's going to be a bitch to clean, and I lean across the sputtering soldier trying to speak through half a face, red bubble where his mouth was, throw open his door and give his soon-to-be-lifeless husk a solid shove, we're moving at a good clip and he folds up without protest, tumbles sideways, and is gone, helicopter lets loose another volley of bullets, perforating the front windshield but not shattering it, leaving a polycarbonate sieve, weird, me pushing down the gas pedal with my right hand, trying to steer with the pinky of my left, also trying to maintain a hold on my pistol, keeping my dome low, only as the noise of the chopper banking up and back hits me do I realize I've not been hearing anything since the first round of fire, fuck, we jump the curb, I'm up in the driver's seat and see only rustcolored masonry rushing up at me, jerk the wheel blindly to the left and the vehicle skids into a wall side-on, I note the words
RESIDENCE
and
MARRIOTT
and am then hurled through the driver's window, something smacks my mouth hard and lands in my lap.

All movement is sucked out of my world, and I am still.

It's a nice moment. Meditative even. My ever-flowing lip wound is open again, and I lick at it, metallic and salty. On automatic I fish out a new face mask and swap it leisurely with the old one, blood-misted and nasty.

Facing north up Sixth Avenue, a Cyna-corp helmet covering my crotch. Now the front window gives, just sort of sloughs apart in an understated way like melting ice, and small chunks plexicarb/glass mix quietly, spread out across the dashboard, the seat. I take a breath.

Not sure if I've hit my head. I watch the black helicopter idly, a block down, describe an elegant turn, on its way back … to me.

Snap to, Decimal.

I hustle out a pill, lay it on my tongue, and choke it back. This is far more ultraviolence than I anticipated. An x-factor is in effect here. Under normal circumstances these people are highly disciplined—hell yeah, they're killers—but they tend to fuck you up more by their tenacity than sheer wide-net mayhem.

Well, let's make some lemonade.

My CZ is still grasped loosely in my left paw. Look around, look around, a few things I could grab, up above the windshield is a racked shotgun, this I jerk free with my right hand, very very little time so I'd better make some good decisions, I'm extremely calm and can see the ridiculousness of my situation, all this unnecessary ruckus over little decrepit me and some prehistoric political sex-murder, slide my ass across the front seat under the assumption that I am not injured, and knock the passenger's door open with my shoulder, which is painful, falling out onto the street, lose my footing for a moment as my hands are full of guns, steady, spin a full circle in accordance with the System (left turn, left turn), now hoofing it south toward the rear of the vehicle, which I notice is smoking, thank God for the metal skeleton on these rides or I'd be chocolate flapjack, I'm not the fastest thing on one and a half legs but I am able to lunge sideways behind the JLTV as the gun on the chopper coughs at me again, taking out what remains of the rear windows, bullets pinging hither and thither off its armored shell.

Shit is getting real here. Way too real.

Don't I wish I had a minute to think this through, aw jeez, it occurs to me I can't stay here, once the heli gets in front of me I'll be wide open, no choice but to move, note the four-story corner building south of me, façade fire escape on the front facing Sixth Avenue, I figure hey, I'm up again, hunching over, hustling across the street, making for a doorway, you know, I have to hope and pray it's unlocked, a ragged orange awning advertising
POLISH ME
, chopper loud loud loud like it's already on top of me but I don't look back, hit the bar, and boom through the entry, praise Jesus, into darkness, the outline of a stairwell, and as I mount this I reckon I clock some heavy rain but those are only bullets painting the space I just occupied, halfway up the stairs now and bam, a wall of stink gets me face-on, physical and unmistakable, it's the reek of dead animal, press my mask to my face and take air through my mouth, no choice but to move into the cloud of body stench, death in front and death behind me, and sure enough, on the first landing is a balled-up form covered in black plastic, I make it as once-human, little nuggets bubbling under the tarp, probably feeding, shit, I leave this mess alone and keep on keeping on, looking forward to my next opportunity to disinfect.

Do believe I hear the chopper head past me along Sixth Avenue, probably in order to spin around again, second floor I kick down the flimsy plasterboard door and I am in what remains of the nail salon, yes, wall of windows facing Sixth Avenue, rows of sinks and footbaths full of fetid water, white and purple plastic scattered every which way, blots and trails of color and sparkle decorate the floor like a nail-polish de Kooning, I'm looking for something heavy, something substantial, I see nothing, it's all flimsy crap, think about some Purell
^TM
, nope, I'm out of time.

Shove my 99 into my waistband, rack the shotgun, and approach the windows low, helicopter headed north my way, back up the avenue, soon it'll be on me, and in a heartbeat blades and engine are all I hear as the big black thing swings exactly level to my second-floor foxhole, thinking it's balls-out but this is never going to work my man, stand up and unload both barrels through the blackened window, approximately where I assume the front cabin would be, boom, and I duck back down.

Based on what I hear the chopper loses altitude fast, falters for just a moment, a short sharp raking of metal on brick, but the engine regains and the boys bank back up, guess I missed the pilot but I must've ruffled their feathers, again they arc skyward, hear it turning around, which is what I want.

Toss aside the shotgun, pull the pistol, and fumble around in my pocket for that second limpet mine, got it, kicking out the windows but waiting inside, hear the chopper come level with me again to the north, heading this way, wait for it, I hop awkwardly out onto the decaying fire escape, one guardrail giving a puff of reddish dust as I go to hold myself steady, fuck it, I swing my gun left and am firing on the Cyna-corp soldier leaning out the side door of the chopper, he's doing the same, the matchstick stairs vibrate as they're smacked with bullets, I don't hear any of it over the helicopter, dude goes slack and falls out the side, bouncing off the runner, not watching him hit the sidewalk thinking, shit, as tedious as this action-movie noise is, it's a rush no doubt, wakes you up, dig? Plus you can't make this jazz up, the chopper is trying to pull its mounted guns around as it comes flush with me and I haul off, lean way way out, holding the creaky railing, overextend, and slap the smoke-glass dome of the cockpit—mind you, this is a moving helicopter so I'm spun around and knocked down—but the limpet mine is no longer in my palm, if it went where I intended I will know shortly, can't feel my hand, cover my head and the flying machine swoops beyond me, get up get up and get down the brittle spiderweb of a staircase, thanks be to the Maker for my malnourished state as I would surely have broken this flimsy thing at pre–2/14 weight, as I think this of course everything is going far too smoothly, so the stairs give, and I come down a-tumbling.

Luckily it isn't more than half a flight that I've fallen, and this broken by a waterlogged awning, catches me for a split second then snaps, I actually slide down the length of it and land on my feet like the motherfucking kitty cat who ate the cream. It's the slickest move I've busted in years and I'm damn proud to be me at this very moment in the progression of time. Wish a certain woman could have clocked this ninja move but her name, her name is momentarily lost to me.

My legs are shaking. Still just totally gobsmacked at the speed with which this pandemonium has unfolded. This crew is going to dog me for the duration of my natural life, which at this point might only be the next couple of minutes. Better make 'em count.

Wishing now I had hung on to the shotgun cause here comes the cops and the other JLTV, whole mess of armed dudes popping out the vehicle like clowns in a VW, somebody shouting into a broadcast system, made nonsense by the sound of the helicopter as it turns to head back our way.

Nothing to do but start running. Straight at the convoy. This way the heli won't fire on me. Or so I hope. Plenty of guns and helmet-clad heads are angled my direction from the vehicles up ahead. Figure I'm extending my mortal tenure by about ten seconds. And I don't remember how this all kicked off. Hope it was logical. Dig, the increasing pressure of a dozen or so trigger fingers.

Well, folks, I reckon it's been rizzle. I get mentally prepped to get shot a whole fucking lot. Think about: Iveta, that's her, the young Hakim Stanley, and my imaginary exwife. My mother. My books. And weirdly: the name Nic Deluccia. How the fuck do I know that man? Funny what crosses your mind.

Shit, I don't regret a damn thing. I did my best with the bullshit cards Jesus dealt out. Scatter my ashes across the silent Cross Bronx Expressway.

I get into the middle of the intersection, and that's when the chopper explodes.

_______________

Lopsided, leaning down Seventh Avenue past 37th Street, do now believe I'm clear of any kind of perimeter the Cyna-thugs would have thrown up initially.

Some might express shock that I lived through such a mad crazy scene. Some might express disappointment.

To the disappointed, I extend two middle fingers heavenward, à la the Trade Centers of old.

To those who might be surprised by my seemingly superhuman demonstration of power and subsequent impossible escape, I say simply this: Y'all bitches don't know me. At least not yet. But stick around.

I only
appear
wretched, wraithlike, hollowed-out. It's an illusion. The life force in me is strong, baby, and I don't break easy.

After the chopper blew up I managed to bounce through the smoke and confusion that ensued. It was really that simple.

But hey now, do I feel a twinge of guilt, a sliver of regret, knowing I caused the demise of more than several fellow travelers?

Once again: y'all bitches don't know me.

As Cyna-corp is regrouping, which will take them a bit for sure, I'll be high-stepping to parts elsewhere. But what do I know, I could be kidding myself big time, thinking I might be able to slide out of this pileup.

Nevertheless, made it thus far. Christ Almighty. Allah be praised. I take this moment to squeeze out some Purell
^TM
, and apply. Feeling peppier already.

In doing so, I only now realize that my right hand looks a bit off. Classic boxer's fracture, a jackknifed bone. I can jiggle my thumb, but my fingers don't respond to my commands.

No big wonder my skeez is wrecked: I high-fived a fastmoving military chopper. Perhaps not the slickest plan; but I got results, did I not? I'm unconcerned. Dr. Feelgood will prop me up. Point a gun just fine with my left hand.

Wonder how much time I really have: I'm under no illusion that those guys can't get to me, hunt my narrow ass down even if I leave the city right away. If they go after something, they do not miss in the long haul. Too many resources and too much time. And here I am, just down the block. Understand that I am now in cheek-deep, but I'm resigned to it. Not scared of commitment like other brothers.

And perhaps most importantly: I'm happy to say I am sticking to System protocol.

No time to explain earlier, my apologies.

See, prior to eleven a.m., the System prescribes left turns only, whether in a vehicle or on foot. This is all for a larger purpose that I can't articulate but understand to be necessary for the maintenance of internal and universal balance.