Saint And Sinners (103 page)

It was the
strangest fucking thing…

Cruz opened his eyes, blinking frantically, as firefighters stood around him and laid
him on a gurney. Commotion had taken over his space—people were looking down into
the hole, the place he’d once known as his basement. He could see it in the near distance
as he waited there by the open doors of the ambulance. It was the only area of his
home that had survived. The house had burnt down to a damn crisp, but the rain had
softened the flames, or so he’d been told. The truth though was much stranger than
fiction.

A large man, eyes black and yellow like a cobra’s, had walked through the damn jumping
flames. As he drew closer, he realized he’d seen the guy before…at Saint’s side the
very first night he’d met him—perhaps his bodyguard, his brother or best friend. The
big guy walked through the damn fire of the house and came down the partially burnt
up steps, as if it were nothing, and spoke to him telepathically while he stood there,
a gentle smile on his tanned face. Cruz had looked into his eyes, and almost couldn’t
believe what he was seeing…

I came here to rescue you. Saint sent me. You’re safe in the circle, but there is
the issue of falling debris and inhalation. So, let’s get you out of there…

Before he knew it, he was being swooped up into the massive man’s arms, wrapped in
his jacket, and being firmly told to keep his eyes closed and head down. Like the
wind, the guy carried him fast through the forest of fire, protecting him, maneuvering
through the blaze until they stood a safe distance away.

I’ve called the fire department. By the time they arrive, Cruz, the house will be
a total loss. Traffic is such a mess right now, they are slowed down, but they will
be here in a couple of minutes. I want you to sit here across the street, where I
will place you, and wait for them to take you to the hospital.

And then the man sat him on the sidewalk, and walked the hell away…

The rain turned hard and pounding, so much worse than before, and it felt good on
his heated body. The heavy drops knocked the rest of the flames out like a two by
four, but it was still too late for the damn structure to be saved. There he sat,
still crossed-legged in the memory of the pentagram. So odd…Saint’s blood had not
been washed away, but the pentagram and paint were gone.
Everything
was gone, minus that circle he sat in the middle of, like some odd dream he’d just
awakened from. He screamed out with joy when paramedics carted cart him off to the
hospital, away from the place.

All he could do was laugh as he swam in a state of complete shock. He didn’t know
how much longer he had, but somehow, miraculously, he’d survived this round. He’d
sat in the ring of fire…and did
not
get burned…

*

A
t 2:59 a.m.
, Saint stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, barely able to see a damn thing as the pounding
rain flooded him so badly, his hair was practically glued to his damn scalp. At times
he had trouble breathing, and his ears rang with the echoing vibrations of drops hitting
the metal over and over like an acid tripped out rock band. Before he’d even arrived,
the city was under massive flood advisories, with news constantly breaking on his
car radio. New York wasn’t scared of shit, and even this had been somewhat downplayed,
but it worked to his advantage nevertheless. Local news, though, put a sinister spin
on it. Word on the international streets and across the nation made it well known
that New York City was being drowned to death. Rain fell so hard and fast, the rivers
and the Atlantic Ocean continued to rise as if swollen with salt.

The damn street gutters couldn’t keep up as they vomited up globs of rainwater and
stinking rubble. Silvery water swooshed down the avenues as if a dam had been unleashed.
The subway steps trickled with water that descended like slinky toys tumbling down
the cement entranceways, but soon graduated into a full cascade, a marine avalanche
of epic proportions, rendering the subways closed down for business until further
notice. Water overwhelmed the railroad tracks, tunnels and passageways, bringing the
place to a standstill.

And then, there was the blood…

Intense fighting in the fucking streets, of which few could make any sense. Acts of
violence escalated, happening so often, the newscasters could barely keep up. Saint
knew what the hell was going on… Some believed civilians were losing their damn minds.
But no, it wasn’t the civilians this time—the war and bloodshed came from
his
people…

A holy war between the Angel and Demon Children had started. The damn streets crumbled,
broke, rolled downhill and crashed with mayhem—whatever people believed was going
on though had nothing to do with reality. The darkness helped to deceive the eyes.
The sky broke into a lightning filled grin every now and again, igniting the whole
damn place up once the electricity for most of the city had clonked out and said ‘goodnight.’
The horrific fighting was charging and draining, all at once. The power would come
back with a bang—but light bulbs burst like fireworks, then power lines would drain
once again, as if some evil force were sucking the life of New York, his lips wrapped
around the exhaust pipe of its existence. The war had affected the weather, the people’s
temperaments, and the tide of the damn ocean, too. And now, here the two big dogs
stood…on the Brooklyn Bridge of all places, in freezing rain, eighty-five feet in
the fucking air. The bridge had been blocked off with bright yellow police traffic
stands, an abandoned patrol car with the lights flashing and a clusterfuck of flares
that barely stayed lit in the torrential rain.

It was now 3:01 a.m. and he didn’t see Koki, but he knew the fucker was there. He
could smell the son of a bitch. The rain had saturated the beast, making his scent
even stronger, like that of a mangy, wet dog that had slept in an outhouse. Not only
was Saint’s sense of smell heightened, so was his ability to tap into his friends.
Every now and again, he could feel Lawrence and Jagger’s vitality, and the shit was
out of control. They were fighting, slashing, knifing, maiming, mutilating, gunning
down, drowning, choking, punching and beating the living shit out of so many people,
Saint could barely get an accurate body count. But who had the time? He ran his tongue
over his lip and sampled the salty air, savoring their energy with amusement, especially
Jagger’s, his big blue-eyed brute of a friend, who was enjoying every damn minute
of the mayhem. Jagger had taken care of that favor he needed in regards to Cruz, and
better yet, he got to put his new gift to work. The fucker could now walk through
fire. What a delight! This was the sort of shit that man lived for—fighting in the
fucking streets, beating people to a pulp, and doing it for a damn good cause.

Getting back into the moment, Saint paced the abandoned bridge, playing an internal
game of hot and cold. When he felt Koki’s verve get stronger, he gravitated towards
the source of the bad energy, until he stood almost smack dab in the middle of the
mile long bridge.

“Okay, Koki!” he yelled out, blinking as the rain continued to fall, beating him about
the head and shoulders. “You know that I know you’re here! Let’s go!”

Just then he felt arms around his damn ankles, causing him to smack the ground hard.
“Fuuuck!” Before he could get his bearings, an invisible force dragged him backwards,
fast, as if he weighed nothing more than a gum wrapper blowing in the wind. The pavement,
though slick with running water, sliced into his flesh as he was pulled. He tried
to grapple onto something to stop his descent; only, there was nothing to hold on
to but raindrops and…they simply melted in his hands. He looked all around him, but
couldn’t make the fucker’s whereabouts. His gut twisted with anxiety at the realization
that Koki had shadowed himself out, blended into the night like black on black soot.
Saint’s skin broke and split open in so many places, the pain stung him all over.
Blood poured from his flesh, as if he were a stuck pig being carted off for a feast,
and in that instant, he knew—this just might be the end…

*

Pam delighted in
the blue light midnight special advertised on television in her hotel suite. She’d
made the special trip to Macy’s on her son-in-law’s dime, in anticipation of stocking
her newly found apartment with all the finer things New York had to offer…on sale,
of course. Somehow she found herself near the MAC cosmetics and an assortment of sweet
perfumes.

“Let me smell that one right there!” She pointed to a pink bottle shaped like a guitar.
“That’s cute!” She chuckled, then sprayed a bit on her hand and sniffed it. “This
is horrible! What tha hell is this?!”

“Well, that’s Hannah Montana. We have it in our tween section here.” The woman wielded
a coy smile, like the shit was funny.

“What the hell make you think I got out of my place at three in the damn mornin’ for
some Hannah Moe-tanuh toilet water?! This shit smell like cheap ass baby powder mixed
with old spice cologne. Do I look like a damn tween to you?!”

“Well no, but you asked to—”

“Naw, I want to see the shit that was on the damn TV! Where are all these deals for
the Chanel numba five at?!” Pam pushed past a small crowd of African American women,
and one that looked to be Hispanic. She could feel their glare, but didn’t care that
they were giving her the super duper stink eye.

“How damn rude! These old people think they can just do whatever the hell they want,”
one of them barked.

Pam spun around, lowering her gaze in their direction. The four women, in their early
twenties, stood stuffed in colorful printed spandex pants, paired with bomber jackets
and expensive leather boots—daring her to say something, to unleash her frustration.
Just then, the lights in the place began to blink, but came back on before too much
of a fuss was made.

“Rude? I’ll show you rude!” She pointed at one of the women who seemed to be wearing
a rooster comb in the middle of her damn head. “What’s
rude
is you trollops marchin’ in here forcing everyone to look at ya pants jammed up ya
asses! What’s rude is all these fucked up hairstyles wit’ so much cut-rate weave,
it’s amazin’ you can keep ya damn head up, that ya neck ain’t broke and you haven’t
toppled the fuck over from the weight of it all.”

“Shut up, old lady, and go back to the nursing home. You don’t have room to talk about
anyone’s appearance, over there looking like a fuckin’ train wreck,” one of them yapped
as she sassily put her hand on her hip.

In response, Pam raised her new ebony and tan Louis Vuitton purse and walloped the
mouthy one on the head so hard, her bangs swung like a Hawaiian hula skirt.

“Ahhhhh!”

“I guess I’m still on tha clock! I gave ya ass a new hairstyle!” Pam screamed, her
adrenaline pumping fast and hard within her. “Like Willow, you swing ya hair back
and forth, don’t cha? Three damn horses! Go trot ya happy asses somewhere else, like
to that store, the Candle Barn. You should feel right at home.”