Step by Step/Issue 14

This is Issue #14 of Step by Step. This is the second issue of Volume Two. 

Vacancy
The moonless night gave no sympathy for the echoing streets. There were several loud cars, several loud people, and several signs that were being held which did not need to be loud. The messages drawn across them were obvious; the rioters that held the organized signs wanted answers and no matter how long it would take that night.

Lyle C. Jackson watched from the empty, dilapidated room he stood in. His fingers drew down the window blinds, allowing him a view of the events. It was the same thing he had seen every single night of that month. Just more angry citizens with signs bobbing above their heads.

He let the blaring of the cars beeping drown out as he pulled down the window blinds. Without any moonlight to shed, the room he was in was a murky black. There was no form of light; only the murmuring of grown men above Lyle.

They were there. And so was he. His feet dotted through the dusty room, pushing his way to the door that led outside and into a vacated hallway. Lyle passed by a drawer, bumping his leg against it. He pulled back his leg, grabbing it in pain. Then it left him.

But the voices above did not.

Lyle slowly pushed the door inward, not daring to make any of the people on the floor above him know of his presence. Carefully, he met face with the cold, heavy air in the hallway. With barely more than a meter to walk in, Lyle crept through the eeriness.

Hip-Hop music boomed above him. He reeled out a silver-plated gun, tarnished at the barrel. Lyle didn't like shooting off rounds with the Colt .45, but it had all come quite sudden. Some practice he had before was the only reason he took up the pistol. The handgun crawled up with his hand, looking where Lyle was. Down the hall.

He went through the hall, gliding with his back on the wall with flaking dark green paint. There was no ounce of hesitation in Lyle as he jetted past the quaint rooms which were lingering with souls. The residents of the motel he was in that disregarded the uprisings outside or the dangerous criminals blasting music above them.

To all the citizens that stayed back in the shadows of the radical rioters. It had become wasteful to spend thoughts on the happenings which lied in the future.

Lyle felt the vibration of new music jam into his ears. A Ne-Yo song. Lyle held back a grin, knowing that he could past for the singer any time he wanted. He had the black fedora resting on his clean shaven head. Not to mention he was black himself.

But there were millions of other wannabees like the gangster who had made shit of him. Big E. The coward was not big, and his name wasn't the fifth letter either. Earl the Bitch. What a name.

The hallway was barely lit. Some specks of blue fluorescent light were splashed against the place. Lyle's eyes went to the room number to his left; 301. To his left was room number 302. Still, he knew he was far from done.

As his feet tapped past the marble floor, he started to make out the end of the hall. Lyle took a breath of hair, and stopped in front of the last door of the hallway. It was metal and cold to the touch. The motel couldn't even afford air conditioning. Or propane heating. The poor folks in the motel must have been shivering from the first wave of December freeze.

He felt the chattering of criminals above him grow. They were rough, egotistic voices. About three men were up there. And one of them was Big E the hustler.

Lyle slid up the stairway, noticing the howling winds coming through the busted windows that laid alongside the stone, cracked stairs. Amidst the stone where weeds had taken to grow untrimmed, soda and beer cans littered the floor. Some fresh.

Big E.

The Colt .45 was just as eager as Lyle to face the hustler with a head the size of a watermelon. A jolt of adrenaline rushed Lyle once he cranked open the door that lead to rooms 401 to 410.

“... no love letter rhymes and raps about chicks Just a whole lot of drugging and thugging, that's it”

Lyle started smelling the rotten smell of smoke and the thick taste of burning ash. They were there. And Lyle was as ready as he would ever be. The only life left in the rooms came from room 402. That was obvious with the loud bangs and explosions of cursing booming out.

That was why Lyle was quick to snap open the door. He braced for the toxic air and swung up the gun. His face scrunched up from the bitter, hot atmosphere inside room 402. When Lyle heard the cocking of guns, he was already ready to shoot. The smoke dispersed, clearing so the barrel of Lyle's pistol pointed at the chest of Big E.

With only a table between them, the hustler looked like a black deer in front of some headlights.

Lyle flicked his eyes to the two other men, both burly and bearded with dark beanies draped on their heads. He spun the gun to them and fired twice. Boom, boom. They collapsed with blood curling screams, but said screams were drowned over by the radio shooting out gangster rap.

Lyle made sure not to slug them dead. As the handguns slipped from the limp hands and the two bodyguards realized they had been shot in the forearms, Lyle was already making sure Big E wasn't getting any advantages.

The Colt went to Big E's face. “Boys got some buck shot up'in them.”

Big E didn't flinch, cocking his chin at Lyle. “You's one to talk, asshole.”

Lyle smirked. He could see the nervousness in the man's dilated eyes.“Say what you want, 'cause you ain't gonna be good at talking after you start biting bullets.”

The hustler didn't speak. He turned around from where he had been standing with his friends the minute before. Now Lyle couldn't see the face that had become the last thing his victims had seen. Big E wasn’t a man of self-control,so he had gotten irritated about the up and coming rioting.

“There ain't nothing I can change ya mind for,” Big E spoke. “Then do it, mufucka, do it.”

“Shut that hole in your face,” Lyle commanded, not losing an ounce of muscle on the gun's handle.

Lyle didn't hesitate. But neither did Big E.

Pain swept over Lyle's head as he connected with the motel floor. Dust kicked into Lyle's mouth, and soon his mouth was flooding with the taste of blood. He gagged at the metallic tang. The next second, he heard Big E's iconic low tone laugh. A cold laugh.

“You a smart nigga,” Big E said. “But Big E ain't gonna fall for any young'un trying so hard as to kill a god.” He brandished a stick, about two feet in length which seemed to shine as it reflected little fragments of moonlight.

Big E looked around the room. A dying lamp stood in the corner of the room, giving off little amounts of yellow hue light. He continued to cackle, his belly hiccuping. “That would be like me trying to run a marathon!”

He laughed and laugh, swigging up a beer bottle from the table. “Guess I ought to bath the dumb out of your ass.” Big E took a gulp from the bottle, savoring the alcohol and wiping off the dripping remains. Then he doused it on Lyle, laughing some more.

Lyle started to grind his teeth. He suddenly felt a burning sense from his face, and tried to reel up his hands to cover the cuts. He yelped and cursed as the alcohol seeped into the cuts and stung him multiple times. He tried to make out some words, but only garbled words came out. In the meantime, his dotted his eyes across the floor and found the Colt a two arms' length away.

Blood and alcohol flushed into Lyle's eyes. He screamed in pain, using up all his energy as his legs stiffened like logs and kicked. And kicked. All the way to Big E's own legs. Lyle heard a groan come from the hustler, and he froze, but continued kicking blindly when he heard a large body knock on the floor.

Lyle wrestled with the air, balling up his fists and hitting everything. His ears shut out the moaning from the two bodyguards. And his own screams. His hand clasped around the floor around him, trying to stand up. He touched something.

The crowbar.

He winced from the stinging sensation. Cold fingers covered his heart. Lyle took a long sigh, hearing the downed hustler grunt. He wiped his face, opening his eyes. Bloodshot. His heart grew to the size of his whole chest.

Grabbing the crowbar, he cried out and swung down.

For every crack of bone, he went down harder. And harder. Until Big E couldn't speak or moan, or feel any pain. Something flashed before Lyle's cloudy eyes. A ring covered the hustler's right ring finger. Lyle hovered the crowbar over the thug's head and took a moment to recollect himself before swiping up his Colt and racing away as fast as his used legs could manage. ---	Most of the refugees, as little as remained, stayed resting for the new day. It was dawn and the sun was sprinkling a dab of sunlight through the low-hanging cumulus clouds. Detracting into the gymnasium and acting as a spotlight, the light brought a full set of twenty four more hours of worry and no information.

The television set had gone haywire. First, the school's generator started buzzing off and the winter air swarmed every square inch inside. Then, the lights starting blinking off. One by one. Now all visibility was focused on the fresh sunlight shooting in through the gymnasium.

But the blocks of nailed wood only let so much light pass into the dark depths.

Amanda paced back and forth, her black hair remaining in a ponytail. Her baton jingled at her side, but it made her feel no more stronger. She had removed the pistol from her belt, unwilling to even glance at the device that could have saved her partner from his gruesome demise.

She had a medical mask covering her face, making her look like the paramedic called Lilian who was dressing up a soldier's wound. Amanda had wanted to be a nurse, or a doctor. Now she couldn't. She was stuck in this mess whether she liked it or not.

Rainwater continued to soak the windows, seemingly never to halt. She had noticed there were less refugees than the week before. Dozens had escaped into the dangerous streets where rioters had taken to the rooftops to chant. Amanda went over to the window and lowered her green mask, huffing up a vapory breath.

“Fools,” a voice said. Amanda didn't have to turn around to know it was Frank, his police cap hiding away his floppy brown hair. “Dead people back from the dead and all they want to do is riot for answers. Well, the answers are below 'em trying to kill them.”

“What do you think they are?” Amanda asked. “The news said that they are dead, but can still walk. It doesn't make sense.”

“A disease most likely.”

“I've never heard that the cold can revive corpses,” Amanda replied.

Frank snorted. “Shit happens, I guess.”

“Hey,” she spun around. “How's Hector doing?”

He grinned, chuckling mildly. “Yeah, you mean the psycho that figured out how to flip off the safety?” Frank rubbed his neck. “Those two sergeants are tossing him around.”

“Brock and Malcolm?”

“You got a crush on 'em, eh?” Frank joked, crossing his arms. “Didn't know you swung that way.”

Amanda jabbed him with an elbow. “You know what I meant!”

Several footsteps rode past the two, some connected to a lanky dark-skinned soldier sprouting a goatee. And it only took Malcolm a week. He had no assault rifle to cover him with authority, not that he needed it. He surveyed the gymnasium where some soldiers had gone to setting up food trays for the sleeping residents.

“I'll go check up with the others,” a light-skinned man next to the other spoke. Brock limped on his lame leg, trying but failing to adapt to it. “Be right back.”

“Must be a killer sleeping on those benches, sergeant.” Amanda said.

Frank adjusted his crossed arms. “Yeah, must be, huh Malcolm?”

The man turned around, facing the two. “Why are you both helping out? Y'all on break?” Malcolm scoffed, shaking his head and craning it to the small peeping holes through the wooden planks. “Heh, they do what they want.”

“Why aren't you arresting Pacino?” Frank burst.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “That's being decided.”

“So if I kill some person in here, then kill another will I get a clean slate?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Amanda said.

Malcolm switched view with her. “Very sure. Me and Sergeant Menster are doing are best to find justice, besides, he saved lives.”

Frank uncrossed his arms in blasphemy. His face went in shock. “You gotta be kidding me! He shot a man in cold blood and then a teacher.”

“No, he used force to save lives,” Malcolm corrected. “However, that ended up with Mr. Morrison, yeah the teacher, dying from these things. Then he came back as one of them and Pacino shot him.”

“Quit playing games with us,” Amanda said, her eyes locked on Malcolm.

The sergeant scratched his fuzzy head. "Last time I played games was when I was still shittin' my pants about thirty-six years ago in a crib, but really, who here ain't already shittin' themselves? I don't need none of us to be over-reacting to Hector. He protected y'all, them, us from those things. Avoiding what happened back there would be like trying to outrun a bullet."

Frank clasped his hands together. He gazed around the gymnasium's corners where the floodlights were. “Tomorrow the same thing will happen. We'll wake up, ration the food, nail more planks to the holes of this place. We'll keep chancing ourselves. We'll hope for this thing to blow over. That, I'm sure of. The only thing I'm unsure about is who will die next.

Nolan stretched his arms and yawned. He took a bite from the granola bar in his hands. “This shit's delicious.” He had never felt better in all the days of being stuck in the refugee center. Especially now with less people crammed up like a clogged artery.

“Sure it is,” Lyle said. He arched his back, popping it in a few spots. “Watch it, bro. We only got three of 'em left.”

Nolan smiled, sinking his teeth into the bar with defiance. “We can always get more!”

“Tell that to the dead folk outside,” he said. “Past that is your very own truckload of food.”

Nolan snorted. “I got a feeling we aren't gonna get of this place for a while.” He combed a hand through his silky hair, now void of any previous hair gel. He was wearing a dark gray shirt, not too black and not too white. Just right. “Like, really.”

Lyle watched the soldiers from up in the bleachers. They had begun to settle out what food rations that had been piled into the school beforehand. He noticed some of the refugees stirring in their sleep, most already cranking open their eyelids to the new sun.

“Yo, C.J.?”

Lyle flinched and tensed up, but then relaxed his shoulders. “We got time,” he said, biting his lip. They had no time the week before when Wyatt died. Their hourglass had ran out that time. Now Lyle had flipped it on its head again. “Who was that guy you met?”

“Wayne something,” Nolan said, taking another mouthful of granola bar. He looked at Lyle. “After we got rounded up, he told me he wanted to speak with you.”

“Me?” Lyle repeated. “What for?”

Nolan shrugged. “No clue, but he's a freakin' ninja. I haven't seen him since I met him.”

Lyle shook his head, letting it fall into his hands. The majority of his arms were covered in cuffed red flannel shirting. He'd gotten the clothes from the stash the two had in the gym lockers. They were old, tattered, tarnished. Hand-me downs from the military. Nice charity.

“Wayne guy sounds familiar, he tell you a last name?”

Nolan nodded a no. “Nah, but he's got this, whatchamacallit, salt and pepper hair going on.” He took a glance over to the awakening refugees. “Long ass beard, too.”

“Rings a bell,” Lyle muttered. He stood up, his jeans ruffling. “I'll be back, man. Gotta take care of business.”

Nolan ate the last of the granola bar. He crunched up the wrapper and wiped his mouth. With a wild grin, he thew it in the air and caught it. “You know what they say, C.J.”

“Once you go black, yeah man,” Lyle said, expecting his friend to toss him the ball of wrapping. To no surprise, Nolan sent the ball rippling through the air and landing into one of Lyle's palms. “You never go back.”

Lyle hopped down the bleachers, scanning the gymnasium. There were few soldiers placed in the gym. Lyle figured the rest were clearing out the rest of the school. Just like they had been doing for the past week.

This was unbelievable. Lyle was snagged by the government's trap to make him live in a school. A refugee center at that— one that couldn't keep people like Sanders comfortable during their stay, however long it would be. And one that only offered cold showers.

He juggled the ball with both hands, whistling to himself. The air inside was uncomfortable, a dark cold feeling. Sure it was December, but Lyle had chills running down his back. His feet connected with the gymnasium's brown floor. One of the only floors left in the school that didn't have a history of bodies being shot dead on.

Malcolm, if that was his name, had his few set of units run through the middle part of the school. They had reported back, according to Lyle's ears, that the cafeteria was as safe as a wooden house that had a fire being smothered in it.

Lyle didn't like Malcolm at first. After he gave Eugene a left blow, they had been on thin wire. But now, he admired the man. Sure, he was a brute in uniform, but on the other hand he was the definition of a good solder.

He went over to a table where food was being readied. There were two soldiers, each pale from the events of the week before. They were beginning to distribute some food, ripping the plastic covering from a twelve pack of water bottles.

“Y'all got enough?” Lyle went to the table and observed what they had to offer. The water, of course. There were some cans of food. Sardines, ham, even hotdogs. The school had no way to cook the meat at the moment. If the military had any ways of cooking, their cooking utensils would be in the green trucks outside in camouflage covering, swarmed with undead. “Yeah, we do.”

Lyle turned around. He saw Brock trying his best to stand straight. His face had gone hairy and sprouted into an aspiring black beard. Brock had rings under his eyes, and stared at Lyle with intensity. Lyle noticed the man's left leg wobbling. The same one where seven days before, Lyle had found him with a chunk of flesh torn from his calf.

That was the first time he had seen Brock during that time. Brock wasn't dead. Wasn't a reanimated corpse. Aside from his appearance, he was a fully functioning living being.

“Are you okay, Brock?” Lyle asked.

Brock grinned smugly, “Better than ever.”

“You don't seem like it,” Lyle said, messing with the wrapper in his hand.

“Don't we all?” He dropped his smile. Let go of the act. Brock's face transformed into an evil gawk, hardening his eyes with a dark shade of anger. “Losing dozens of people last week— not to mention our family and friends out there.”

Brock looked around, passing everyone in the gymnasium with a his flustering eyes. “We don't get anywhere by being pinned down like prey. Saw that when those things got past our walls, right? Hell, we even got people killing each other!”

Lyle held his ground. “What was that?”

Brock balled his fists. He dropped both of his tired eyes on Lyle. He placed a hand on the table, trying to keep on standing. “You deaf or something? Those gunshots hurt your ears?”

Lyle chuckled. He scratched his arm, inhaling. “"I see no difference. All's I'm lookin' at is a broken man weeping like a woman. Y'all kill innocents and I kill the killers. If you ain't got anything relevant, I s'pose it'd be best for you back the fuck off my back or I'll bust that nose of yours so far into your thick as hell skull that you might start sniffin' common sense. "