Young Marauders

Clean Slate part 1

It was a peaceful night, at least as peaceful as one could hope for in the midst of an urban compound. The gentle breeze, rustle of leaves, and soft romanticized chirping of crickets couldn't be found here, nor the sparkles of light that lit up the sky in patterns and constellations. Instead there were the muffled sounds of music that permeated through the walls of old condemned buildings, hearty laughter that seemed to blow away with the wind, the distant wailing of a siren in the background, a constant response to a city that never experienced even a semblance of tranquility, and the periodic night shattering crack of a beer bottle that echoed throughout streets, singlehandedly symbolizing the drug-infused and alcoholic culture that regulated the districts economy and influenced the maturation of its residents.

In zone 8, where the sounds of sirens weren't so distant, urgency clung to the air like smoke. It must've thickened the atmosphere as well because the brief pause between each blaring siren wail was filled with choking pants from a dark-skinned youth that couldn't seem to gulp down any oxygen. He knew the noise was following him, knew that his pursuers were gaining ground, but he couldn't hear any of it. The hard slap of his worn shoes against rough, unattended pavement, and the heavy thud of blood rushing in his ears became the only thing his senses could pick up on. That and the smell of decay, always decay.

One quick fluid movement and the teenager found himself vaulting over a chain link fence. The rush of energy seemed to offer him a small moment of pleasure before he dropped to the ground and reality came springing back to him. He raced through dark alleys, past rolling dice, half empty bottles of brown liquor and strung out drug addicts weakly trying to avert his gaze to their unfortunate circumstances and need of charity.

None of that mattered. Now there were shouts: Not from the crack heads, not from the old men who spent every waking moment on a corner,just terrorists in decorated, blue uniforms. Cole didn't need any more motivation to push oxygen into fire-filled lungs: Here in midtown cops only offered the option to surrender once. After that their bullets typically took on the role of bad cop

. With a cat like elegance, Cole leapt over a trash can and used the back of his foot to send it crashing to the ground and rolling towards his pursuers. An opening came up on his left and he darted for it, racing for the dimly lit street whose emptiness made hollow promises of safety. A loud crack shattered the sky and pain suddenly surged through his left ear. Warm fluid started to cascade down his ear lobe and he whispered a silent prayer that he had only been nicked instead of winding up as the next street side memorial like many of his friends before him.

Against his better judgment, he bee lined for the street. He told himself if he could just make it out of the alley he could find a way to lose them. He wasn't going to die tonight. He wasn't going to fail tonight. The contents in his backpack shook around wildly, reminding him that tonight was about more than just his survival.

With an animalistic yell he charged forward with an energy that threatened to force his legs to give out. Just before he could cross the street and disappear into the next maze like series of backyards and project housing, he was propelled into an old brick and mortar corner store by a police cruiser that had chosen not to announce its arrival by using the siren.

The impact took the last burst of energy right out of Cole's body and left him feeling broken. A pained groan escaped his lips and all of his focus went into fighting back the darkness that was spreading from the edges of his vision. The world spun in circles and seemed to shift back and forth in tune with the steps of the officer in front of him, brandishing deadly steel with the barrel aimed directly in front of Cole.

The teenager's arms raised upward slowly, though he figured he was only wasting his time with the formalities. He didn't think he'd be lucky enough to be arrested. Though his body still felt like shattered remnants of what it used to be, Coles mind began to clear enough for him to notice the barrel of the gun wavering. The cop had the look of fresh blood on him: self-righteous conviction, the distinct glint of duty and responsibility in his eye, and the aura of a virgin killer. He probably hadn't shot at a living target before, much less an underage one.

I almost feel sorry for you, Cole thought to himself. He could only imagine that most new cops started out this way. Before the disparity of the city and corruption of the legal forces designed to protect it took hold of their moral code and sense of justice and molded it to fit their agenda. "Don't you dare move! I swear to god I will not hesitate to put a hole in your head!" The officer shouted, uncertainty lining the steel in his voice.

"Actually," Cole said, glancing over to his left before staring back up at the officer with s smile on his lips, "You may have hesitated too long alr-". His words were cut a moment short as gun fire tore through the air, burrowing a hole into cars, Windows, and eviscerated flesh. Shadows emerged from every corner and alley, materializing into armed street soldiers with bandanas, in the likeness of demons, covering their face, making their sudden appearance all the more haunting.

More gun fire erupted in the distance, followed by pained shrieks and panicked shouts by the now ambushed officers. It was war in the streets, and fortunately this time Cole found himself on the winning end. The officer that had held him in gunpoint now stood crouched between his car and the brick wall leading to the alley, trying to figure out which direction of onslaught was more pressing. A kick with a steel-toed boot sent the officer face first into the cracked concrete, blood splattering out like a piece of abstract art.

Now the tables had turned. The young black boy, the one who had spent much of his adolescence cowering from the monsters in blue stood tall, hardness in his dark brown eyes. His face had now also disappeared behind a bandana and in his last moments the cop could've swore that the grin on the illustrated demons face, widened with excitement.

Cole really did feel bad for the officer. He just decided to play hero in the wrong city, where justice was as blurred as the gray lines of morality. But this wasn't a lesson he'd ever get to learn. The teenager knew the price of mercy in this area, and unlike his opponent, he wouldn't offer mercy. "Tell God the Kings send their regards." Lightning striked twice, and Cole's hands shook with the blowback of the gun. He stood in silence, his gaze never leaving the fresh new corpse, watching as two empty shells fell into a pooling sea of red.

I never thought I'd be a hero, but then again not all heroes start off with a clean slate.