Null was spotted with blood, and it was unsightly, he knew. He reminded himself to find a dry cleaner that could get it out for the most part. Clothes shopping was something he was totally unskilled at doing. Maybe he could delegate Do-rag to do it for him. Nothing complex, just a trip to Marshall’s or Target. At least his hat was unscathed.
“How many dead, Do-rag?”
Do-rag, sporting his namesake in red, wearing a down jacket and the usual baggy, sagging jeans, shuffled in place nervously. He was always nervous when facing Null.
He turned to the other members of the Gangsta Boyz crew, standing pat behind him sporting various manner of assault weapons. None of them had the slightest interest in looking the seemingly benign, inoffensive Null in the eye.
“Do-rag, it’s a simple question.”
“The security fuckers—they be gone.”
Voices of assent coming from behind.
“And the rest?”
A lone voice from behind articulated for the group. Null couldn’t see who it was.
“We don’t know what the fuck to do with them perverts and the kiddies, yo.”
“I promised you good pay, did I not?”
“Yo, man. Fuckin’ A.”
“Gave you a packet of cash up front, did I not?”
They assented in a collective grumble.
“Then I need you to go to each setting where these men and women are cowering. I need you to secure the kid without injury, no matter how hard the child resists, begs and cries, and then shoot the malefactor. Kill the pervs, in other words. Points of appreciation will be given to anyone who makes them die suffering.”
“But what if they come, boss?”
“Who’s they?”
“Anyone. Cops, reinforcements. This is a dope set up. They gots the cheddar!”
“True enough. Even I realize we’re on the clock, so we’d better get to it. The question is, are you ready, Gangsta Boyz?”
“Ya, man. We down!”
They muttered assent in unison.
“But what about the kiddies?” Again, the voice of slightest dissent.
Null made a face, targeted the owner of that voice. “And you are?”
“Shadow, man.”
“Well, Mr. Shadow—and all of you. Think of this as a rescue mission, an extraction. We’re going to get those kids out of here in one piece.”
“We need to get that money, nigga!”
“Then get to killing these fucking pieces of shit, if you please.”
As they prepared to scatter and comb all the floors, Null reminded them: “And take a picture of their faces and send them to the email address I gave you. Don’t forget.”
“A’ight, 730 mofo!”
They scattered fast. Null proceeded slowly behind them, carrying his Bushmaster fully loaded and primed.
It was appalling just on the mezzanine, which was where it all started—a straight shotgun row of scene stations, each with a maximum of two adults and one child in various stages of undress. Lacking Null’s commitment, the Gangsta Boyz simply aimed for kill shots at the adults and grabbed each screaming child, fighting to restrain him or her, found clothes for them, then collected them at the building lobby for Null to decide what to do with them.
Null surveyed three floors of damage, corpses of adult abusers littered across varied scenes of schoolrooms, Toyland, nurseries, fun houses—each one a box-like playhouse all its own, all wired up for sight and sound and live streaming treats for driven goofs paying with everything from debit cards to Bitcoin. The array of corpses satisfied Null, until he came to a candy store setting with a naked, dead, fat man draped over the counter and an unhappy big-eyed Gangsta Boy huddling in the corner with a small girl dressed in a jumper cradled limp in his arms. From the gaping wound in her head, it was reasonable to assume she was dead.
“Yo, boss—I fucked up. Hit the kid merkin’ the perv!” He looked panicked, trapped.
“I see that,” Null said calmly.
“Accidents happen.”
“Did you send out the photo of the face?”
“Ya, man—the Internet guy gots it.”
“Good,” said Null, then nonchalantly nailed him in face, neck and torso with the Bushmaster. He slumped back dead, still cradling the child. Null grabbed the small corpse, looking hard for something, squinting his eyes. He found it. The camera lens. He spoke directly to the corpse of the dead Gangsta Boy first, as if he could hear him. “Chaos accepts all different kinds of input.”
He then faced the camera lens, holding up the child.
“However quickly you get here, it won’t be fast enough. Do you see this dead child? This raped and tortured, murdered child? This is on you, and all of you will pay in blood and pain. And you goofs, if you’re still watching, if I get your ISP, I’ll come for you too. If you think I’ll stop or that you’re in any way safe, put it out of your mind. I’m coming for you. And when I get there, you’ll have wished you had killed yourself before I got there, and before I let you die.”
Null threw the corpse against the wall, leaving a red smear on the white paint.
“I’m coming for you! I am coming!”
Null joined the Gangsta Boyz and a cluster of unruly children surrounding them like little predators in a swarm, like piranhas at their legs.
“Yo, where’s Alphonse?”
“He’s been terminated. No severance I’m afraid.”
“Just askin’.”
“Ask away. Let me ask you—have you got the thermite charges?”
“Yeah, we ready fo’ all dat.”
“Deploy them and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“True dat.” Four Gangsta Boys scampered off, one of them carrying a book bag holding the charges and fuses, leaving Null to contend with the children.
“Come on kids, we’re going outside cause we’ve got a bus to catch!”
It was worse than herding cats, and clothing had to be sought out from the various stage sets for the small ones who were still naked. No child there was over the age of thirteen, Null assessed, and he knew he was lucky they were drugged. He and two remaining Gangsta Boyz led the children out into the cold, black night air, keeping them together a few hundred feet away from the squat and stunted, soot-dappled, refurbished brick factory building. The three Gangsta Boyz who set the charges on each floor of that building came running toward them fast, snorting mist from their noses in the cold night air.
“That fuckin’ thing’ll melt to hell when timers go off.”
“Let’s hope they do,” Null replied, and checked his cell phone for the time. “Do a head count for me?”
“We gots twenty-three kiddies here.”
“It makes a dent,” said Null.
“What we waitin’ here in the cold for?” asked Shadow, lighting a cigarette.
“A bus,” said Null drily. “We’re waiting for a bus.”
* * *
The smartly rehabbed factory building, sparsely lit on its acre of tar, was now blossoming into a bright and beautiful bloom of orange. The children were distracted by its strange beauty, the quiet of a terrible conflagration whose heat warmed their faces like a warm summer day as they watched, dismayed and frightened enough not to speak. Null waved down the eighty-six bus at a stop set at an intersection by the acre of tar.
The bus stopped and Null stepped up and in. He greeted the driver pleasantly.
“Move to the back, please!” the driver drawled.
“Mr. Driver, I’d like you to put this bus in park and tell all the passengers to get out now. This bus is going out of service, and so are you.”
“What the fuck? That ain’t gonna happen, nevah! Now get the fuck off my bus!”
Null brought up the Bushmaster and fired a few rounds into the ceiling.
“Au contraire. I beg to differ.”
The bus driver was trembling and stuck in position, breathing heavy, eyes wide.
“Come on now, Mr. Driver. You can do this.” Null patted him on the shoulder stiffly. The driver used the half-broken PA system to announce that the bus was going out of service and that another would come on schedule to finish the route. He opened both doors and the passengers—of which there were more than a few—
piled out.
Without a word, the Gangsta Boyz and the children piled in.
“Do-rag, which one of your buddies is the MBTA dropout?”
A short, slender Gangsta Boy timidly raised his hand.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“It’s Jo-jo, yo.”
“Well, Jo-jo, it’s your chance to shine. Take your seat at the front of the bus.”
Jo-jo did so and didn’t have to be told to start the bus and put it in gear.
“Where we headed, boss?”
“Dapper O'Neil Shelter and Service Group on University Place in Brookline.”
“I find it, boss.”
“Extra money for you, Jo-jo, if you get us there extra-fast!”
“I’m up on this bitch!”
The bus jerked and sped off clumsily from the curb.
The kids cheered rowdily, feeling a momentary rush of freedom.
Null dialed Mrs. Coelacanth, who answered, annoyed.
“Mrs. Coelacanth, you’d better get down to the Dapper O'Neil Shelter and Service Group pronto. We have a situation. No, Mrs. Coelacanth, these are children, actual children. A bunch of them, and we’re on our way!” Null was speaking loudly to be heard over the din of the rickety, rumbling bus and the rowdy release of the children. They picked up on what he said and one small boy repeated it as loud as he could, as if drunk:
“We’re on our way!”
“That’s right, kids,” Null announced. “We’re finally on our way!”