FORTY EIGHT

Kenny woke, pulled the wiretap from his face, dragging it off its coil and dropping it to the floor.

He was sweating, breathing heavily.

He looked to the bed next to him, the one where the old man, Saul, had been. It was empty.

Several other patients were still in their beds, still wired, Kenny wondering if it was to the good sweet Lordy they were zoning. For their sake, he hoped to hell it wasn’t.

Those dreams.

That fucking crucifixion scene playing over and over again in his head. And each time, Kenny found his own, displaced body drawn closer to his crucified self, the pain, the shame more and more intense. It was like he was possessed by those dreams, like they were twisting him from the inside out.

And they called this pain relief?

He went to pull the cord, but it didn’t work.

His bones were stiff. The scars on his face smarted; itching like someone had rubbed salt on them, then cleaned it out with vinegar. He needed some real pain relief. A handful of pills. Some crack: that would take the edge off, for sure.

He heard a noise from somewhere, the sound of something breaking.

Pulled himself out of bed, careful lest he fall back on his ass. His body was shaking as he took his first steps, but Kenny persevered, struggling out into the ward corridor.

Nothing there. It was empty. Quiet.

Where is everyone?

Then came the beep of the elevator, its automated voice announcing arrival.

Kenny walked towards it.

It was there waiting for the elevator doors to open, that Kenny first considered he might still be dreaming, that this scene was about to spin as insanely out of control as that damn crucifixion scene.

The doors opened.

Inside was Jesus. Fucker was everywhere now. Playing on the elevator Box, the wards, Kenny’s own gaddamn head. It was all Jesus, all the fucking time. But he tried to forget all that, concentrating instead on getting the hell out of Dodge. He had no idea what was happening here, but he sure as hell wasn’t hanging around any longer. Kenny was done with this place.

More noise. Louder, the further down the lift went.

As the doors opened again, the automated voice calmly announcing his arrival on ground floor, Kenny could see exactly where the noise was coming from: there was a riot going on.

Kenny stepped into the hospital foyer.

There were mobs of angry protesters at the doors. Hospital security wrestled, holding them back.

Kenny watched a young woman, wearing loose khakis, push her way through the security line, making for the lift. A security guard immediately broke rank, stepped forwards and fired a round from his charge rifle. The round caught the woman squarely in the back, sending her sliding along the smooth, polished floor.

Kenny moved away from the elevator.

The security guy shouted, warned him to get back to his ward.

Kenny looked down at his clothes, realised he was still wearing his white hospital gown. He found a hoodie on the floor, hanging out of a discarded sports bag. Kenny grabbed it, pulled it on, zipping it tight to hide his face.

The main security line suddenly broke, the mob completely riled by the kill. They stormed the guards, beating them with the placards, pouring through to the hospital foyer.

A fifty something black man grabbed Kenny, shouting in his face: ‘Did they wire you, brother? They did, didn’t they? Blew your mind with all that Jesus shit! Fight it, brother! Fight it!’

But Kenny pulled away from him, struggled through the thriving crowd, stepped outside where the chaos continued, explosions, sirens, terror filling his ears. The city was buzzing, and amidst the fear and discomfort, the pain of his wounds still smarting, Kenny felt excited.

He drifted through the riot-torn streets, the violence engulfing all around him.

In the distance he could see the city’s skyblocks, lit against the black sky like golden fingers reaching up to heaven.

Kenny moved through the Village, past his house. The lamp in his mom’s bedroom was on. He remembered her by his bedside when he first came to, how she’d tried to prevent him from looking at his face, and how he’d grabbed the mirror regardless, discovering with horror the gap where one eye should be, those lipless teeth grinning back at him.

For a moment he was drawn to the house; to the comfort of a fried breakfast and hot shower; his bedroom in the basement; the clothes in the wardrobe; his sneaker collection; all the things that were once important to Kenny, that once represented him.

He could see Janice Fee in his mind, wrapped in her house coat, sitting on her bed, eyes red and puffed, heart broken beyond repair. In her hands she would hold his picture.

But Kenny felt different now, as if in enduring the pain McBride had inflicted, he had somehow changed. The old Kenny, the Kenny in that picture was gone – just like in the dream – and a new Kenny had taken over. A vengeful Kenny. An angry, jealous Kenny.

Nearby, a Purge Mob gathered.

Its spokesman, a wiretap hanging around his neck, riled the crowd.

‘This city’s a cesspit,’ he cried. ‘Den of iniquity! Evildoers have spread their vile poison through Lark, bringing shame to our streets. In Tomb Street, they drink and whore and gamble and nobody does nothin’ to stop them. Well, tonight that’s going to change. Tonight we’re going to take this city back, make it proud again. Who’s with me?’

An almighty roar from the mob, fists in the air.

From the corner of his eye, Kenny spotted two white men beat an Asian woman. A placard lay by her feet. It read, beware the real jesus, bringer of war.

Kenny noticed something else on the ground, bent down to find a switchblade, already bloodied. He picked it up, held it up to his eye, studying it. Satisfied, he closed the blade over and placed it in the pocket of his hoodie.

The mob surged forward, almost pulling Kenny with it. It was headed for the city centre but Kenny didn’t want to go that way.

On a nearby wall, he read a scrawl of graffiti; its message bold, defiant, sure of itself.

there is power, it said. power in the blood.

Nearby, a young woman was struggling with her car, desperate to flee the carnage.

Kenny flipped the switchblade in his hands and moved in on her.