Another Byline

As she walked down the darkened street, Amy stared straight ahead, trying to
exude a confidence she did not feel, her body tense and alert for anything indicating
trouble. It was late and the street was deserted – the street lamps reflected empty
pavement, still wet and shiny from the recent rain. She hurried on, cursing herself
for forgetting the time, for not calling a cab. She had been in her office, working late
as usual, and had looked up to find it eleven o’clock already. Ever since the break-up
she’d worked late, but never as late as this. Packing up hurriedly she had glanced
outside – there were still plenty of people walking about. Not taking a cab had
seemed fine at the time, and she’d wanted to stretch her legs anyway. Now it
seemed foolish, stupid even, not to have taken the cab. The walk to her apartment
was only ten minutes from the subway station, but in seven minutes the world had
emptied and become a scummy ghost town. She heard a car approaching behind her
and hurried her pace – only two blocks to go. She turned the corner, barely noticing
the large group on the other side of the sidewalk. She glanced up at their laughter
but quickly looked away – she didn’t want to catch anybody’s eye tonight. Though
worried about the lack of people before, she now felt even more alone and
vulnerable than when the streets had been deserted.

The car that had been behind her rounded the corner, its brakes screeching into the
night as it came to a stop. The laughter in the group was cut off. For a moment
everything went mute. Then shouts exploded into the air, angry curses ripping apart
the dark. Amy hurried on, her eyes glued to the end of the block – her turn.

‘BANG’.

The first shot tore through the night: real, raw, and frightening. She was running
now, every limb straining, trying to propel her forward, trying to outrun the
violence as it exploded behind her. ‘Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God’ her frantic mind
screamed, ‘Oh, God’. She kept whispering it as she ran, taking strength from the two
syllables that had meant nothing to her before now. Her eyes staring straight ahead,
Amy ran as fast as she could. She did not think to duck into a doorframe and hide,
primal instinct had taken over and she fled with no thought but to run, and run fast.

The car started suddenly, the screaming tires adding a high, nasal whine to the
chaotic hell as bullets riddled the streets and any intervening bodies. The blast and
pop of guns firing, people shouting, dying, filled the air, a gruesome chord blasting
through the quiet night.

Almost there, she could see the street sign, 44th Street. Ten yards, nine yards, closer
and closer. The car zoomed past and down the street, flying over the cement, fifty
tons of steel barreling to safety. A spitting fire of bullets sped after the car, an
unpredictable line of lethal metal.

Doug walked along, feeling nervous and scared. In the middle of the group, he
looked around and knew that it was late – way too late. He must have missed curfew
by at least an hour. But it was Friday night, Jon had said it would be fun and Doug
couldn’t pass up the chance to hang out with “the guys”- Jon’s new group of friends
that he been hanging out with everyday for the whole month since they had moved
here. Around him, the men laughed and joked, passing around a bag of liquid
courage, hot and fiery with their own importance.

As they moved along Doug thought he saw a girl round the corner, hugging the wall,
her pace brisk.

And then the car came, fast around the corner – a quick stop, harsh in the soft night
air. The men around him changed - tense and alert - no laughter now. A head
emerged from the car. Angry shouts filled the air around him and suddenly Doug felt
something cold and heavy pressed into his hand.

A gun.

In shock Doug stared at it, feeling the weight of death on his palms. He looked
around in panic as the first shot roared down the street. The group scattered, guns
blasting everywhere. A crazy display of fireworks as bullets ricocheted off the car
and the metal street signs, a celebration of murderous intent. For a second Doug was
still; then he turned to run and the world slowed to frame-by-frame speed.

And then, ‘boom’, fast forward. His life, the move here, Jon, going out with ‘the guys’,
his mother’s worried face – it all sped before him. Then, Jon’s face, from behind a
trashcan – a mask of horror, fear: pain. Doug looked down and felt sticky, hot blood
bubbling up from inside him. He didn’t even hear the gun he’d been holding
discharge as it hit the ground beside him – he was too far-gone to hear anything
anymore. The bullet sped across the street, morbid in its purpose, the last live
round still in the air.

Amy nearly screamed as a bullet buried itself in the wall right in front of her. Trying
to reach the end of the street she felt a sting of pain hit her in the back and collapsed
onto the sidewalk. Right at the corner, she slumped, a widening pool of red
surrounding her.

Two bodies remained as the ringing footsteps of running feet faded. Far ahead the
brake lights of the car flashed once before a hairpin turn took it out of sight.

The street was empty – even the gutter rats were gone now as the smell of death
began to rise and fill the air, to sink and permeate the sewers.

In the police report two victims were named: Amy Tholler, age 29 and Douglas
Small, age 14. The nearest relations were informed, funerals planned, tears wept.
The following weeks saw a storm of media frenzy, as new gun laws were debated,
new precautions considered. And then the storm passed, leaving behind two small
graves, side by side, in a run-down cemetery outside the city, the plastic flowers
from the funeral still bright and fresh-looking as the names on the graves weathered
into oblivion.