Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead (6 page)

Three teens were on their feet. They all wore jeans that sagged below the ass. The only way the pants stayed in place was if the kids stood bow-legged, making their thighs work as a belt. One wore a filthy white tank-top. It looked like blood covered the cotton, and their baseball caps were cocked to the side. The rope chain jewelry around their necks could not be real; no child could have the money to afford that much gold.

The yelling they did became loud, dangerous. Grace placed a hand across her stomach as if it could stop the sinking feeling she felt. She glanced over her shoulder and saw they were on State Street, still several blocks from their stop. “We’re getting off at the next stop, honey.”

“Are we there?”

“Just about.” It was better to get out of a situation before it exploded and there was no chance to escape. Violence has always been bad in the city, ruthless and relentless. The last several days, however, the news had been filled with reports of vicious attacks. Unruly groups beating and even killing innocent people on the streets.

One of the teens ran forward—or stumbled forward really. It was the boy in the tank-top.

He fell in front of Grace and Anna.

It was blood on his shirt. Bright, red blood that still looked wet and fresh.

Grace covered Anna’s eyes. She wanted to say something, to scold the child for acting like an animal, but didn’t. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention. She sat motionless in her seat, watching, the way the other people on the bus were doing. No one wanted to get involved.

The boy tried to scramble to his feet.

His face was cut. The cheek under his left eye flapped open. His eyes were opened so wide they bulged from the socket, as if threatening to pop from his skull.

He placed a hand on Grace’s knee for support.

She kicked at him, a reflex. “Get away from me!”

A man screamed for help from the back of the bus. Grace turned her head in time to see one of the other teens raise a baseball bat.

There was a woman who looked dead. Her skin was grey, eyes bloodshot red. Her mouth was open, but her jaw hung too low, as if dislocated and only hanging onto the face by cartilage.

If that boy struck the girl with the bat, Grace was not sure she could sit idle any longer.

She just wanted off the bus.

“Keep your eyes closed, baby,” she said.

The teen did not swing the bat. Instead, he shoved the barrel end into the girl’s mouth and drove her backward. She fell onto a man’s lap. The man tried to remove himself from the area, pushing and scratching to get her off him.

The boy with the bat did not stop. He pushed on the handle of the bat, shoving the fat end deep into the girl’s throat.

No one on the bus moved. Everyone just watched.

Grace could not sit and watch. The girl was sick, and these boys seemed set on killing her. Jumping to her feet, she stepped over Tank-top, and strode down the center aisle. “Stop it! Stop this right now!”

“Lady, go sit back down,” the third teen said. He stood in a fighter’s stance, resembling an old school boxer. He looked ready to throw jabs and uppercuts. His feet kept moving. “This isn’t what it looks like. There’s something wrong with her.”

“You boys are what’s wrong with her,” Grace said, as she reached the back of the bus.

She saw it, though. There was something wrong with the girl. It was more than just her having a bat shoved through her face. The kid couldn’t be more than sixteen, she was thin. She wore a short shirt that showed off a diamond pierced navel. Her stomach boasted claw marks. These boys didn’t just act like animals, they were animals. “Give me that bat.”

“Lady, you have no idea what’s going on! She attacked us! She came at us. We weren’t doing nothing. She bit J-Dawg.” The boxer pointed.

Grace looked behind her.

J-Dawg was growling at Anna.

Surreal was a word she’d read in novels. She understood the definition of the word, but had never truly experienced anything even remotely surreal until then, at that moment, when life switched gears. The way time unfolded changed. Everything went to slow motion and color drained from her vision. Grainy and gray was how she saw everything around her. The only color she could make out was the red jacket Anna wore. It was vibrant and seemed to radiate with the limited daylight that streamed in from heavily tinted bus windows.

The man who had the girl with the bat in her mouth escaped from under her. He dropped to his knees onto the black grated aisle and crawled forward a few inches before collapsing flat onto his belly.

He couldn’t be dead.

He maybe passed out or was having a heart attack. He couldn’t have been more than fifty years old.

Grace needed to get over him, past him, and to her daughter.

People by Anna refused to react.

“Grab my baby!” It was the only thing Grace could think to yell. She needed to motivate people to react and not sit by as idiotic bystanders. She stepped onto the fallen man’s back.

“J-Dawg caught it, Richie. J-Dawg’s sick!” Boxer dropped his fists to his side.

Anna’s eyes were open. She watched everything. Her lips quivered. Even from this end of the bus, Grace saw the tears.

J-Dawg’s going to wish he was a whole lot sicker when I get through with him, Grace thought as she crushed the man’s fingers under the heel of her shoe. Bones crunched. That woke the guy up. He howled and raised his head.

He tripped Grace, catching her back foot as she brought it around. She went down fast, hands reaching for anything to grab onto.

Why on earth was the bus still moving?

“Stop the bus! Someone, get him to stop the bus!”

Grace pulled herself up onto her knees and screamed as J-Dawg bit her daughter on the arm.

Anna screamed.

Grace pushed her way forward; she brought a leg back and kicked J-Dawg in the jaw. His head snapped back. Blood, Anna’s blood, flew from his mouth and sprayed a woman on the seat across from them. In a swoop of her arm, Grace lifted her daughter up.

Now the bus stopped.

“How could you!” Grace was not yelling at the man who bit her daughter, but at the people who sat by and watched the assault.

At the front of the bus, the driver was unbuckling his seat belt. “What’s going on back there?”

“I don’t feel good, Mommy,” Anna said.

Grace pressed Anna’s head to her chest, her arms wrapped tight around her child as she made her way off the bus. “You better keep this bus right here; I’m calling the police.”

“Ma’am—”

She shouldered her way past the driver, noted his name on the displayed license and stepped off the bus. Setting Anna down on the curb, Grace searched for her phone. She was calling 911. Her phone was not in her pockets. She didn’t have her purse. Anna had been playing with the phone. She must have dropped it. There was no way she was going back onto the bus for her things until police arrived.

Grace placed her palm on Anna’s forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

There was no telling what kind of disease the junkie had. Probably shared dirty needles shooting heroin. AIDS. She clapped a hand to her chest, knowing she needed to do something to stop her heart from beating so fast.

Someone must have called the police from the bus, she heard sirens.

Two police cars sped toward them. Grace stood, waved her arms to flag them down.

They blew past her.

Grace swore and raised a middle finger at them. She charged the bus and banged on the closed doors. “Call nine-one-one. Get the police here. My daughter needs an ambulance. Do you hear me?”

She took a step back.

She peered into the tinted windows.

She saw the fight was still taking place. Although muffled, she now heard screams. People on the bus were crying out for help.

Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Grace turned and saw Anna on the ground. She was losing a lot of blood. The bastard had torn a chunk of flesh off her daughter. She ran back and scooped her up. Anna was lethargic. Her eyes rolled around, showing off mostly the whites. “Hey, honey. Hey, baby,” she said. She held her daughter draped over her arms; her legs and head dangled.

She needed to get away from the bus. If those crazy passengers got off, there was no telling what might happen. All she could think to do was run. With Anna bleeding in her arms, Grace ran. Every step on the concrete pounded inside her skull. It felt like her brain had jarred loose and was sloshing around inside her skull.

A block and a half away, she saw a group of people and ran toward them.

“Help me, please. Help me!” Grace said. The crying she held in caused her throat to hurt. “Call nine-one-one for me. My daughter needs an ambulance.”

Her daughter was bleeding out. She knew she frightened people, the two of them covered in blood. That should make people want to help. It didn’t, instead they took steps backward, scared.

“Please. Please, call nine-one-one for me. Why won’t someone help us?” Grace said. She sat down. There was nowhere to run, they were downtown. She was without her purse. Without her phone.

A man had his cell out. He held up a hand. “I’m calling,” he said.

Grace cradled her daughter close and held her tightly. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“The operator has medical questions to give the ambulance information, okay?”

“Just tell them to send an ambulance!”

The man took a step back. “They said they are, but the questions help determine the response, okay? How old is she?” the man asked.

“Ten.”

“Is she awake?”

“Does she look awake?” Grace knew it wasn’t this man’s fault. She didn’t want questions.

“Is she breathing?”

Grace felt her eyes go wide. She didn’t know. She placed Anna down on the sidewalk. “I don’t know? I’m—I’m not sure.”

“They want you to put your ear down next to her mouth and listen,” he said.

She tried, but heard her own heartbeat thump around wildly inside her chest. She set her ear closer to Anna’s mouth, listened—and waited. She couldn’t hold back the tears. This couldn’t be happening. It was a beautiful fall day, and they were just supposed to go buy some new clothes for school and maybe grab some lunch somewhere. That was it.

She shook her head, unable to say that, no, Anna was not breathing.

“They want you to lay her flat on her back,” the man said.

Grace stared at the man. “She is!”

“Make sure there is nothing in her mouth. Place your hand on her forehead, and the other under her neck.”

Grace opened Anna’s mouth and stuck her finger in and under the tongue. “There’s nothing in there. Nothing.”

People on the street crowded around them. The spectacle taking place drew their attention when her simple pleas for someone to call 911 went initially unanswered. She hated people. Hated them.

“I don’t know CPR,” she said. “I don’t know what to do!”

“They’re going to talk us through this, okay? They want me to tell you you’re doing good. I’m going to tell you how to give mouth-to-mouth. With her head carefully tilted back, pinch her nose closed and completely cover her mouth with your mouth, then blow two regular breaths into the lungs, about one second each, just enough to make the chest rise with each breath. Did you feel the air going in and out?”

Grace did as instructed. “Yes.”

“Did you see her chest rise and fall with each breath?”

“Yes.”

Grace closed her eyes. Her vision was blurred with tears.

“Put the heel of your hand on the center of her chest between her nipples. Then put your other hand on top of that one. You’re going to push down on her chest. About two inches. Let the chest come all the way back up. We’re going to do this thirty times, twice per second, and then another breath, and repeat, okay?”

Grace went through the instructions again in her head. “Where is the ambulance?”

“It’ll be here. It’s coming. They said it’s on the way, and you’re doing great—”

“I’m not doing great! I’m not,” she said. Grace did not mean to yell at the only man willing to help her. This was not his fault.

He held up one hand, perhaps meant to calm her. In a way it did, but not as much as when he knelt down on the opposite side of Anna and put the phone to his chest and spoke just to Grace. “We’re going to get through this okay? I want you to start the compressions, and I am going to count them off, okay? Thirty compressions, two per second, and then a breath.” He put the phone back to his ear.

His talking helped. It kept her calm, focused. “Okay.”

“One, two, three,” he said.

It seemed like she was pushing too hard, going too fast. Something snapped inside Anna. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus,” Grace said.

“She broke something,” the man said into the phone. “We heard it. We heard something break.”

Grace dropped over her daughter. She couldn’t keep it together. She couldn’t do this. “Anna, baby. Anna, breathe, honey. Breathe.”