Run the Day (13 page)

"Can we do all this ruminating somewhere that ain't a stinking sewer?" Hack said.

That punched me out of my reverie and I nodded, and continued walking out of the tunnel. No time to follow our tracks back to where Uncle Satan's little helpers showed us in, I went for the first shaft of light beaming down from above. It was only a short walk from the junction room where the sewage whirlpool roared, and I grabbed onto the rungs and began to climb. At the top was a good old fashioned manhole cover, thick and heavy and unmoving. I knew that because I didn't notice it until I rammed my head straight into it because I was too lost in my thoughts.

A string of curses shot out of my mouth after I'd added another lump to my already abused skull. Shafts of light were beaming down from the ventilation holes in the manhole cover, and I held tightly to the rungs with one hand and pressed my other up to the cover. It didn't budge. Not even a little bit.

"Need some help?" Swift called from below.

"Nope. I got this."

Despite my body's aches and pains, I figured it would do me some good to flex my magical muscles. I left my hand on the manhole cover, felt the cold metal of it. Even without taking time to prepare something, it shouldn't be much of a thing to get the cover out of my way. Magic, at its core, is dependent on two things, after all: willpower and imagination. A basic understanding of it as a fundamental force, tools, and preparation are big helps, but in the end it's all a matter of how much of your will you can throw at reality, and how far you want to bend it.

The manhole cover, for example, was a circular hunk of solid metal that probably weighed close to sixty or seventy pounds. Even on a good day, when I wasn't already beaten to shit, I'd have some trouble getting it to budge. Exercise and I have never seen eye to eye. The way it stood, I could pound my head against the manhole cover all day and only get a concussion for my troubles. But, if I were to be a clever mage with an understanding of both magic and matter, well, that would change everything.

I kept my hand pressed flat on the manhole cover and began gathering my will, focusing on the currents of energy that underlies all creation, the universal force that magic taps into, and the spark of that force inside myself. I thought of the weight of the cover, the density of the metal, and I imagined it being light as a feather. I sent out my will into the world, gave the cover a shove, and it blew up into the air like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Light flooded the little hole and I could see the sky again.

Glorious success. Magic wasn't something that anyone who could use it should ever rely on, let it become a crutch, but I'll be damned if it wasn't useful and cool as hell. I mean, it wasn't hurling lightning or turning chalk into comets or anything, but whatever.

"Way to go, boy. Now can you get your ass out of my face?" Hack grumbled.

"Yeah I'm going, hold your ancient horses."

I hauled myself up out of the hole and took a look around while Hack and Swift came up.

We were not in a good place.

It was a narrow section of road, with trailers and rundown houses lining either side, little buildings that looked like decades had passed since they'd last seen any upkeep or a fresh coat of paint. They made my house look like a damn mansion. Somewhere nearby a stereo was thudding with a ridiculous amount of bass, and I could see here and there low-riders with sparkling paintjobs and rims that probably cost more than most peoples' monthly mortgages.

I turned to tell Hack and Swift to hurry it the hell up when a door nearby banged open, and a flood of footsteps came out of a house across from where I stood. I hesitated to look, but when I did I saw around a dozen young Latino men were crowding out onto the street, they didn't look like the neighborly types. They all wore variations on the same outfit - low-slung baggy pants, and tops all in different shades of red. And each and every one of them came out armed, some with bats, pipes, or knives, others with shiny pistols.

Son of a bitch, we'd come out in the Gardens.

While the majority of places south of the freeway were nowhere you wanted to be unless you absolutely had to, the tiny neighborhood collectively referred to as the Gardens was a god damned no-man's land; fundamentally a warzone, a hotbed of gang activity constantly in flux between the myriad rival tribes vying for control of it. The Hanford authorities washed their hands of it years ago, forsaking it to gang control and refusing to enter its limits unless a particularly bad conflict spilled out into surrounding areas.

Not the kind of place you wanted to pop in on.

"What the hell is this? You must be lost, gringo," the guy who was apparently their leader said. He had a pencil-thin moustache and wore a bright red bandana around his head, and there was an uncomfortably large hand cannon sticking out of the waist of his jeans.

"Way to go Tommy. You landed us right in the middle of the damn ghetto," Hack said as he came up behind me.

"What the fuck's a matter with that puto's eyes?" The leader said.

"He has a condition." I clutched at the strap of my bag. "And we were just on our way to the doctor, so if you gentlemen will excuse us, we'll just find our way out of here."

The gangsters broke into a chorus of laughter.

"Oh, no man, no. You ain't going anywhere."

The leader stepped forward, hand on the handle of his gun, stopping a few feet in front of me. Any trace of laughter or mirth was gone from his face, he was giving me what I believe is referred to as a 'mad-dog' look. That close, I could see the he was young, probably hardly in his twenties.

"You can't leave till you pay the toll, man. Or we beat it out of you. Your choice, puto." He said.

There was that word again.

I think that just about confirmed it wasn't a compliment, considering the way he said it and the way Rosa had said it earlier. I don't think I liked that. Apparently Swift didn't either because before I could even respond he shot like a blur in front of me, threw the young gang-banger into a vicious choke-hold and had the guy's gun out and pressed up against his temple. It got the reaction you'd pretty much expect it to. The street erupted into a lot of yelling and brandishing of weapons.

"Swift! What the hell man?" I hollered.

"Back up, and we'll get out of here and no one gets hurt." Swift was slowly backing away from the gangsters and taking the leader with him. Hack apparently approved of this plan, if the grin splitting his face was any indication.

I have the best friends.

From up the road came the source of the bass that had been throbbing in the background, now so loud it was vibrating through the soles of my shoes. It was coming from an old lowered Cadillac that hopped and bounced to the beat. It sped down the road and screeched to a halt within spitting distance from where our little altercation was taking place. And Rosa jumped out of the car.

Oh for the love of…

The guy Swift was holding broke into a rapid fire shouting in Spanish. I couldn't make out much of it, most the Spanish I know comes from frequenting the taco trucks around town, but I did keep catching the word 'madre.' Mother? I think that just about confirmed my recent suspicions of the day that some higher power got its jollies by screwing with my life. Rosa stormed up and looked from the young bangers to my group and me; if looks could kill she'd be packing nukes.

"Stop!" Rosa shouted, her voice cutting over the other yelling like a knife and immediately everyone stopped, just flat out froze. It was the most terrifyingly maternal command I'd ever heard.

Swift shoved the guy away from him, but kept the gun. The young gangster ran straight to Rosa, who gave him a fierce hug and then proceeded to slap him upside the back of his head. Behind them his friends snickered, until Rosa turned her gnarly stare on them. The whole pack of them just turned tail and ran back into the house they came from.

"Hell of a lady," Hack murmured behind me with something of a grudging respect in his voice.

"What've I told you about trying to act gangster, Jesus? Get your scrawny ass inside," Rosa said to the young man, Jesus, apparently her son. He nodded curtly, shooting me an evil look before he shuffled back inside after his friends.

"Hi Rosa. What a lovely surprise running into you." I tried to sound as pleasant as I could muster. "Again."

I'm not going to lie; when she came up to me I flinched. I could feel the blow coming. Instead, she stopped just inside striking distance and even though she was shorter than I was she still somehow managed to look down on me. Despite all I'd been through, she still managed to scare me.

"What the hell's going on brujo? You're a bad penny. You give me answers, you give me answers now."

"Yes ma'am," It was like I'd been compelled. And hell, the lady kind of deserved it, "But…you're going to think I'm crazy."

"I already think you're loco, now get your white ass inside before some real gangsters shoot you."

Chapter Thirteen

Despite the initial feeling of walking into the lion's den, Rosa's house was pretty damn nice. Cozy, even.

All the furniture was used and second hand and none of it matched, but it was all in good repair and clean. Everything I could see was clean, obsessively; there wasn't a molecule of dust or dirt anywhere. We were sitting in a tiny living room, Swift and Hack packed next to me on an old leather sofa. Hanging on the wall across the room was a painting of some doe-eyed saint that tracked me across the room as we entered, and kept staring at me.

Jesus and his friends had retreated to somewhere in the back of the house, I could hear the low thud of a stereo playing and caught the faint aroma of something that might have been medicinal. Rosa had disappeared into the back after we had gotten inside and she commanded us to sit. She came back out wearing a pair of sweats and an old black and silver jersey, with her salt and pepper hair out of a bun it fell down to the middle of her back. Even relaxed, the lioness is still a deadly creature. Her eyes were smoldering when she came out and sat in a recliner across from us.

"So, get talking brujo," she said.

"What does that mean, anyways? Is it like a puto? Cause you keep calling me that too."

Next to me, Hack and Swift made laughing sounds under their breath. I turned to look at them, but they both stared inconspicuously off in different directions.

"A little. Puto means bitch, brujo means witch," Rosa stated flatly

.

This is my life.

"Screw the both of you." I turned back to Rosa. She didn't seem to find much amusement in it either. "Okay, so maybe one of those I can…kind of understand, but witch?"

"Which one don't you understand?"

"Witch."

"Which one?"

"Oh for…Why did you call me a witch?" I grumbled out.

"Why do you think? Throwing fire and crazy shit, I've seen a lot of things but I ain't ever seen anything like that. Walking furniture, crazy white fuckers with glowing eyes." Rosa screwed up her face while she talked, like remembering it was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. One's first encounter with the wider world can have that effect on a person.

Discovering that the world really isn't what you'd always believed can have a number of profound, and sometimes traumatic, effects. Some people just can't handle it, the weight of realizing reality is infinitely bigger and scarier than they ever imagined. I mean, I grew up my entire life with this stuff, family tradition and all. But for the vanilla folks out there, Christ, I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to wake up one day and know that monsters are real, and they definitely want to eat you.

And they're everywhere.