Peter stood watching the flames consume the building. It was a bank, and it was burning pretty good at this point. This was one of those old school downtown banks, lots of stone and marble on the exterior. They didn't make them like that very often anymore, but this one was a hundred years or so old, Peter figured, built to last.
So, Peter knew that there would be a pretty good shell left after the interior burned out, but he didn't really care about that. That would be good enough.
He nodded to the other three people that had broken down the glass and gotten into the bank, where they had all dumped gasoline all over the floors, the alarm blaring off in a deafening cacophony. They had lit the gasoline and ran out.
The other three nodded back and ran off, looking for the next place to burn. Peter stood outside, holding one more gas can just in case it was needed. It didn't look like it would be, but he was to stay a few more minutes to make sure.
Peter had never seen a burning building before he had been made to torch the targets that Cindy Lou had explained were the faces of capitalist oppression. There were various groups out there, but Peter himself had already burned down a couple of banks, a title loan company and a convenience mart that held a police substation.
Whatever the fuck
that
meant.
Peter was surprised to see how
black
the smoke was, he guessed that it was from burning plastic or something. The sky of the City was growing dark with black smoke.
Somehow some of the alarms were still going off in the bank, so Peter did not know the Hawk was behind him until she spoke.
"Your boss," the Hawk said. "Where is she?"
Peter turned around, blinking in the smoke.
"What?" he said dimly.
"Cindy Lou. Where is she?"
"I'm not going to tell you that."
The Hawk nodded, sadly.
She knew he wouldn't. She had already captured and tortured more than a few of these looters, these anarchists, whatever they were. She had taken quite a lot of time with a few of them, plenty of time, anyone would have broken and told her what she needed to know.
Anyone.
But not these people. They didn't tell her anything.
I guess I won't waste my time then, she thought. Just kill him and get on with it.
Peter just stood there, holding his gasoline can. He didn't know what to do.
He had been told to resist the police, and how.
But whatever was standing in front of him was absolutely
not
police.
He watched her black wings flex back and forth in the smoke. He looked up at her dark face, saw her sharp teeth, knew she could rip his throat out in a heartbeat if she wanted to.
Which didn't really concern him, for some reason. Cindy Lou had told them all that they should be prepared to die for her and that they should be, well, not
happy
about it, but certainly they should not feel anything that might jeopardize their belief in the work.
And so, he didn't.
Still, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to
do
about this one.
Finally, a thought occurred to him.
"Ma'am?" he asked.
"What," the Hawk said roughly.
Peter held up his gasoline can to show her.
"Do you think it would be OK if I poured this on myself and ran in there?"
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the burning bank.
"Why?" she hissed.
He shrugged.
"You know," he said. "I really can't think of what else to do at this point."
She said nothing, which he took as assent to his plan. He poured the gasoline all over his neck and shoulders, felt it drip down his chest and back.
The Hawk just stood there looking at him.
"Well, all right, then," Peter said to no one in particular. "Here I go, I guess."
He turned and ran into the fires. The Hawk watched long enough to see him burst into flames, she heard his scream faintly over the alarm.
That
was new, she thought.
The Hawk looked around, deciding on whatever the next move should be.
I guess I'll just keep killing them, she thought. That should flush whoever this Cindy Lou is out in time, or maybe I'll get lucky and catch her.
Really not all that much of a plan, the Hawk knew.
But there was something very...
different
about these people.
***
"OK," Officer James Candy explained to the other police gathered around him. He jabbed his finger into a position on the map. "We are going to go in here, at Lake Street. We'll keep the barricades down long enough for us to establish a beach head, then we will flank out and escort the firetrucks and the ambulances. We'll maintain our presence there until the firefighters are able to start putting out the first building they've designated, it's this First Bank and Trust at the corner of Jefferson and Mayfair. They picked it because it's only a couple blocks past the barricades, so if we come under a lot of fire, we can get back out pretty quickly. We hope. Our job is to protect the EMTs as they start loading up wounded. We know there are a lot of wounded."
He looked around him, gazing into the faces of his fellow officers. They looked tired. Numb.
"The Guard is coming, and they'll take over for us. But for now it's up to us. That's the way it should be. It's our city that's under attack. We can't wait any longer. There's innocent people in there."
Grim faces, solemn acceptance of duty.
That would have to be good enough.
The officers gathered at the barricades leading into the heart of the City. James looked around the gathering police noticing how many cops had left their helmets and shields behind, the red paint had ruined them and made them unable to see through.
Which, James knew, was exactly the point. Clearly the police were walking into some kind of trap.
Only question is, how bad?
Basically one way to find out.
It is what it is, James thought.
***
The barricades were pushed aside, the police started marching down the boulevard, leaving a good amount of distance between them. They were disciplined and alert.
"Nice nightstick," James commented to Aaron.
"What? Oh, yeah," Aaron laughed. He held the weapon up. "Yeah, they don't issue these anymore, but if an older officer gives you one, you can still use it. Kind of a loophole."
The nightstick was the same length as James', but made of wood, and capped with a heavy iron end.
"Old school," James nodded approvingly.
"Yeah," Aaron agreed. "The rubber ones they issue now are designed to put a creep down but without hurting him all that much.
This
motherfucker right here is designed to crack open his fucking head and make sure that if he ever even
does
get up, he's shitting in a bag for the rest of his life."
"Damn right," James agreed.
"They phased these out in the 70's, but when I started on the force, one of the older cops wanted me to have it. Kind of took me under his wing. He never came right out and
said
it or anything? But he was a white guy, and I got the idea that he'd been made to do some things back in the day that he wasn't exactly proud of, and so he kind of wanted to make some amends for that by working with me. He was a good man. Cancer got him a few years after he retired."
"Fuck," James shook his head.
"Don't be too sad," Aaron laughed. "Dying of cancer and old age sounds pretty good right now."
"Yeah."
They had come across a few dead bodies so far, all of them the same, sliced open from sternum to belly, laying on their sides, eyes bulging and stiff fingers wrapped around the guts they had failed to keep inside.
Frankly, it was terrifying. The best guess they had come up with was that these were people caught up in the riot, people the protesters had attacked and killed.
Soon the police and firefighter caravan came to a stop, the cops started pulling barricades from vehicles and assembling a ring around the firetrucks. The firefighters got to work, and soon had jets of water launching towards the First Bank and Trust, turning black smoke into white steam as the fire was quenched.
Nothing would be saved.
"Look!" Aaron pointed upward.
James looked up at the sky, through the smoke and steam.
"What? What is it?"
"Don't know," Aaron relied. "Something up there. Black."
"The helicopters are landed, though."
"Wasn't no helicopter."
"Should we tell someone?"
"Tell them what? Just... just keep an eye on the sky, I guess."
James noticed a commotion as one of the paramedics was talking with some of the other officers. James made his way over.
"We got a guy in an alley just behind there," the paramedic was saying. "Still alive. Might make it. Probably not. Anyway, we gotta get a stretcher to him and get him out."
James and few of the other officers left the barricade and followed the paramedics to the alley.
The man was slumped against the wall of the alley, eyes glazed, his chest heaving. His arms were wrapped tightly around his abdomen, blood pouring from exposed pink.
"Hey, fella," the paramedic said, kneeling by him. "You're going to be OK. What's your name?"
The bleeding man focused his eyes on the paramedic.
"I don't know if Cindy Lou actually
