The Stories of Haven:
Power Struggles
By J.A. Giunta
Smashwords Edition
© 1994, 2011 J.A. Giunta, all rights reserved
Published by Brick Cave Media with permission
Originally Published in Anthology magazine
Images
© 1994, 1995, 1996, 2010, 2011 Sandy Nelson, Nick Ozment, Sharon
Skinner
Original Haven Heart logo © 1994 Jeff Bush, used with
permission
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Publisher's Note
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Power Struggles
J.A. Giunta
Jerry laughed, counting a stack of twenties as he walked down the alleyway. It was late at night, with little more than the flashing neon of advertisements to light his way, but Jerry walked as if nothing could touch him.
“This city is a joke,” he said and shook his head.
The paper band holding the bills into a neat stack said $1,000. Jerry ran his thumb over the bills and listened close, more out of pride than mistrust. He didn't really care how much money was there. He just liked the feel of it in his hands, the power it stirred with just looking at it. No one or thing couldn’t be bought.
Money was power, and Jerry was drunk with it.
As far as cat burglars go, he wasn't the best. Jerry was good, though, good enough to steal a hundred thousand dollars from a Sci-Tek administration building without getting caught. A good thief knew where to look for money. The banks had enough money to make the prospect worth the endeavor for some, but the risks were too high for someone of Jerry's ability. He prided himself on knowing his limitations, never reaching too far and always coming out ahead.
He put the money back into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder. As long as he stayed in the downtown area, near Gutter Ways and the Old Village, no cops would ever find him – or dare to come looking for him. His only real concern was for the scum on the streets, but his car was close now. He’d already ditched the getaway truck in the east river.
He patted the gun at his waist, comforted by the touch and grateful he’d only needed to use it a handful of times.
“Whatcha got in the bag?” a voice asked from the shadows, though nothing could be seen of the speaker. “A contribution for Green Peace?”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Jerry’s chin. The blurring of light made the street look like Jell-O, like heat rising off the blacktop in summer. Another punch to the face sent him sprawling back as a series of kicks took the air from his lungs. The satchel floated up of its own volition and was thrust into the air by an unseen arm in a show of victory. Jerry only moaned his defeat, once again recognizing his limitations. He felt for the gun at waist, but it was gone.
Arrows hit before he could hear the terrible whistling noise that soon followed. Three struck as if fired in the same instant, one catching the satchel and the other two embedded into thin air. The satchel slammed against a wooden door and hung on its feathered peg. The nothing collapsed with a muttered curse and blood running free.
A laugh from the rooftops made the hair on Jerry's neck stand on end. Suddenly New York didn't sound like such a bad place. He promised himself a plane ticket if he made it out of this alive.
The dark nothing pulled itself up as more arrows came whistling by. It grunted and broke off the feathered ends, dropping them to the street with a growl. Splashes disappeared down the alley, leaving Jerry alone with the sound of his heart racing and a deathly silence all around.
He pulled himself to his knees and stifled a cry. His ribs were broken. Each step felt like fire in his side. The satchel full of cash beckoned him forward. The money was still his. He’d earned it. He reached out and took hold, using the door for support.
His eyes opened wide as an arrow pierced his back. He tried to call out, but even his gasp made no sound. His voice was little more than a liquid rattle. He knew the arrow had punctured a lung, made every breath an effort of will. He clutched the money even harder. Darkness rounded his vision, rose up to overtake as the poison dragged him down. The satchel slipped from his grasp. A chuckle fell from the rooftops like trickling rain.
The satchel was out of reach, taunting as he passed.
***
Patti reluctantly opened the door to what used to be a storage room for an old electronics store. To her, it was home. The cracked wood swung open, and candlelight filtered out into the alley. A man laid there, his lips and eyelids black and puffy. She was accustomed to seeing bodies in the gutters, some bloated and foul smelling after days of rotting, but this one had an arrow jutting out from his back.
Still, she’d seen worse.
She let out a deep breath she’d been holding. This meant she’d have to move again. A dead body at her doorstep meant questions – and not necessarily from the police. Cops were the farthest thing from anyone's mind in Old Village. Gangs ruled here, and the Renegades would want to know who did the killing on their turf.
There was a black satchel pinned to her door with an arrow. She'd been so intent on the corpse and what it would mean that she hadn't noticed it hanging there. She looked inside, almost fearful of touching it, and saw the neat stacks of money. It was more than she'd ever seen, except on TV.
She gave a quick look down the alley both ways then gathered up all she owned and shoved it in a backpack. She yanked the satchel off the door and shoved it in as well.
Newspaper covered the floor, dry and easy to light. It took quick and spread fast. She wasn't surprised to see fire licking out along the brick walls as she turned a comer at the end of the alley. With a bit of luck, anyone who knew she lived there might think her killed in the fire.
There were few places for a teenage girl to hide in the city, even fewer where it was safe enough to sleep. More in fear for her life than having a bag of money, Patti headed for the one place she knew no one would search.
She headed for the sewers.
***
For a week she’d lived with the terrible smell and the filthy refuse of Haven's underbelly. She’d shared meals with rats – or more precisely, she dined on them – while holding out for as long as she could.
“This is ridiculous!” she berated herself while finding her way with a dying lighter. “I've got a hundred, um, a thousand, no, a million dollars, and I'm down here hunting rats! I should be up there,” she said and eyed the nearest manhole, “eating kevy-ar and crackers or something. A big steak sandwich with french fries and ketchup, a soda with ice…”
She continued to torture herself by thinking of all the things she could do or buy with the money, but promised herself she'd only buy supplies for another week. Unlike most meat that could be found in a dumpster, rats tasted nothing like chicken.
It was an hour later, while heading back down into the sewers, laden with food and a new blanket, that a hand clasped her by the shoulder.
“You don't have to go back,” the man said, as Patti jumped out of his reach with a shriek. She’d dropped everything and pulled a knife from her back pocket. “It's all right. I won't hurt you.” He was dressed in black from head to toe, a paper cutout of dark and shadow.
“There's a place I can take you that's warm, where they'll feed you three squares a day.”
“What makes you think I need help?” she asked in a near snarl, clenching the knife tighter and eyes darting toward the sewer grate.
He simply nodded toward the sewers, ending his argument without a word.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m just fine on my own.”
Patti held her ground until he backed away into the shadows. When he spoke again, his voice sounded far away.
“Name's Jaguar. Good luck.”
The silence that followed echoed in her head, with the words he didn’t say: You're gonna need it. She looked all around to make sure no one was watching, picked up her things and disappeared into the sewers.
A new shadow appeared then, a man whose boots echoed down the alley as he walked toward the sewer.
A man who wasn't the Jaguar.
To the mob bosses of organized crime, the Families and all associated with them, he was a mercenary for hire. He could be depended on for last-minute jobs that no one in their right mind would consider, hires no amateur would live through. His only loyalty was to the payout.
To the gangs who claimed to rule the streets, the ones who learned early on to kill and steal to survive, he was a gladiator from the underground circuit. Unlike the gangbangers who fought for respect, recognition or proof of self-worth, he fought for the prize, for the only thing worth living or caring for: money.
He'd faced hundreds in the pits and killed every one of them, sometimes winning no more than the cost of a meal and other times enough to feed a man for years.
To the homeless, the dealers, the pimps and whores, to any and all who made downtown Haven a home, he was a shadow to avoid. Few sought him out. Even fewer ever admitted to having seen him.
He was a nightmare from a storybook, brought to life by drugs and an insatiable passion for money that went well beyond greed. It was whispered on cold nights over burning trashcans that he could catch the scent of a bill and follow it to the ends of the world. Some believed he hoarded his money and hid it in a new place every full moon, making him seem more fantastic than real life, as if he were a legend or a demon from the folk lore of a distant place.
There was comfort in distancing the man, in turning him into a phantom, for the hope he wasn’t real.
What made him so frightening was not what he did or why he did it. Murder for money was commonplace and could even be justified in certain situations. What made him so terrifying, what sent fear down the spine like fingers of numbing ice, was the long flowing cape and scythe-like axe he carried.
A harbinger of death, he dressed in black. His face was covered by a winged helm, shielded by a chain coif that made his voice cold and inhuman. His boots rang out with sound of mail armor and had blades running across their backs. Though the long black cape made his figure difficult to discern, his size was enormous and daunting. Leather wristbands stretched with the bulging muscles, and the overall presence of him threatened to choke a man with fear.
But of all the things about him that intimidated and inspired dread, the axe hanging from a sling across his back stood alone. The mere thought of being shot could dissuade any sensible man. Being hacked to bits, living every moment as pieces are torn away, is enough to make a babbling fool of anyone.
For the rest of the world, he was just another killer, a drug-crazed dog that’d yet to be put down.
But to Haven, he was the Reaper.
***
Jaguar watched the giant shadow disappear into the sewers. He’d planned to follow after the girl, make sure she was safe, but was now surprised to see someone else taking interest. He doubted the other’s intention were as noble.
He counted to ten and went in after.
He made no noise as he slid down the grimy ladder, but rushing water would have masked any sounds. It was dark in the semicircular passage, but there was a distinct greenish cast to the bricks and running water. Whatever managed to grow in the sewers clung to the walls and reflected what little light managed to creep in.
There was a walkway along either side of the refuse flow, and a metal grate leading across every hundred feet or so. Foot-size rats littered the floor, darting in and out of cracks and holes only they could see.
He kicked a particularly large one into the flowing trash. It squealed and disappeared into darkness.
He tried to listen for anything that might lead him to the girl or the man following her but heard nothing in the echoes but water and rats. There were alcoves built into the walls at every crossing, and he estimated one would be large enough to comfortably house a person – if it were possible to withstand the unrelenting stench.
He searched each comer of an alcove for signs of the girl before moving to the next. All he found was trash and rat droppings.
A scream resounded off the walls, the scream of a teenage girl.
Without hesitation he ran across the slick surface of the walkways with the sure-footedness of his namesake. Though the echo had passed, he followed its memory over the waters and down another passage. He ran for all he was worth, bounding past alcoves toward what he was sure was the source of her scream. A crumpled form came into view just as a beefy arm snaked out to catch him under the throat.
He fell to his back with a heavy thud, teeth jarring together and air forced from his lungs. The massive shadow that’d followed the girl stood over him with arms akimbo. The helm, armor and cape made him look a nightmarish Viking, but it was the giant axe across the man’s back that held Jaguar’s attention.
“I’ve fought and killed in the pits for half a decade,” the nightmare said and reached down with both arms to grab hold. “I’ve earned my costume! You think you can just dress up as a hero and fight crime? Well I got news for you, pal.” The face drew even closer. “Crime fights back.”
Jaguar tried to draw breath, but only a ragged gasp wheezed into his lungs. He knew he had to relax, that breath would eventually come. If he could convince the talking mountain to keep running his mouth, he might stand a chance of escape.
“Oh, I know,” he went on and began to squeeze Jaguar’s neck with both ham-like fists. “You’ve got no idea who I am or what I want. Let's just say you've cost me some money by helping the wrong people, and I intend to make you pay for those losses.”
A double punch to the ears could break any man's hold, but Jaguar couldn't reach this one's head – nor was he sure he could the blow would penetrate that helm. He was more concerned about the hands wrapped around his throat, the air being choked off as his feet dangled above the ground. He swung out at the elbow, hoping to break free, but the big man shook him like a ragdoll. When Jaguar collapsed from lack of breath, the Reaper tied his hands and feet.
“Can't say it's been nice knowing you.”
Reaper laughed, tempted to drive his axe through the wannabe hero's back. Kicking him into the city's offal, however, seemed a fitting end – Haven's unique brand of poetic justice.
“Enjoy the ride,” Reaper said and kicked the limp form into the waters. He laughed again. “Who says cats don't like water?”
He turned and walked toward the fallen girl. She’d served her purpose, drawing Jaguar into the sewers like irresistible catnip. He was actually glad he hadn’t killed her, seeing her face up close for the first time. There was something in her eyes and mouth that others might call attractive.
Reaper only saw extra cash.
All in all, things had gone fairly well. Jaguar was drowning in Haven's shit, the girl would fetch ten or twenty grand as a slave, but most of all, he had a hundred thousand bonus on top of Jaguar’s bounty. He knew the money from Sci-Tek would show up sooner or later, and the thought of investing the heist back into the company was just the sort of irony he found so amusing.
Another example of Haven's poetic justice.
About Haven
Haven is a city in peril. Crime has increasingly become a fact of life as different factions vie for control of the city's vast power and wealth. The authorities are pressed at every turn, often too weak to respond to emergencies, almost equally as often influenced by forces with ill intent.
The city is home to millions and attracts more, some seeking opportunity, some seeking escape, still others seeking something else.
In desperation, some of its citizens have taken to wearing costumes and creating alternate identities to fight crime. In turn, the criminals have donned masks to hide their own identities, create alternate personae, or both.
Read The Stories
Are you a fan of great fiction? Are you looking for a fresh stream of prose you can enjoy every month? Haven is your place. Each month, a new story of 4,000-6,000 words. Enough to satisfy, but not too much.
View a complete list of the available stories at http://haven.brickcavemedia.com
Write the Stories
Haven is a series of stories written by writers from all over. Each story builds upon the last, exposing some new facet of the city, exploring others, and creating the full portrait of life in a parallel universe.
Anyone is welcome to write and submit a story for Haven. Read the guidelines and discover how you can create the next literary chapter in this incredible saga.
History of Haven
Haven, started in 1994 as part of a literary nonprofit called Anthology, through their magazine of the same name, is a unique and exciting storytelling opportunity for writers and readers alike. In 2009, Anthology asked Brick Cave Media to develop and promote the Haven series as a separate entity.
About The Author, J.A. Giunta:
J.A. Giunta was born in Brooklyn, New York, in November of 1969. Though he spent most of his childhood growing up on Long Island, he has been living in Arizona for more than twenty-five years.
Joe started writing stories at an early age, creating adventures for his pen and paper Dungeons & Dragons campaigns on a Commodore 64. Spooled from a dot-matrix printer, that first stapled manuscript has not survived, but it has evolved over the years to form The Ascension trilogy.
In 1994, J.A. Giunta co-founded Anthology magazine with writer Bob Nelson. The magazine would run for ten years and print a wide variety of up and coming poets and writers.
His first Fantasy novel, The Last Incarnation, was published in February of 2005. With a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Arizona State University, he is both an avid reader and gamer. He currently writes full-time.
He currently lives with his wife, Lori, and six-year old daughter, Ada Rose, in the perpetual summer that is central Arizona. He credits all of his work to the advent of air-conditioning.
Visit Joe on the web
About Anthology, Inc.:
Anthology’s mission is to promote performance poetry and associated literary arts in the greater Phoenix community by providing opportunities for artists to perform their work and by making spoken word arts accessible to a diverse audience.
Visit Anthology at http://www.anthology.org.
About Brick Cave Media:
Founded in 2007, Brick Cave Media produces audio, video and print projects of varied themes. Founded by Anthology founder Bob Nelson, BCM has produced several Compact Discs, Chapbooks, and videos related to the literary field.
Visit Brick Cave Media at: http://www.brickcavemedia.com.