The Phoenix

Everyone had scattered after the shootout. Everyone that is, except Cal. He couldn’t run. He had been shot. Nothing to do but just lay there on the cold, hard pavement. Waiting, bleeding. Gritting his teeth, biding his time. Off in the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens getting closer, ever closer. That wasn’t good. He really didn’t want to go to the hospital. Too many questions, too much paperwork. It wasn’t a good idea for him to be in the system. Not at all. For many reasons.

He’d rather just have one of the guys in his posse fix him up. A stiff shot of whiskey and some gauze tightly wrapped would stop the bleeding. The bullet had only grazed him. It didn’t penetrate, he tried to tell himself, though his body told him differently. It hurt like hell, but he was tough. He could take it. He could take it. He repeated that statement to himself like a mantra. It was his last thought as he fell into unconsciousness.

Somehow Cal had lived. He had survived. Miraculously. And he had gotten out of the system the only way he knew how. He cut a deal, a deal that would take effect as soon as he was fully healed. He felt his physical wounds were penanance enough. Going to prison would serve no great purpose. He had already suffered plenty.

He had once vowed he would never be a squealer. He would never rat out the blood brothers in his gang. But when push came to shove, he had no choice. After the bullet was painstakingly removed and some powerful narcotics were undoubtedly addling his brains, he had spilled his guts – relentlessly, ruthlessly. His betrayal was a quid pro quo. He gave names and excruciating details to the pigs about everything – the shooting, the drug deals, the scams. He was a true narc. In exchange for his monumental betrayal, he received no prison time. He also received a new identity. A new life. Cal became Carl. 

He thought ironically of his gang, the Carrions, and their motto – Death on one level means life on another. It wasn’t any sort of religious epiphany or promise of eternal salvation, however. The gang had used that motto to justify their violent methods. Their mascot was the carrion, a scavenger bird. The vulture feasting on the bloody entrails of its victims.

The Carrions consumed the life blood of others in order to survive. They took what they wanted, using threats and extortion to achieve their ends. It was permissible to hurt, even kill someone, anyone, for any reason, if it allowed a Carrion to thrive. They were modern day pirates, on Harley motorcycles instead of ships, pillaging and plundering their way through life with no regard for others.

Cal just needed to rethink the motto. Death on one level means life on another. He needed to spin it in a different way. The ends still justified the means. Now, however, he was a new bird. The death of his former self and his true identity had given birth to another. Fight or flight, and he now chose to fly. This Carrion, a scavenger bird, had now turned into a phoenix, rising triumphantly from the carnage and the ashes of his blood brothers, his fellow carrions. Soon he would soar high above the clouds. Alone, unhindered. 

After an initial twinge, when he first started blabbing to the feds, he discovered that his conscience pricked him not in the slightest. In the struggle between gang allegiance and self-preservation, the self always won. He would never return to the gang again. What had they ever truly done for him anyway besides get him shot? He was done with that way of life. For good. Cal was now Carl. The Carrion was now a phoenix. 

There was one person left in the gang who still mattered to him, however. There was one exception to this rule of ultimate self preservation. One person could entice him to drop his cover and still act loyal to the gang – his nephew, Dean. He would do whatever it took to keep Dean safe, even if that meant rejoining the Carrions, even if it was just for show. 

Dean was a scared young kid who had somehow fallen into the Carrion way of life to support his burgeoning drug habit. As drug dealers often do, the gang had used a sweet-faced, young kid to ply their trade and collect their money. And as often happened, Dean ended up getting hooked himself. He had gotten addicted to the merchandise. After collecting the money from drug deals, instead of turning it into his supplier, and following the Carrion chain of command, Dean had kept the money himself to buy more drugs.

Sometimes he didn’t sell the drugs at all, but just used them himself. He was the kid in the proverbial candy store, sampling all the candy until it made him sick. His own needs trumped those of the Carrions. He just needed his fix and he needed it right away – consequences be damned. Yes, Dean was in way too deep and couldn’t see his way out.

Cal was painfully aware that if this continued, Dean would come to no good end. He would kill himself with an overdose, or the Carrions would resort to strong arm tactics and teach him a painful lesson, a lesson that the kid might never recover from. 

No, the outcome would not be pretty. Cal was desperate. He knew he needed to do some sort of intervention with the kid, both to get him off drugs and to get him out of the Carrions. At the very least, whether Cal was still in the Carrions or not, he knew he needed to still watch over Dean to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Whatever it took. Dean was simply too fragile. Too expendable.  

Yet Cal knew if he rejoined the gang, he would also be in trouble. It would mean a certain death. The gang would surely discover that he had ratted them out to the feds. They weren’t stupid. Cal was no longer a Carrion. The only way out of the gang was to die. It was a known fact. Prospective members knew that when joining the gang. Blood in, blood out. 

Cal felt that he had already spilled enough blood for the Carrions. He was lucky to have survived the shooting. He simply couldn’t survive prison. Nor should he have to. He had a choice. Cal was no more. He had become Carl. But like the phoenix flying too close to the sun, Cal would burn his wings and crash to the ground in a painful ball of fire if the Carrions discovered his betrayal. His new life. Yes, it could, and would, happen if he dropped his cover, even for a moment. He only hoped it would never get to that extreme. He prayed that Dean wouldn’t get himself into any deeper trouble. Somehow the kid needed to get himself clean and out of the Carrions. Before it was too late. For both of them. 

Naturally, it was only a matter of time before Dean’s sticky fingers caught up to him. The Carrions soon discovered missing money from Dean’s drug sales. Dean had become careless, and the money trail wasn’t hard to follow. The gang sent its usual enforcer to collect. If Dean did not come up with the money, the enforcer’s mission was to mete out the usual Carrion punishment. 

“Death on one level means life on another. You haven’t forgotten, have you kid? We’re Carrions. If you’re not true to the gang, it can mean your death. This Carrion will go right on living, though, feasting on your corpse,” the hard looking biker said. “Remember the drill?"

The tough looking bearded man flexed his tattooed biceps where a fierce looking black bird with its beak poking into something red and nasty seemed to move with his words.

The skinny, strung out kid swallowed. He could feel himself giving into panic. The room seemed to be closing in on him. Spots danced before his eyes. He couldn’t breathe or even respond as the man continued speaking. 

“But first, you’re going to give me the take. The take that you stole from us. Didya think we wouldn’t find out? Do ya think we’re idiots? Some dude even died cause of you. He wasn’t even in the gang, but we thought he had the money. We were wrong,” the biker then swore. “Not that his death was a big loss”, he amended with an evil grimace.

Suddenly, he reached into the pocket of his leather vest and pulled out a big, black gun, waving it around for emphasis. 

The kid swallowed, saying nothing.

“So, where’s the money?” the biker asked, continuing to wave the gun around.

“I don’t have it right now,” the kid replied, licking his cracked lips. “Give me some time,” he pleaded. “I’ll get it to you, I promise. Please …”

“Yeah, I can see where that money went, and I don’t really trust that you can get more. I know where your money goes. Do you think I can’t see your habit? It’s written all over that scabby face of yours. And I see your shaking hands. Your time is running out, my druggy friend.”

“Please, I’ll do anything,” the kid begged.

“Too late,” the biker said and pulled the trigger.

The kid dove for the floor as the shot went wild. A second shot sounded from the doorway in rapid succession. In horror, the kid covered his head with his hands, certain he was about to die. He heard a resounding crash as the biker fell backward, hitting a table before collapsing on the floor not far away.

“Relax, Dean.” The kid heard a familiar voice that seemed to cover from beyond the grave. “I got your back,” the voice said, continuing, “I know you thought I was gone, but I’m back, just in time to save your sorry ass.”

Silence greeted his words. Too stunned to speak, Dean lay on the floor mute. He couldn’t seem to move a muscle as he let this news sink in. His uncle, the one he had worshiped all his life, was here. Cal was alive. Come back from the dead. Back to save him.

As soon as the shock wore off, the kid slowly, painfully got to his feet. He was filled with questions. How had his protector, his uncle, survived the bullet wound he had received months ago? And how had he escaped doing time? How did he end up here? How did he know where and when to step in, just in time to save Dean? And where did they go from here? The kid didn’t know what to think.

Dean didn’t want to touch or even look at the biker’s body. He was perfectly fine with letting his aggressor lie where he fell. Dean carelly avoided looking at the fallen Carrion, although he couldn’t help but see, out of the corner of his eye, the blood pooling around the man and staining the already dirty tile floor. The image was permanently imprinted in his brain even when he closed his eyes. When he finally opened his eyes and stole another glance at the fallen man, he shuddered, realizing how close he had come to being that body on the floor, rapidly bleeding out.

He must have looked as shaken as he felt, because Cal turned to him and spoke.

“You need to pull yourself together and disappear quick, man. I'm sure someone in the neighborhood probably heard those shots. We gotta get out of here before cops come.”

Cal was in no man’s land, caught between the gang and the cops. He now had betrayed both groups. There was no way he would ever disclose to the feds Dean’s involvement in the gang, and the drug deal gone bad, let alone how Cal himself had just shot a Carrion enforcer. He needed to now disappear. Quickly. The phoenix needed to once again fly away. Dean needed to fly away too.

They were standing in a small room off to the side of a large open warehouse area. The room had probably once been an office, empty now save for a small table on which rested a heavy glass ashtray, overflowing with ashes.

“Are you sure they can’t trace me? What if I left prints or something?” Dean asked worriedly.

“Did you touch anything?” Cal asked.

“I can’t remember. It’s all a blur,” Dean answered.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. As long as they don’t find a murder weapon, they can’t trace anything to you,” Cal said. “I’ll make sure the guns are never found. Don’t worry.”

Of course, Cal knew just what to do. He always did. He had always had a sixth sense about things – a sixth sense that was almost spooky. Dean wanted to ask him more, but sensed now was not the time to rehash things – although he really wanted to know how and why Cal had been resurrected and how he had ended up here. Just in the nick of time.

Concentrating on the matter at hand, and blocking out the image of the fallen man, Dean forced his feet to move. Slipping out the back door leading into a narrow alley, he wanted nothing more than to melt forever into the night, never to return. He wanted to be like Cal. He wanted a fresh start.

Before he took his leave, Dean turned his head and looked beseechingly at his uncle. A little bit of that long ago hero worship still rested in the kid’s dazed eyes.

“Will I see you again?” The kid asked around the suddenly painful lump in his throat.

“I don’t know.” Cal answered honestly. “I suggest you find the money though and give them what they want. Don’t put the money up your nose. Next time, I may not be around to save you.”