I
Summer--1899
Skiddy Sniper elicited a sigh. His arms propped behind his head, he aimlessly thrust his right leg into the air, placing the sole of his foot flat against the ceiling, causing chips of plaster to wrench themselves free and fall onto him like some sort of comical snow. Though, ignoring the fallen plaster, his deep blue eyes concentrated on how unbelievably weatherworn his shoe was. The blackness had long since lost its luster, and if he wriggled his toes in just the right way, he could see the tops of them peeking out in the miscellaneous holes. A sudden, hot red anger flashed across him, and with a slight growl, he quickly lowered his foot, the revoltingly flat mattress reverberating slightly under the impact. He cast his eyes down, though not being able to see over the edge of the bed averted them back to the ceiling.
I wonder how much longer it will be, he thought with a certain grim humor.
He started by counting down from ten, his eyes following the cracks in the plaster ceiling, and it was almost exactly as he got to one that he heard the floorboards creak under weight and the short breathing. The footsteps stopped just below the bunk.
"Skiddy, Skiddy, what are ya still doin' here? The Lyners--" The words were quick and urging.
"Right on time," Skiddy murmured under his breath, listlessly sitting up, allowing his left leg to dangle lazily over the side of the bunk. His eyes fell to Grady O' Gill, a wire-thin, bookish in appearance, short in stature newsie. At this moment, he was bent over, his small chest heaving under the deep breaths he desperately inhaled for life force, his spectacles dangling on the bridge of his nose, want to fall of like they had so many times before.
Grady finally straightened, and Skiddy regarded him with a somewhat air of seniority, not in an arrogant sense, yet in a sorrowful one. This newsie with the cheeks blotched with red and the mop of brown hair panting like a broken dog hadn't been with them from the start. If Skiddy remembered correctly, Grady had appeared one day about six months ago with his elder brother Barney. Yet, Barney hadn't been apt to following Rylie's barbaric canons and had been dead at the hand of the latter for about four months now.
"So what's the old dictator want today? Want me to walk Horance because he forgot to walk 'em last night?" Skiddy implored lightly, yet unable to ward off an undertone of seriousness.
Grady feverishly shook his head, beads of sweats flying off the ends of his hair as he did so. "No, Skiddy, no. Rylie's lookin for ya."
Skiddy cocked a brow. "Oh, is that right, then? And what's his Highness want now?"
Grady did not seem to be deterred by the airiness in Skiddy's statement. Instead, he cast his gaze over his shoulder quickly as though he were frightened that some unknown force was creeping up upon him, before he hoisted himself onto the edge of the lower bunk, his thin fingers hooking into the upper bunk's flat mattress. "No, Skiddy," he replied, his eyes wide and serious, a note of panic laced within his voice. "Rylie's lookin' for ya. I don't know all that happened, but it seems like you and some other guys were sayin' things 'bout him and Horance last night and Rylie caught wind of it--"
Immediately, Skiddy Sniper's features changed as his eyes suddenly grew hard and hawk-like, his lips settling into a scowl. With cat-like reflexes, he grabbed onto Grady's collar with his right hand, surprising the boy so that he released a yelp and nearly lost his footing.
Skiddy brought Grady's face close to his, close enough to see the fear seeping through his pores. "Grady, Rylie knows what?"
Grady's voice was released from his tongue with a high pitch. "Skiddy, I don't know all the details, I'se swears on Barney's grave I don't! All I know is that I was at the distribution center and Rylie was walkin' around askin' where you were. He looked-well ya know how he gits-he had that look on his face and also had Cards, Duke, and Sparky pulled out of line. I heard him talkin' to them, sayin' that he heard some stuff they said and was wonderin' where ya was. Skiddy, he had that look on his face and I jist got scared-I got so scared Skiddy and so I ran back here to tell ya--"
Skiddy's clenched grip abruptly opened, sending Grady O' Gill to his final resting place on the splintered floor with a shrill cry. He landed hard, his legs spread-eagle and his spectacles dangling from one ear.
Skiddy lowered himself from the bunk in a fluid motion, his ice blue eyes staring past Grady, reflecting the surging red hate that pulsed through him. His right hand went to his back pocket. It was there, his switchblade.
As he strode quickly across the groaning floorboards, he suddenly halted and turned over his shoulder, his eyes burning into Grady's. "You say he's at the distribution center?"
Grady, still sprawled awkwardly on the ground, nodded his head, appearing as though he could break down and release tears to rival torrents of rain in the cruelest of storms. He was not one who fancied confrontations, especially when the glittering blades were bared and they were soon stained with glimmering red. Though, living in Rylie Lyner's Queens was not likely the most suitable quarters for him-bloody riots breaking out on the streets amongst the newsies was as common as the selling of papes.
"Yeah, Skiddy, the distribution center, at least, he was there when I left."
Skiddy had spun on his heel, his face hardened in determination, when Grady spoke up again, causing the former to turn once more.
"Skiddy, please be careful. Please be careful," Grady pleaded with an underlying desperation.
Skiddy could not but help feel a twinge of sympathy as he regarded the other newsie from across the room. No, Grady O' Gill was not too fond of the fights at all. He had never been what one could necessarily classify as 'wild,' yet Rylie Lyner sure as hell did a number on his brain when he killed Barney O' Gill right in front of his little brother's eyes. Kid was afraid of his own shadow now.
Skiddy released a sigh, his features somewhat softening. "Kid, careful is a word that ain't in ya vocabulary when Rylie Lyner's around."
Grady O' Gill's wide, sorrowful, innocent hazel eyes were the last site Skiddy Sniper took in before he turned once more and exited the bunkroom in a flourish, thundering down the howling stairs and out of the Queens Newsboys Lodging House. As soon as he even set one foot out the door, the disgustingly hot and breathless early June sun hit him like a speeding freight train.
As he trotted down the stairs, reaching the cobblestone walk and making a sharp right, he absentmindedly rolled his sleeves past his lanky elbows, his skin already reacting by producing the first beads of perspiration. His gait impassioned and his fire blue eyes set, he made his way to the distribution center.
He knew not at all how many comments were thrown at him as he continued without breaking stride. Most likely, the news had spread like a fire being fed more and more kerosene. Whether they had been at the distribution center to hear of Rylie's beckoning of Skiddy of whether they had already been selling their papes, it seemed as though the entire newsboy populous Queens knew.
Those that were still loyal to the ways of Old Queens and Jimmy Sprites tried to gain his attention that Lyner had the others and was seeking him out like a hunter stalking an endangered animal. Those who laid their alliances in the Lyners mockingly shouted that perhaps once and for all the ones that had known Jimmy Sprites the best were finally getting what was due when Sprites died-a blade in their flesh. Those that were indifferent, their quiet comments had always been the most gut wrenching. They were the ones that were perhaps in the most peril, for they were loyal to both Sprites and Lyner and would choose sides when ever was most agreeable.
Now as he past them, those dirty bummers that he almost considered worse than the hulking, thuggish brutes that obeyed Lyners themselves, he felt his malevolence kindle and crackle even more. Of course, when the Lyners were not around, they would carefully look over their shoulder and back to Skiddy and whisper in the lowest octave that perhaps Queens would be cleansed of Rylie and Horance once and for all. Alas, those who happened to be positioned by the Lyner newsies would eagerly join in with their ruthless remarks.
Yes, those were the ones Skiddy Sniper despised the most. The ones who had always remained on the skirts; the ones who had claimed kin to both sides yet could switch loyalties at a whim.
The son of a whore sun and its damn rays felt like they were boring themselves into his skin and igniting scorching blazes underneath it.
Bringing an upper arm to his brow to wipe away the perspiration, Skiddy released a broken breath. As he neared closer to the distribution center, his hand once more went to his back pocket, feeling the sleek outline of the switchblade that was only two years in age. It was quite comical indeed, for he never used to carry any sort of weapon on him under Jimmy, alas, it was only when Rylie took the reins and drove Queens into the goddamn ground that he only started to carry a blade. You'd be quite foolish and possibly quite dead if you did not.
He brought his hand once more laxly to his side, yet, on a second notion, palmed the blade, allowing him to easily flick it open when the time came.
And then he was standing in front of the distribution center. A wave of overpowering sickness washed over him, and he had to keep from physically doubling over. His breathing became labored and his trachea soon felt as barren and dry as the most arid desert.
They were all intermingled, the Sprites and Lyner newsies, a fantastically eerie silence and stillness seemingly to have drifting across the mass. The Sprites' littered the outer-banks, their mortal terror deceptively concealed by expressions of immaculate hatred. The grotesque, lumbering Lyners', their innumerable ripples of muscle glistening with sweat, stood before them, hindering them from the center circle.
Skiddy's breath bated painfully in his throat as he beheld the select inner gathering. His three truest and greatest friends on the surface of the entire earth, Cards Mahoney, Duke Keller, and Sparky Spangler, all stood motionless, cool yet ready in a moment's notice to reach for their blades, their burning eyes all upon Rylie Lyner.
Regarding Rylie Lyner, the beans of sun reflecting off his thin spectacles, if was almost laugh inducing how one minute, impossibly thin in stature boy could evoke so much-utter fear into the hearts of others. He stood, his weight settled upon one leg, arms crossed over his scrawny chest, listlessly flickering his gaze around. And then he lowered his eyes and they fell upon Skiddy.
Immediately, his weight changed and a disgusting smile slithered up his thin lips. "Why Mr. Sniper finally bestows us with his presence. Come closer, will you not, Mr. Sniper? We have so much to chat about."
Skiddy's eyes narrowed, as he willed his legs to carry him forward past the newsies and closer to Rylie, his fingers tightening around the closed switchblade. He stopped immediately before Rylie, and with a sick pleasure his mind burst with elation at beholding Rylie Lyner's disgusting face, a joyous reminder of the time Sarah Sprites had shattered his nose, a nose which had never properly healed, leaving it twisted and concave and his spectacles always riding it slanted.
"So, what's this I'se hear, Rylie. You got some business with me?"
Rylie's cold brown eyes glittered like chips of glass, as he wore that same amused expression on his face. "No, Skiddy, actually not just with you-with your three other pals also."
Skiddy's gaze flickered over Lyner's shoulder to observe Cards, Duke, and Sparky. His grip on the blade in his palm grew tighter. "What about?" he inquired, though he knew the answer. Last night he, Cards, Sparky, and Duke had went over to Dom's, a low-life cheap, disgusting tavern as not to be disturbed by the Lyners for a chance. The Lyners, the majority of them congregated over at Jim's, a spot that had been the central gathering for Jimmy's boys until Rylie slit his neck. Jim's had been a pretty decent joint at that, a place where laughter always seemed to permeate the air like a glorious infection, until Lyner and his stinking bastards took it over and turned it into one of the most dangerous spots in all of Queens. They had been talking, the four of them, and throwing back a few beers. And being intoxicated and the most loyal to the memory of Jimmy, they had uttered some curses about Rylie and Horance that were bluer than the sky. Of course, as they had uttered them, they had not seen any Lyners, at least Skiddy didn't, and the only explanation for Rylie finding out had to be because of one those damn moderate newsies had run and told him.
"Oh, I think you know," Rylie chided. "Some nasty little things you and your three chums said about me last night at a tavern?" He moved closer to Skiddy, his eyes cold and malicious despite the lightness in his tone. "But I know you Sniper. You wouldn't have said such rude comments. You know who's leader now, don't ya?"
Skiddy winced with revulsion as Lyner pressed his face closer to his. Just looking into those hard, cold eyes caused the hate that had been blazing in his chest to suddenly turn into a roaring fireball and shoot up his throat and out his mouth. "The fuck I wouldn't!" Skiddy hissed, his eyes narrowed with hate. "I said that someone should bash in ya fuckin' brains and end all this once and for all. And no matter how many of us ya kill, you have never been the leader and will never be the leader. Jimmy Sprites will always live on whether you like it or not!"
By the way Lyner's face inclined and by the stain of crimson it took on, Skiddy knew he had struck a nerve deep down under that masquerade of endless intellect. It wasn't the death threats that bothered Lyner-he had been challenged so many times that they would most likely be equivalent to every single grain of sand under the sun, but it was the mentioning of Jimmy Sprites' name to his face. He despised that name with a raging passion, everyone with half a damn brain knew that.
The bewilderment at Skiddy's audacity seemed to have spread through the atmosphere like crackling electricity, for all leaned forward just an iota more, on edge to witness what would occur.
Rylie only closed his eyes, as though trying to mediate his fury away as Horance stepped forward, producing his switch with a flourish, directing it towards Skiddy.
"Want me to kill 'em, Ry?" he implored in his deep, idiotic voice.
Rylie shook his head and placed an upturned palm in his brother's direction, signifying him to halt. Horance was muttering grumbles under his breath as he begrudgingly put his blade away, Rylie opening his burning eyes once more.
He stepped closer to Skiddy, his gaze never once faltering. "I ought to gut you like a fish right now," he said in a low, calculating voice tainted with bridled rage.
Skiddy only cocked an insolent brow, his eyes glazed over in hate. "Then why don't you?"
Rylie stepped back, his eyes waxing. Gazing into those eyes, Skiddy suddenly felt an icy shot of fear pierce his soul. For that one pregnant moment everything to hang in too much of a perfect suspension, it was Rylie's next motion that caused him trepidation.
And it all occurred so quickly, so sleekly, that Skiddy Sniper hardly even realized what was taking place. It was expeditiously, with so much fluidity, that Rylie Lyner pulled his switchblade from his back pocket and turned over his shoulder, releasing a piercing war-cry as he unsheathed the glittering blade, and bringing his arm in a wide semi-circle, that Skiddy only saw the after effect of the blade being driven into the side of Cards' neck to the hilt, and the thick, iridescent blood that spurted from the gaping would, spraying all those around.
It was delayed reaction for not only Skiddy himself, but for all other newsies bearing witness as they regarded the gruesome slaying.
Rylie released the hilt and stumbled back as Cards began to convulse. He choked out incomprehensible cries, red spilling from his words. He brought his hands to the wound and held it tight, the claret seeping feverishly through his closed fingers and spilling to the ground below. He fell to his knees, gagging and shaking, almost his entire being stained with crimson. And then his eyes rolled back into his head, revealing only the unnerving whites, as he finally fell to his stomach.
And Cards Mahoney was dead. It was an ignoble way to die, sprawled in an ungodly position on his stomach, a thick pool of red forming under him, causing some of the Lyners to step away so it did not soil their shoes.
Rylie was hunched over, his breathing heavy. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then bent over, gripping the hilt of the switch and pulling the blade out of the cadaver's neck with a sick oozing sound. He turned around to face Skiddy, his chest heaving and his cheeks blotched with red, holding the murderous bitch upwards, the hell-fire red blood glittering in the sunlight.
"Oh," he said through labored breaths. "I guess I meant to kill you, Sniper. But, but it's just that all you Jimmy Sprites fuckers look all the same."
The sparks that were flickering in Skiddy Sprites had nothing on the inferno that erupted inside him at that moment. His face twisting into an expression of desperate hate, he produced the switchblade he had been harboring in his palm and quickly flicked it open. He leapt at Rylie, screaming and bellowing curses. Yet, Rylie was quick and fell to his haunches, pushing his hands up so they connected with Skiddy's underside and he was able to push Skiddy over his head.
Skiddy hit the ground hard, his fall being broken by Cards' cadaver. The fall had caused his hand to land at an odd position, therefore bringing the blade close to his face and cutting a gash across his left cheek. He quickly propped himself up, feeling nauseated at the fact that he was laying in his friend's congealing blood, and a large amount of his body was covered with the deep red. He lifted his hands to his face, and released a soft groan as he spread his fingers, the red causing his hands to resemble those that were webbed. He then looked over the tips of his fingers and to Cards' lifeless corpse and was brutally sick right there and then.
It was while he was audibly disgorging his guts out that he heard the crowds unite in one impossibly loud war cry, and the thundering of many footsteps as both sides charged each other.
He was bent over, feeling sick and tired and weak, as he was sharply pushed here and there by the warring newsies that stampeded over him, fought next to him, fell over him. He then felt himself being roughly pulled to his feet by Sparky Spangler. Sparky had one arm around his torso as the other shook his head.
"Skid, Skid, you okay?"
The world was blurry to Skiddy Sniper as though tears blinded his vision. He was about to murmur that he was fine when a newsie-arguably a Lyner by the sheer impact-forcibly struck his side, causing he and Sparky to stumble. The jolt also cleared his mind and it dawned upon him the magnitude of the rumble. There had not been one like it since the day Jimmy Sprites died. It was as though both sides were fighting with an utmost passion, an utmost vengeance. As though those loyal to Jimmy had finally just grown too incredibly fed up with Rylie and Horance Lyner and were fighting for their independence, for their dignity, for their souls.
It was civil war.
A piercing scream suddenly shattered Skiddy's thoughts as he turned his head, an intense fear of sickness and hatred surging through him. Throughout the feuding newsies, Horance had abruptly halted in his slaying of the innocent to perform for his brother a malevolent act. In his muscular, sweaty clutches, he held a struggling Sparky in a grip of death. At his feet was Duke Keller, lying lifeless, his neck having been broken with one quick twist courtesy of Horance Lyner. Rylie stood to his hulking brother's right, a malicious grin playing upon his thin lips under his shattered nose.
Skiddy could only stare blankly, numbed by the sudden notion that two of his best friends had been murdered in one rumble, his gaze flickering from Duke to the trio.
"I am sorry, to do this, really I am, Skiddy," Rylie said with a steely- amusement, his teeth stark against the mask of red that was his face. "All these innocent lives would not have to succumb to my boys if only you would have made the transition more easily to my way instead of clinging so desperately to James Sprites'--"
"Fuck you!" Skiddy spat, stricken for any more words to retaliate with. His world was shattering for the final time around him and he could do nothing to halt it.
Rylie only shook his head, a mock expression of hurt. "Such nasty curses, Horance, from such a handsome boy?"
Horance only grinned stupidly, his grip on Sparky becoming tighter.
Skiddy felt the sudden, unwanted tears start to well in his eyes as he regarded Sparky. "Let him go, please let him go!" he pleaded, bartering for his final true friend's life.
Rylie cocked a brow and turned to Horance. "Let him go. What d'ya say, Horance, should I let him go?"
Horance's idiotic expression only got broader as he shook his head. "No."
"No," Rylie said, his tongue running over the words as though they were sleek ice, his head turning once more towards Skiddy. "My words exactly."
And with that same cat-like quickness, Rylie had retrieved the already stained-blade, and without every even thinking twice drove it into Sparky's crown.
Sparky released a wretched, horrid gasp and the Lyner brothers only laughed mirthfully as they watched the blood cascade from the wound, streaming down Sparky's head like miniature red rivers. To add further insult, Rylie gave the blade a twist, causing the skin to rip away to reveal shards of the skull. Horance then loosened his grip, allowing Sparky's cadaver to fall atop Duke's.
Regarding the mutilated corpses, Skiddy felt the hot tears stream down his cheeks and the pain start to rip his insides to pieces.
Rylie bent down listlessly and tugged the blade out of Sparky's head, straightening slowly and letting his eyes fall upon Skiddy. As he stepped forward, his hateful brown eyes dancing with elation, baring the blade in front of him, Skiddy stumbled back, his vision blinded by tears for real this time.
"Well, well, well, Sniper," Rylie commented, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It seems as all those who were closest and most loyal to James Sprites are dead. All except-you."
Skiddy was sobbing now. "You can kill me, you can kill all of us, but we'se still gonna survive! Jimmy Sprites will always survive, whether ya like it or not!"
Rylie cocked his head. "Not if your all dead."
"Sarah! There's always Sarah! She'll be back! She'll avenge all who have fallen and she'll kill you! She'll kill you!" Skiddy's words were uncalculated and rambling. As he was stumbling backwards, he came across Cards' corpse and fell backwards.
Rylie Lyner approached him, loomed over him, his eyes cold, dark-evil. "Good-bye, Skiddy," he simply said, before drawing back his hand and hurling the knife so that it landed in its resting place in Skiddy's heart.
The pain was absolutely fantastic, excruciating. Skiddy involuntarily gripped the hilt, blood coating his hands, as he began to gasp. It was ending, it was all ending. His life was flashing before him, a notion that he had only thought a fancy before. He'd be in a better place with all his friends once more: Jimmy, Duke, Cards, and Sparky. His blue eyes rested upon Rylie Lyner's brown ones, and he couldn't help but detect the slightest trace of fear within them.
And the breath was stolen one last time from his lungs and the world became dark. His grip loosened around the hilt and he fell backwards, his back landing upon Cards.
Rylie regarded him for a few more minutes before he spat at his feet and whispered under his breath, "Goddamn you all to hell." He then turned, and panned the incredulous scene around him, of blood and death and hate and blades reflecting the early morning sun.
"STOP THIS!" he screamed. "STOP! THE BULLS WILL BE HERE! LEAVE THE DEAD AND RUN!"
His boys, they finished their blows and then turned and were out of the distribution center as though the Devil were on their heels. Jimmy's newsies, they were left battered and bruised and full of mortal fear. When the Lyners had fled only then could they survey the full damage and their fallen, and he surveyed with a proud smile. Those sons of bitches that had always kept the Jimmy Sprites loyalty alive were slain, lying ungracefully in their own blood.
Sure, Lyner himself had lost some of his boys, but it still could not hinder the sick satisfaction he felt. Alas, as his eyes fell to the corpse of Skiddy Sniper, his smile faltered and fell. Sniper's words haunted him. Yet, before he could ponder them any longer, Horance joined his side, jolting him out of his thoughts by touching his elbow.
"Ry, we'se gotta scat, da bulls'll be comin' soon."
Rylie absentmindedly shook his head. "Right, Hor, let's go."
After they had run a few blocks, the high of the fight still surging through them, they slowed and walked side-by-side at a slower pace. Horance was panting desperately, as he always did after too much strenuous activity and sweating like the sky rains.
"Ry," Horance panted, wiping a muscular forearm across his brow. "You know its not gonna end. I mean, there might not be no more uprisins in Queens for a while, but ya know that their gonna git there allies. Manhattan."
Rylie snorted darkly and shook his head. "Manhattan? Ooh, look at me Horance I'm pissing my pants here. All they have is Jack Kelly and a bunch of broken spirits. Besides, if they try to pull anything else they will wish they never would-I'll get Nero and all his boys to teach them a lesson."
Horance released a low whistle. "Nero Night and his Midtown boys, aye?"
Rylie nodded his eyes cold. "Yeah, Nero Night and nonetheless. Nonetheless."
Summer--1899
Skiddy Sniper elicited a sigh. His arms propped behind his head, he aimlessly thrust his right leg into the air, placing the sole of his foot flat against the ceiling, causing chips of plaster to wrench themselves free and fall onto him like some sort of comical snow. Though, ignoring the fallen plaster, his deep blue eyes concentrated on how unbelievably weatherworn his shoe was. The blackness had long since lost its luster, and if he wriggled his toes in just the right way, he could see the tops of them peeking out in the miscellaneous holes. A sudden, hot red anger flashed across him, and with a slight growl, he quickly lowered his foot, the revoltingly flat mattress reverberating slightly under the impact. He cast his eyes down, though not being able to see over the edge of the bed averted them back to the ceiling.
I wonder how much longer it will be, he thought with a certain grim humor.
He started by counting down from ten, his eyes following the cracks in the plaster ceiling, and it was almost exactly as he got to one that he heard the floorboards creak under weight and the short breathing. The footsteps stopped just below the bunk.
"Skiddy, Skiddy, what are ya still doin' here? The Lyners--" The words were quick and urging.
"Right on time," Skiddy murmured under his breath, listlessly sitting up, allowing his left leg to dangle lazily over the side of the bunk. His eyes fell to Grady O' Gill, a wire-thin, bookish in appearance, short in stature newsie. At this moment, he was bent over, his small chest heaving under the deep breaths he desperately inhaled for life force, his spectacles dangling on the bridge of his nose, want to fall of like they had so many times before.
Grady finally straightened, and Skiddy regarded him with a somewhat air of seniority, not in an arrogant sense, yet in a sorrowful one. This newsie with the cheeks blotched with red and the mop of brown hair panting like a broken dog hadn't been with them from the start. If Skiddy remembered correctly, Grady had appeared one day about six months ago with his elder brother Barney. Yet, Barney hadn't been apt to following Rylie's barbaric canons and had been dead at the hand of the latter for about four months now.
"So what's the old dictator want today? Want me to walk Horance because he forgot to walk 'em last night?" Skiddy implored lightly, yet unable to ward off an undertone of seriousness.
Grady feverishly shook his head, beads of sweats flying off the ends of his hair as he did so. "No, Skiddy, no. Rylie's lookin for ya."
Skiddy cocked a brow. "Oh, is that right, then? And what's his Highness want now?"
Grady did not seem to be deterred by the airiness in Skiddy's statement. Instead, he cast his gaze over his shoulder quickly as though he were frightened that some unknown force was creeping up upon him, before he hoisted himself onto the edge of the lower bunk, his thin fingers hooking into the upper bunk's flat mattress. "No, Skiddy," he replied, his eyes wide and serious, a note of panic laced within his voice. "Rylie's lookin' for ya. I don't know all that happened, but it seems like you and some other guys were sayin' things 'bout him and Horance last night and Rylie caught wind of it--"
Immediately, Skiddy Sniper's features changed as his eyes suddenly grew hard and hawk-like, his lips settling into a scowl. With cat-like reflexes, he grabbed onto Grady's collar with his right hand, surprising the boy so that he released a yelp and nearly lost his footing.
Skiddy brought Grady's face close to his, close enough to see the fear seeping through his pores. "Grady, Rylie knows what?"
Grady's voice was released from his tongue with a high pitch. "Skiddy, I don't know all the details, I'se swears on Barney's grave I don't! All I know is that I was at the distribution center and Rylie was walkin' around askin' where you were. He looked-well ya know how he gits-he had that look on his face and also had Cards, Duke, and Sparky pulled out of line. I heard him talkin' to them, sayin' that he heard some stuff they said and was wonderin' where ya was. Skiddy, he had that look on his face and I jist got scared-I got so scared Skiddy and so I ran back here to tell ya--"
Skiddy's clenched grip abruptly opened, sending Grady O' Gill to his final resting place on the splintered floor with a shrill cry. He landed hard, his legs spread-eagle and his spectacles dangling from one ear.
Skiddy lowered himself from the bunk in a fluid motion, his ice blue eyes staring past Grady, reflecting the surging red hate that pulsed through him. His right hand went to his back pocket. It was there, his switchblade.
As he strode quickly across the groaning floorboards, he suddenly halted and turned over his shoulder, his eyes burning into Grady's. "You say he's at the distribution center?"
Grady, still sprawled awkwardly on the ground, nodded his head, appearing as though he could break down and release tears to rival torrents of rain in the cruelest of storms. He was not one who fancied confrontations, especially when the glittering blades were bared and they were soon stained with glimmering red. Though, living in Rylie Lyner's Queens was not likely the most suitable quarters for him-bloody riots breaking out on the streets amongst the newsies was as common as the selling of papes.
"Yeah, Skiddy, the distribution center, at least, he was there when I left."
Skiddy had spun on his heel, his face hardened in determination, when Grady spoke up again, causing the former to turn once more.
"Skiddy, please be careful. Please be careful," Grady pleaded with an underlying desperation.
Skiddy could not but help feel a twinge of sympathy as he regarded the other newsie from across the room. No, Grady O' Gill was not too fond of the fights at all. He had never been what one could necessarily classify as 'wild,' yet Rylie Lyner sure as hell did a number on his brain when he killed Barney O' Gill right in front of his little brother's eyes. Kid was afraid of his own shadow now.
Skiddy released a sigh, his features somewhat softening. "Kid, careful is a word that ain't in ya vocabulary when Rylie Lyner's around."
Grady O' Gill's wide, sorrowful, innocent hazel eyes were the last site Skiddy Sniper took in before he turned once more and exited the bunkroom in a flourish, thundering down the howling stairs and out of the Queens Newsboys Lodging House. As soon as he even set one foot out the door, the disgustingly hot and breathless early June sun hit him like a speeding freight train.
As he trotted down the stairs, reaching the cobblestone walk and making a sharp right, he absentmindedly rolled his sleeves past his lanky elbows, his skin already reacting by producing the first beads of perspiration. His gait impassioned and his fire blue eyes set, he made his way to the distribution center.
He knew not at all how many comments were thrown at him as he continued without breaking stride. Most likely, the news had spread like a fire being fed more and more kerosene. Whether they had been at the distribution center to hear of Rylie's beckoning of Skiddy of whether they had already been selling their papes, it seemed as though the entire newsboy populous Queens knew.
Those that were still loyal to the ways of Old Queens and Jimmy Sprites tried to gain his attention that Lyner had the others and was seeking him out like a hunter stalking an endangered animal. Those who laid their alliances in the Lyners mockingly shouted that perhaps once and for all the ones that had known Jimmy Sprites the best were finally getting what was due when Sprites died-a blade in their flesh. Those that were indifferent, their quiet comments had always been the most gut wrenching. They were the ones that were perhaps in the most peril, for they were loyal to both Sprites and Lyner and would choose sides when ever was most agreeable.
Now as he past them, those dirty bummers that he almost considered worse than the hulking, thuggish brutes that obeyed Lyners themselves, he felt his malevolence kindle and crackle even more. Of course, when the Lyners were not around, they would carefully look over their shoulder and back to Skiddy and whisper in the lowest octave that perhaps Queens would be cleansed of Rylie and Horance once and for all. Alas, those who happened to be positioned by the Lyner newsies would eagerly join in with their ruthless remarks.
Yes, those were the ones Skiddy Sniper despised the most. The ones who had always remained on the skirts; the ones who had claimed kin to both sides yet could switch loyalties at a whim.
The son of a whore sun and its damn rays felt like they were boring themselves into his skin and igniting scorching blazes underneath it.
Bringing an upper arm to his brow to wipe away the perspiration, Skiddy released a broken breath. As he neared closer to the distribution center, his hand once more went to his back pocket, feeling the sleek outline of the switchblade that was only two years in age. It was quite comical indeed, for he never used to carry any sort of weapon on him under Jimmy, alas, it was only when Rylie took the reins and drove Queens into the goddamn ground that he only started to carry a blade. You'd be quite foolish and possibly quite dead if you did not.
He brought his hand once more laxly to his side, yet, on a second notion, palmed the blade, allowing him to easily flick it open when the time came.
And then he was standing in front of the distribution center. A wave of overpowering sickness washed over him, and he had to keep from physically doubling over. His breathing became labored and his trachea soon felt as barren and dry as the most arid desert.
They were all intermingled, the Sprites and Lyner newsies, a fantastically eerie silence and stillness seemingly to have drifting across the mass. The Sprites' littered the outer-banks, their mortal terror deceptively concealed by expressions of immaculate hatred. The grotesque, lumbering Lyners', their innumerable ripples of muscle glistening with sweat, stood before them, hindering them from the center circle.
Skiddy's breath bated painfully in his throat as he beheld the select inner gathering. His three truest and greatest friends on the surface of the entire earth, Cards Mahoney, Duke Keller, and Sparky Spangler, all stood motionless, cool yet ready in a moment's notice to reach for their blades, their burning eyes all upon Rylie Lyner.
Regarding Rylie Lyner, the beans of sun reflecting off his thin spectacles, if was almost laugh inducing how one minute, impossibly thin in stature boy could evoke so much-utter fear into the hearts of others. He stood, his weight settled upon one leg, arms crossed over his scrawny chest, listlessly flickering his gaze around. And then he lowered his eyes and they fell upon Skiddy.
Immediately, his weight changed and a disgusting smile slithered up his thin lips. "Why Mr. Sniper finally bestows us with his presence. Come closer, will you not, Mr. Sniper? We have so much to chat about."
Skiddy's eyes narrowed, as he willed his legs to carry him forward past the newsies and closer to Rylie, his fingers tightening around the closed switchblade. He stopped immediately before Rylie, and with a sick pleasure his mind burst with elation at beholding Rylie Lyner's disgusting face, a joyous reminder of the time Sarah Sprites had shattered his nose, a nose which had never properly healed, leaving it twisted and concave and his spectacles always riding it slanted.
"So, what's this I'se hear, Rylie. You got some business with me?"
Rylie's cold brown eyes glittered like chips of glass, as he wore that same amused expression on his face. "No, Skiddy, actually not just with you-with your three other pals also."
Skiddy's gaze flickered over Lyner's shoulder to observe Cards, Duke, and Sparky. His grip on the blade in his palm grew tighter. "What about?" he inquired, though he knew the answer. Last night he, Cards, Sparky, and Duke had went over to Dom's, a low-life cheap, disgusting tavern as not to be disturbed by the Lyners for a chance. The Lyners, the majority of them congregated over at Jim's, a spot that had been the central gathering for Jimmy's boys until Rylie slit his neck. Jim's had been a pretty decent joint at that, a place where laughter always seemed to permeate the air like a glorious infection, until Lyner and his stinking bastards took it over and turned it into one of the most dangerous spots in all of Queens. They had been talking, the four of them, and throwing back a few beers. And being intoxicated and the most loyal to the memory of Jimmy, they had uttered some curses about Rylie and Horance that were bluer than the sky. Of course, as they had uttered them, they had not seen any Lyners, at least Skiddy didn't, and the only explanation for Rylie finding out had to be because of one those damn moderate newsies had run and told him.
"Oh, I think you know," Rylie chided. "Some nasty little things you and your three chums said about me last night at a tavern?" He moved closer to Skiddy, his eyes cold and malicious despite the lightness in his tone. "But I know you Sniper. You wouldn't have said such rude comments. You know who's leader now, don't ya?"
Skiddy winced with revulsion as Lyner pressed his face closer to his. Just looking into those hard, cold eyes caused the hate that had been blazing in his chest to suddenly turn into a roaring fireball and shoot up his throat and out his mouth. "The fuck I wouldn't!" Skiddy hissed, his eyes narrowed with hate. "I said that someone should bash in ya fuckin' brains and end all this once and for all. And no matter how many of us ya kill, you have never been the leader and will never be the leader. Jimmy Sprites will always live on whether you like it or not!"
By the way Lyner's face inclined and by the stain of crimson it took on, Skiddy knew he had struck a nerve deep down under that masquerade of endless intellect. It wasn't the death threats that bothered Lyner-he had been challenged so many times that they would most likely be equivalent to every single grain of sand under the sun, but it was the mentioning of Jimmy Sprites' name to his face. He despised that name with a raging passion, everyone with half a damn brain knew that.
The bewilderment at Skiddy's audacity seemed to have spread through the atmosphere like crackling electricity, for all leaned forward just an iota more, on edge to witness what would occur.
Rylie only closed his eyes, as though trying to mediate his fury away as Horance stepped forward, producing his switch with a flourish, directing it towards Skiddy.
"Want me to kill 'em, Ry?" he implored in his deep, idiotic voice.
Rylie shook his head and placed an upturned palm in his brother's direction, signifying him to halt. Horance was muttering grumbles under his breath as he begrudgingly put his blade away, Rylie opening his burning eyes once more.
He stepped closer to Skiddy, his gaze never once faltering. "I ought to gut you like a fish right now," he said in a low, calculating voice tainted with bridled rage.
Skiddy only cocked an insolent brow, his eyes glazed over in hate. "Then why don't you?"
Rylie stepped back, his eyes waxing. Gazing into those eyes, Skiddy suddenly felt an icy shot of fear pierce his soul. For that one pregnant moment everything to hang in too much of a perfect suspension, it was Rylie's next motion that caused him trepidation.
And it all occurred so quickly, so sleekly, that Skiddy Sniper hardly even realized what was taking place. It was expeditiously, with so much fluidity, that Rylie Lyner pulled his switchblade from his back pocket and turned over his shoulder, releasing a piercing war-cry as he unsheathed the glittering blade, and bringing his arm in a wide semi-circle, that Skiddy only saw the after effect of the blade being driven into the side of Cards' neck to the hilt, and the thick, iridescent blood that spurted from the gaping would, spraying all those around.
It was delayed reaction for not only Skiddy himself, but for all other newsies bearing witness as they regarded the gruesome slaying.
Rylie released the hilt and stumbled back as Cards began to convulse. He choked out incomprehensible cries, red spilling from his words. He brought his hands to the wound and held it tight, the claret seeping feverishly through his closed fingers and spilling to the ground below. He fell to his knees, gagging and shaking, almost his entire being stained with crimson. And then his eyes rolled back into his head, revealing only the unnerving whites, as he finally fell to his stomach.
And Cards Mahoney was dead. It was an ignoble way to die, sprawled in an ungodly position on his stomach, a thick pool of red forming under him, causing some of the Lyners to step away so it did not soil their shoes.
Rylie was hunched over, his breathing heavy. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then bent over, gripping the hilt of the switch and pulling the blade out of the cadaver's neck with a sick oozing sound. He turned around to face Skiddy, his chest heaving and his cheeks blotched with red, holding the murderous bitch upwards, the hell-fire red blood glittering in the sunlight.
"Oh," he said through labored breaths. "I guess I meant to kill you, Sniper. But, but it's just that all you Jimmy Sprites fuckers look all the same."
The sparks that were flickering in Skiddy Sprites had nothing on the inferno that erupted inside him at that moment. His face twisting into an expression of desperate hate, he produced the switchblade he had been harboring in his palm and quickly flicked it open. He leapt at Rylie, screaming and bellowing curses. Yet, Rylie was quick and fell to his haunches, pushing his hands up so they connected with Skiddy's underside and he was able to push Skiddy over his head.
Skiddy hit the ground hard, his fall being broken by Cards' cadaver. The fall had caused his hand to land at an odd position, therefore bringing the blade close to his face and cutting a gash across his left cheek. He quickly propped himself up, feeling nauseated at the fact that he was laying in his friend's congealing blood, and a large amount of his body was covered with the deep red. He lifted his hands to his face, and released a soft groan as he spread his fingers, the red causing his hands to resemble those that were webbed. He then looked over the tips of his fingers and to Cards' lifeless corpse and was brutally sick right there and then.
It was while he was audibly disgorging his guts out that he heard the crowds unite in one impossibly loud war cry, and the thundering of many footsteps as both sides charged each other.
He was bent over, feeling sick and tired and weak, as he was sharply pushed here and there by the warring newsies that stampeded over him, fought next to him, fell over him. He then felt himself being roughly pulled to his feet by Sparky Spangler. Sparky had one arm around his torso as the other shook his head.
"Skid, Skid, you okay?"
The world was blurry to Skiddy Sniper as though tears blinded his vision. He was about to murmur that he was fine when a newsie-arguably a Lyner by the sheer impact-forcibly struck his side, causing he and Sparky to stumble. The jolt also cleared his mind and it dawned upon him the magnitude of the rumble. There had not been one like it since the day Jimmy Sprites died. It was as though both sides were fighting with an utmost passion, an utmost vengeance. As though those loyal to Jimmy had finally just grown too incredibly fed up with Rylie and Horance Lyner and were fighting for their independence, for their dignity, for their souls.
It was civil war.
A piercing scream suddenly shattered Skiddy's thoughts as he turned his head, an intense fear of sickness and hatred surging through him. Throughout the feuding newsies, Horance had abruptly halted in his slaying of the innocent to perform for his brother a malevolent act. In his muscular, sweaty clutches, he held a struggling Sparky in a grip of death. At his feet was Duke Keller, lying lifeless, his neck having been broken with one quick twist courtesy of Horance Lyner. Rylie stood to his hulking brother's right, a malicious grin playing upon his thin lips under his shattered nose.
Skiddy could only stare blankly, numbed by the sudden notion that two of his best friends had been murdered in one rumble, his gaze flickering from Duke to the trio.
"I am sorry, to do this, really I am, Skiddy," Rylie said with a steely- amusement, his teeth stark against the mask of red that was his face. "All these innocent lives would not have to succumb to my boys if only you would have made the transition more easily to my way instead of clinging so desperately to James Sprites'--"
"Fuck you!" Skiddy spat, stricken for any more words to retaliate with. His world was shattering for the final time around him and he could do nothing to halt it.
Rylie only shook his head, a mock expression of hurt. "Such nasty curses, Horance, from such a handsome boy?"
Horance only grinned stupidly, his grip on Sparky becoming tighter.
Skiddy felt the sudden, unwanted tears start to well in his eyes as he regarded Sparky. "Let him go, please let him go!" he pleaded, bartering for his final true friend's life.
Rylie cocked a brow and turned to Horance. "Let him go. What d'ya say, Horance, should I let him go?"
Horance's idiotic expression only got broader as he shook his head. "No."
"No," Rylie said, his tongue running over the words as though they were sleek ice, his head turning once more towards Skiddy. "My words exactly."
And with that same cat-like quickness, Rylie had retrieved the already stained-blade, and without every even thinking twice drove it into Sparky's crown.
Sparky released a wretched, horrid gasp and the Lyner brothers only laughed mirthfully as they watched the blood cascade from the wound, streaming down Sparky's head like miniature red rivers. To add further insult, Rylie gave the blade a twist, causing the skin to rip away to reveal shards of the skull. Horance then loosened his grip, allowing Sparky's cadaver to fall atop Duke's.
Regarding the mutilated corpses, Skiddy felt the hot tears stream down his cheeks and the pain start to rip his insides to pieces.
Rylie bent down listlessly and tugged the blade out of Sparky's head, straightening slowly and letting his eyes fall upon Skiddy. As he stepped forward, his hateful brown eyes dancing with elation, baring the blade in front of him, Skiddy stumbled back, his vision blinded by tears for real this time.
"Well, well, well, Sniper," Rylie commented, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It seems as all those who were closest and most loyal to James Sprites are dead. All except-you."
Skiddy was sobbing now. "You can kill me, you can kill all of us, but we'se still gonna survive! Jimmy Sprites will always survive, whether ya like it or not!"
Rylie cocked his head. "Not if your all dead."
"Sarah! There's always Sarah! She'll be back! She'll avenge all who have fallen and she'll kill you! She'll kill you!" Skiddy's words were uncalculated and rambling. As he was stumbling backwards, he came across Cards' corpse and fell backwards.
Rylie Lyner approached him, loomed over him, his eyes cold, dark-evil. "Good-bye, Skiddy," he simply said, before drawing back his hand and hurling the knife so that it landed in its resting place in Skiddy's heart.
The pain was absolutely fantastic, excruciating. Skiddy involuntarily gripped the hilt, blood coating his hands, as he began to gasp. It was ending, it was all ending. His life was flashing before him, a notion that he had only thought a fancy before. He'd be in a better place with all his friends once more: Jimmy, Duke, Cards, and Sparky. His blue eyes rested upon Rylie Lyner's brown ones, and he couldn't help but detect the slightest trace of fear within them.
And the breath was stolen one last time from his lungs and the world became dark. His grip loosened around the hilt and he fell backwards, his back landing upon Cards.
Rylie regarded him for a few more minutes before he spat at his feet and whispered under his breath, "Goddamn you all to hell." He then turned, and panned the incredulous scene around him, of blood and death and hate and blades reflecting the early morning sun.
"STOP THIS!" he screamed. "STOP! THE BULLS WILL BE HERE! LEAVE THE DEAD AND RUN!"
His boys, they finished their blows and then turned and were out of the distribution center as though the Devil were on their heels. Jimmy's newsies, they were left battered and bruised and full of mortal fear. When the Lyners had fled only then could they survey the full damage and their fallen, and he surveyed with a proud smile. Those sons of bitches that had always kept the Jimmy Sprites loyalty alive were slain, lying ungracefully in their own blood.
Sure, Lyner himself had lost some of his boys, but it still could not hinder the sick satisfaction he felt. Alas, as his eyes fell to the corpse of Skiddy Sniper, his smile faltered and fell. Sniper's words haunted him. Yet, before he could ponder them any longer, Horance joined his side, jolting him out of his thoughts by touching his elbow.
"Ry, we'se gotta scat, da bulls'll be comin' soon."
Rylie absentmindedly shook his head. "Right, Hor, let's go."
After they had run a few blocks, the high of the fight still surging through them, they slowed and walked side-by-side at a slower pace. Horance was panting desperately, as he always did after too much strenuous activity and sweating like the sky rains.
"Ry," Horance panted, wiping a muscular forearm across his brow. "You know its not gonna end. I mean, there might not be no more uprisins in Queens for a while, but ya know that their gonna git there allies. Manhattan."
Rylie snorted darkly and shook his head. "Manhattan? Ooh, look at me Horance I'm pissing my pants here. All they have is Jack Kelly and a bunch of broken spirits. Besides, if they try to pull anything else they will wish they never would-I'll get Nero and all his boys to teach them a lesson."
Horance released a low whistle. "Nero Night and his Midtown boys, aye?"
Rylie nodded his eyes cold. "Yeah, Nero Night and nonetheless. Nonetheless."