As if by instinct, the group of five headed to the door simultaneously. After standing for what felt like ages, a single person turned the corner.
Lightning lit up the sky once again as more and more souls turned the corner.
(And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more.)
All of Manhattan and the whole of Brooklyn trudged through the snow that night, the demolishing defeat evident in their eyes that all had the same message: "We was beat when we was born."
From the shadows emerged monsters, hulking beasts being carried, seemingly impossibly, by the lumbering newsboys who sulked sadly down the snow-covered street.
And Katie's heart soared as she saw Spot walking, but fell as she saw that he was one of the boys working to hold up and carry this huge burden.
As the boys got closer, the group of five uttered a collective gasp as reality hit them all at once: The things they carried were people. People with no life in them; their lives had been stolen from inside of them through hatred.
Spot approached and stared at the small group before him.
"Go in. Sheets. On Floor." He intoned the words in monotone, his face betraying no emtion.
The girls turned and rushed up the stairs to find clean sheets. As they entered the bunkroom, Skittery woke from his sleep with a start.
"Wha--Wha's goin' on?" He asked, his voice hoarse.
"They're back. Go back to sleep." Scots said as she passed him, rubbing his cheek softly, reassuringly.
Grumbling slightly, Skittery lay back down and closed his eyes. Scots tucked his many disheveled covers back into place.
Back in the common room, Spot stood, a few Brooklynites on his sides, holding up a body; and to their left stood Jack, the stogie sucking newsy and another, the brown-haired glasses-wearer supporting the other.
As Katie's eyes fell on the bodies, her body froze.
Top.
Quail.
She heard Mugger's gasp and Scots' whimper of horror-stricken terror. The boys wordlessly set the bodies on the sheets, and all inside stared in dead silence at their fallen leaders.
Each was lost in their own thoughts, each thinking the same thing. Everyone knew. They knew Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly would be the new leaders; and they knew that nothing would ever be the same. they knew without speaking.
(People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.)
No one ever knew how long they stood there, their eyes riveted to the forms on the floor. Lightning flashed dangerously, lighting up nothing and no one but the two leaders on the floor, and the two leaders standing over them.
And everyone knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would all be leaders forever. For as long as time went on, nothing and no one could extinguish their fire.
And for as long as they stood there, it very well may have been hours, Spot felt himself losing control.
It was just all too much. He had expected people to get hurt, to be wounded, but for someone, especially Top, to die...It was impossbile for him to wrap his mind around.
And at long last, when he felt as if he would throw himself upon the floor to die along with his leader, Spot, looking down, stepped from the common room and into the night under the watchful eyes of the newsies.
(In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the old and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night,
And touched the sound of silence.)
There he stood, standing, as lightning lit the sky once again. Spot stood in the footprints tracked with their leaders' blood, his hands in his hair. His mind traveled back to the day of fighting, the night of death.
The morning went by viciously, mostly punches and tackles. But as the afternoon wore on, and tempers flared, Spot knew it had to end. But it didn't until late that night.
The boys fought with valor and dignity, all in near silence, throughout the day. Few words were spoken. It was quick, efficient, and secretive.
They fought into the night, strength and patience waning. Harlem brought out knives. And then the real hell broke loose.
It all began in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning when Skittery was stabbed in the arm. Mush jerked off his shirt immediately, wrapping it around the wound as Skittery screamed in anguish, his yells fading to silence as he was carried away by Pie-Eater and Mush, little Boots running off before them to alert the girls.
And after he was gone, Harlem stopped flaunting their knives and started using them for murder.
Jack and Spot were fighting a group of Harlem newsboys, and winning, when out of nowhere, the fight between Top and the Harlem leader escelated. As Top lunged into the leader, the knife the boy held in his hand was up and ready.
The sharp, lethal blade sliced into Top's neck, and by sheer dumb luck, hit his life force--a vein.
In a torrent of unbearable suffering, Top managed to cover the gash with his hand and use the cane he still gripped in his right hand to thrust it into the boy's upper abdomen, creating a large, shiny welt, disorienting him enough for Quail to rush in.
Top staggered off to the side, collapsing into a pile of crates. Spot and Jack, noticing the bright red splash of color out of the corner of their eyes, finished off the Harlem boys with a few swings of their fists, and rushed over.
"Top...You okay?" Spot asked, his eyes wide as he stared at the blood seeping through Top's long fingers.
Top opened his mouth to speak, and wet coughs wracked his powerful body. He put the hand not on his neck to his mouth, and when he pulled it away, his fingers were coated and dripped with blood.
Jack gaped like a fish out of water, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared incredulously at the devil red blood on Top's hands.
As Top looked up, frightened panic bulging in his dark eyes, blood stained his lips and teeth as it pooled up from his throat.
"Spot," he murmered, his eyes pleading for help, for anything, "Take...Take care of 'em. I love 'em. You'll be great Cole."
Spot blanched at the sound of his name, and hot, unshed tears sprang to his eyes as the helplessness of the situation hit him full force.
"Jared I can't," Spot knew he was pleading with God now, not Top, for only He would be able to save him now.
"You can do anything Cole. Go get 'em." And with those final words, Top seized Spot's cold hand in his own bloodied one and squeezed with all the strength he had left, which was not much; and was still.
And as Spot and Jack turned away, hearts pounding in rage and shock, they saw a fight between two boys stop as they both took notice of the dead stillness of Brooklyn's leader.
One boy, a Manhattan newsie, and the other, a boy from Harlem, stared at Top before looking back at one another.
The boy from Harlem looked back at his foe, and his eyes lost the glow of fight. Spot knew he had been fighting only to protect his 'family's' honor. The boy nodded slowly to the Manhattan newsie, and turned away.
As Quail had lunged at the Harlem leader, a large group of monsterous boys had jumped into the crazed passion that was the fight. Fists flew, knives glinted, and feet kicked, and when they finally backed away, Quail lay dead at the bottom.
And now, back in Brooklyn, they didn't even know what happened to Quail. He had been stabbed, punched, and kicked, but they didn't know what had actually been the fatal injury.
And now they were both gone. Jack Kelly, fifteen, and Spot Conlon, thirteen; fourteen the very next day, Tuesday; were leaders.
And what a present to receive. Death.
"You got what you wanted Conlon," Spot muttered to himself now. Power, leadership, everything he had wanted since he and Katie had left. And Brooklyn was the best of both worlds. The heart and morals of Manhattan, with the strength of Harlem, curse them.
In the rising dawn, Spot heard crunching footsteps appraoching. He turned, looking at the ground first, taking notice of the freshly fallen snow, snow that covered the footprints filled with blood.
Anger surged through Spot's veins as he realized that no one would know of the tragic deaths besides those directly involved.
But as he looked up, his anger, and his mask of control fell away.
Katie stood there in front of him, her skirts blwoing in the breeze as they had that first day in the City, when everything was alright, uncertain, but alright.
They gazed at oneanother, not speaking, just looking. Katie opened her mouth and voiced the one thing Spot needed to hear.
"Cole." As her lovely voice said his name, his real name, it broke; and Katie looked a him, pain and confusion in her eyes.
"God Katie." Spot could barely speak. "What have I done?"
With those words of self-blame, Cole Conlon, the scared little boy, returned for a brief second, and Katie, noting the fact that his beautiful eyes screamed for her, rushed to him, the details of her dream flooding back.
He had returned. And two had not.
And as they embraced, Cole crumpled into the snow, pulling Katie with him, where they sat, shivering, holding one another until the streets filled with people who knew nothing of the horror-filled, terror-run night Brooklyn and Manhattan had endured.
Those people had no dead leaders in their homes, no blood on their hands, and no loss in their souls.
And they didn't have to take care of forty boys just like them.
They weren't scared of the coming noon, scared of the coming evening, scared of the coming dawn.
But Cole Conlon was. And to lead, he couldn't be.
Spot Conlon had to lead. And lead he would.
In the days that followed, the girls shed tears and the boys tried not to, some succeeding, and some failing.
Mrs. Pan, who's family had a plot in the cemetary, gave the fallen heros two graves, the places reserved for the sons she could never have.
At the sevice, no minister spoke, no priest offered the words of God, no fool talked of God's Will.
As the people present looked into the open coffins, the sun hitting the faces of the boys, lighitng them up like angels, they knew that these boys would be there for them, heart and soul, within the new leaders.
And Katie looked into Top's face, the face of a boy she hadn't really known, but learned to trust with her life, and she knew he was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet. His clothes were clean, a bandana from Jack covering his neck. His face was immaculate and gorgeous, and his dark lashes spilled onto his tanned cheeks. The dark curls that all women so loved cascaded onto his forehead, curling in a way that melted Katie's heart.
She felt Scots weeping beside her, and the lovely young Scottish woman reached out trembling fingers and touched the cheek of a man she hadn't known she had loved until he was gone.
Quail lay as well, his blonde hair shaggy but neat, and his eyelids covering those cat-green eyes that pierced your soul with their cool heat. His dewy complexion glistened and his light pink lips sat in a full, relaxed pout.
They both looked so alive, so peaceful. Katie almost expected Top to climb out of his coffin and ask them, in harsh tones, why the hell they weren't out selling. But he didn't.
And Spot walked to the front of the large group as boys lowered the now covered coffins into the ground.
"We gotta move on. We gotta pay our respects, and keep livin'."
("Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence)
Feeling his breaths weaken, and his resolve to move on fade, Spot fell to his knees. Clasping his hands, he bowed his head and prayed.
"Come on God. If you're up there, come on. They were great men, God; great leaders, and they didn't deserve to die. They died protecting all of us, and each other. Just, just let 'em know that...That we love 'em."
And as he spoke, the newsboys and girls looked toward one another, and slowly fell to their knees on the wet grass; some looking down, others looking up, trying in vain to stop the scalding tears they felt on their cheeks.
"Please God. I...We need your help God. We don't know what to do. Help us God." His voice broke as he spoke, and as he continued to pray, it shook with the grief of a young man lost and alone. And terrified.
(And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets
are written on the alley walls
And tenement halls."
And whispered in the sounds of silence.)
Lightning lit up the sky once again as more and more souls turned the corner.
(And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more.)
All of Manhattan and the whole of Brooklyn trudged through the snow that night, the demolishing defeat evident in their eyes that all had the same message: "We was beat when we was born."
From the shadows emerged monsters, hulking beasts being carried, seemingly impossibly, by the lumbering newsboys who sulked sadly down the snow-covered street.
And Katie's heart soared as she saw Spot walking, but fell as she saw that he was one of the boys working to hold up and carry this huge burden.
As the boys got closer, the group of five uttered a collective gasp as reality hit them all at once: The things they carried were people. People with no life in them; their lives had been stolen from inside of them through hatred.
Spot approached and stared at the small group before him.
"Go in. Sheets. On Floor." He intoned the words in monotone, his face betraying no emtion.
The girls turned and rushed up the stairs to find clean sheets. As they entered the bunkroom, Skittery woke from his sleep with a start.
"Wha--Wha's goin' on?" He asked, his voice hoarse.
"They're back. Go back to sleep." Scots said as she passed him, rubbing his cheek softly, reassuringly.
Grumbling slightly, Skittery lay back down and closed his eyes. Scots tucked his many disheveled covers back into place.
Back in the common room, Spot stood, a few Brooklynites on his sides, holding up a body; and to their left stood Jack, the stogie sucking newsy and another, the brown-haired glasses-wearer supporting the other.
As Katie's eyes fell on the bodies, her body froze.
Top.
Quail.
She heard Mugger's gasp and Scots' whimper of horror-stricken terror. The boys wordlessly set the bodies on the sheets, and all inside stared in dead silence at their fallen leaders.
Each was lost in their own thoughts, each thinking the same thing. Everyone knew. They knew Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly would be the new leaders; and they knew that nothing would ever be the same. they knew without speaking.
(People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.)
No one ever knew how long they stood there, their eyes riveted to the forms on the floor. Lightning flashed dangerously, lighting up nothing and no one but the two leaders on the floor, and the two leaders standing over them.
And everyone knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would all be leaders forever. For as long as time went on, nothing and no one could extinguish their fire.
And for as long as they stood there, it very well may have been hours, Spot felt himself losing control.
It was just all too much. He had expected people to get hurt, to be wounded, but for someone, especially Top, to die...It was impossbile for him to wrap his mind around.
And at long last, when he felt as if he would throw himself upon the floor to die along with his leader, Spot, looking down, stepped from the common room and into the night under the watchful eyes of the newsies.
(In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the old and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night,
And touched the sound of silence.)
There he stood, standing, as lightning lit the sky once again. Spot stood in the footprints tracked with their leaders' blood, his hands in his hair. His mind traveled back to the day of fighting, the night of death.
The morning went by viciously, mostly punches and tackles. But as the afternoon wore on, and tempers flared, Spot knew it had to end. But it didn't until late that night.
The boys fought with valor and dignity, all in near silence, throughout the day. Few words were spoken. It was quick, efficient, and secretive.
They fought into the night, strength and patience waning. Harlem brought out knives. And then the real hell broke loose.
It all began in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning when Skittery was stabbed in the arm. Mush jerked off his shirt immediately, wrapping it around the wound as Skittery screamed in anguish, his yells fading to silence as he was carried away by Pie-Eater and Mush, little Boots running off before them to alert the girls.
And after he was gone, Harlem stopped flaunting their knives and started using them for murder.
Jack and Spot were fighting a group of Harlem newsboys, and winning, when out of nowhere, the fight between Top and the Harlem leader escelated. As Top lunged into the leader, the knife the boy held in his hand was up and ready.
The sharp, lethal blade sliced into Top's neck, and by sheer dumb luck, hit his life force--a vein.
In a torrent of unbearable suffering, Top managed to cover the gash with his hand and use the cane he still gripped in his right hand to thrust it into the boy's upper abdomen, creating a large, shiny welt, disorienting him enough for Quail to rush in.
Top staggered off to the side, collapsing into a pile of crates. Spot and Jack, noticing the bright red splash of color out of the corner of their eyes, finished off the Harlem boys with a few swings of their fists, and rushed over.
"Top...You okay?" Spot asked, his eyes wide as he stared at the blood seeping through Top's long fingers.
Top opened his mouth to speak, and wet coughs wracked his powerful body. He put the hand not on his neck to his mouth, and when he pulled it away, his fingers were coated and dripped with blood.
Jack gaped like a fish out of water, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared incredulously at the devil red blood on Top's hands.
As Top looked up, frightened panic bulging in his dark eyes, blood stained his lips and teeth as it pooled up from his throat.
"Spot," he murmered, his eyes pleading for help, for anything, "Take...Take care of 'em. I love 'em. You'll be great Cole."
Spot blanched at the sound of his name, and hot, unshed tears sprang to his eyes as the helplessness of the situation hit him full force.
"Jared I can't," Spot knew he was pleading with God now, not Top, for only He would be able to save him now.
"You can do anything Cole. Go get 'em." And with those final words, Top seized Spot's cold hand in his own bloodied one and squeezed with all the strength he had left, which was not much; and was still.
And as Spot and Jack turned away, hearts pounding in rage and shock, they saw a fight between two boys stop as they both took notice of the dead stillness of Brooklyn's leader.
One boy, a Manhattan newsie, and the other, a boy from Harlem, stared at Top before looking back at one another.
The boy from Harlem looked back at his foe, and his eyes lost the glow of fight. Spot knew he had been fighting only to protect his 'family's' honor. The boy nodded slowly to the Manhattan newsie, and turned away.
As Quail had lunged at the Harlem leader, a large group of monsterous boys had jumped into the crazed passion that was the fight. Fists flew, knives glinted, and feet kicked, and when they finally backed away, Quail lay dead at the bottom.
And now, back in Brooklyn, they didn't even know what happened to Quail. He had been stabbed, punched, and kicked, but they didn't know what had actually been the fatal injury.
And now they were both gone. Jack Kelly, fifteen, and Spot Conlon, thirteen; fourteen the very next day, Tuesday; were leaders.
And what a present to receive. Death.
"You got what you wanted Conlon," Spot muttered to himself now. Power, leadership, everything he had wanted since he and Katie had left. And Brooklyn was the best of both worlds. The heart and morals of Manhattan, with the strength of Harlem, curse them.
In the rising dawn, Spot heard crunching footsteps appraoching. He turned, looking at the ground first, taking notice of the freshly fallen snow, snow that covered the footprints filled with blood.
Anger surged through Spot's veins as he realized that no one would know of the tragic deaths besides those directly involved.
But as he looked up, his anger, and his mask of control fell away.
Katie stood there in front of him, her skirts blwoing in the breeze as they had that first day in the City, when everything was alright, uncertain, but alright.
They gazed at oneanother, not speaking, just looking. Katie opened her mouth and voiced the one thing Spot needed to hear.
"Cole." As her lovely voice said his name, his real name, it broke; and Katie looked a him, pain and confusion in her eyes.
"God Katie." Spot could barely speak. "What have I done?"
With those words of self-blame, Cole Conlon, the scared little boy, returned for a brief second, and Katie, noting the fact that his beautiful eyes screamed for her, rushed to him, the details of her dream flooding back.
He had returned. And two had not.
And as they embraced, Cole crumpled into the snow, pulling Katie with him, where they sat, shivering, holding one another until the streets filled with people who knew nothing of the horror-filled, terror-run night Brooklyn and Manhattan had endured.
Those people had no dead leaders in their homes, no blood on their hands, and no loss in their souls.
And they didn't have to take care of forty boys just like them.
They weren't scared of the coming noon, scared of the coming evening, scared of the coming dawn.
But Cole Conlon was. And to lead, he couldn't be.
Spot Conlon had to lead. And lead he would.
In the days that followed, the girls shed tears and the boys tried not to, some succeeding, and some failing.
Mrs. Pan, who's family had a plot in the cemetary, gave the fallen heros two graves, the places reserved for the sons she could never have.
At the sevice, no minister spoke, no priest offered the words of God, no fool talked of God's Will.
As the people present looked into the open coffins, the sun hitting the faces of the boys, lighitng them up like angels, they knew that these boys would be there for them, heart and soul, within the new leaders.
And Katie looked into Top's face, the face of a boy she hadn't really known, but learned to trust with her life, and she knew he was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet. His clothes were clean, a bandana from Jack covering his neck. His face was immaculate and gorgeous, and his dark lashes spilled onto his tanned cheeks. The dark curls that all women so loved cascaded onto his forehead, curling in a way that melted Katie's heart.
She felt Scots weeping beside her, and the lovely young Scottish woman reached out trembling fingers and touched the cheek of a man she hadn't known she had loved until he was gone.
Quail lay as well, his blonde hair shaggy but neat, and his eyelids covering those cat-green eyes that pierced your soul with their cool heat. His dewy complexion glistened and his light pink lips sat in a full, relaxed pout.
They both looked so alive, so peaceful. Katie almost expected Top to climb out of his coffin and ask them, in harsh tones, why the hell they weren't out selling. But he didn't.
And Spot walked to the front of the large group as boys lowered the now covered coffins into the ground.
"We gotta move on. We gotta pay our respects, and keep livin'."
("Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence)
Feeling his breaths weaken, and his resolve to move on fade, Spot fell to his knees. Clasping his hands, he bowed his head and prayed.
"Come on God. If you're up there, come on. They were great men, God; great leaders, and they didn't deserve to die. They died protecting all of us, and each other. Just, just let 'em know that...That we love 'em."
And as he spoke, the newsboys and girls looked toward one another, and slowly fell to their knees on the wet grass; some looking down, others looking up, trying in vain to stop the scalding tears they felt on their cheeks.
"Please God. I...We need your help God. We don't know what to do. Help us God." His voice broke as he spoke, and as he continued to pray, it shook with the grief of a young man lost and alone. And terrified.
(And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets
are written on the alley walls
And tenement halls."
And whispered in the sounds of silence.)