Micky stumbled blindly down the street, rage making his steps uneven and ungainly. He glared at the sidewalk, imagining his ‘friends’ faces on the pavement under his heels. Fine! I don’t NEED them! I can take care of myself! Who needs the Four Winds, anyway! I’ll be a wind of ONE from now on!
He’d spent the entire day storming around down, paying no attention to the sun that burned down upon the back of his neck until it started to sink low in the sky; even then he still didn’t want to go back to the Pad and listen to Peter or Mike lecture him.
“Well, well, looky here!” A voice cut into his thoughts. “What would you call this, Ritchie?”
“Offhand?” another cold voice replied. “Fresh meat.”
Micky slowly came to a halt, quickly glancing around at the dead end he’d stumbled into. Several junked cars lined the trash-strewn street, and a high red brick wall topped with a barbed-wire fence blocked any further forward movement.
And the way he’d come was quickly being filled in with threatening bodies.
“Fresh meat, walkin’ on the Tanks’ property without payin’ the toll,” the first voice said and the owner of it shook his shaggy head. “Not very smart. Not smart at all.”
Micky carefully regarded the people around him, fighting unsuccessfully to keep a cocky grin from his face. “Is that right? And what’re you gonna do about it?”
Laughter greeted that. “Hear that, Paul? He wants to know what we’re gonna do about it.”
Paul, the one who’d been doing most of the talking, took a step forward. And he did wear a cocky grin. “Simple, Meat. We’re gonna take the toll outta your hide.”
Micky smirked. “Ritchie? Paul? What’re you guys—the Skid Row Beatles?”
Paul’s eyes narrowed at that, and he looked beyond Micky and gave a single sharp nod. A second later something warm, soft and heavy barreled right into Micky’s shoulder blades. Micky hit the ground and rolled, smoothly rising into the tiger position, his hands fisted in front of him.
The boy who had smashed into him gained his feet. “Ooh-ho, looky here!” he laughed. “Someone’s been watchin’ kung fu movies!” More laughter exploded around him.
Micky’s eyes narrowed into slits as hot rage poured out of him. He leaped into the air, drawing his legs up under him for a moment before snapping them both out, catching the youth full in the chest with both heels. Dropping to the ground with practiced ease, Micky whirled. “Who’s next?”
Paul’s hand barely moved, but a switchblade appeared in his hand. “You are, punk.”
Micky lunged with a wild cry, seizing hold of Paul’s wrist. Paul didn’t struggle. He just stood there, his eyes snapping, a strange smile on his face. The smile’s reason became apparent when one of his cohorts smashed a stiff foot upward between Micky’s slightly spread legs, crashing hard and full-on into his crotch. The breath fled from Micky’s lungs and he sagged, fighting in vain to keep his balance; he staggered backward, hitting one of the junked cars with a thud.
They took their time approaching him, apparently waiting for a signal. Three steps from the car, Paul smiled and said just one word as calmly as if he were announcing the weather.
“Now.”
It only took Micky about four seconds to learn an awful truth—his fighting skills, no matter how advanced, were useless in situations of overwhelming numbers. There was no time to run, and once surrounded, blocking the endless kicks and punches became impossible; batting one aside only meant getting hit by the three others waiting to take its place. Within moments of Paul’s solemn pronouncement Micky was reduced to shielding his head and stomach as best he could, and waiting for his attackers to grow bored and retreat.
Then the knife intruded on his consciousness as it tore into the muscle of his upper arm. He screamed, forgetting his protective stance as he lashed out blindly at whoever had cut him. Rage pounded through him, making him want to rip and tear the first person he laid hands on, but they were dancing out of his way, laughing at him—taunting him—coming only near enough to strike, then retreating with laughter. With every strike Micky grew more and more furious, until he finally managed to snag the leather jacket of one of the punks. Wrenching the boy to the ground, he tore into him with a howl of pain and outrage.
The boy’s cries led to another barrage of kicks and punches, and they managed to get him off of the punk. This time they held him down while they battered his face, his stomach . . .
“Enough. Enough.” The soft words, coming from somewhere within the crowd, nevertheless helped pull the mass back, leaving Micky in a panting, bleeding, semiconscious heap in the middle of the street.
A stinking voice whispered into his ear, “Toll’s paid, Meat. Next time, watch where you party.” There was a teasing blow into his ear, then a last hard kick to his ribs as the mass began to disperse.
Micky waited until all was still before raising his head. He was alone, with no sign of anyone, friend or foe. His body ached and burned, and his first attempt to get onto his feet made him so nauseous he threw up. Lying on his back, panting and staring at the night sky, Micky cursed himself for walking right into a trap. “Dolenz, you should know better than that, you dummy,” he muttered, slowly rolling onto his side. He tried to ignore the blood running down his arm as he pulled his legs up, managing to get them under him. He staggered, lurching into one of the cars with a pained grunt. I gotta make it home, he thought. Even if Mike is gonna kill me for this.
It took Micky nearly two hours to make it back to the Pad. The streets were mercifully clear of people with the exception of a man who’d quickly fled to the other side of the street at the sight of Micky’s bruised face and torn, bloodstained clothes. When the house finally came in sight he would’ve shouted for joy had he been able to summon the strength. Each step took more and more effort, the beach house swimming in a field of vision which seemed to get hazier and hazier. He finally reached the door, banging his palm weakly on it. “Please . . . open up . . . ” he whispered as darkness overtook him. His body slid down the door to land in a heap on the threshold.
~~~~~
Being a sound sleeper was never something Peter Tork had had to worry about. Micky and Davy turned to insensate logs at night, and even Mike wrapped himself into a cocoon, shutting out the outside world.
But Peter had always been sensitive to night noises, often waking several times to check on the house. He slipped quietly out of bed at the sound of the soft tapping on the door, stole past Davy’s snoring form, and went into the living room, his eyes carefully sweeping the still, silent room. The bay windows gave an impressive view to the night sky beyond, and Peter stood for a few moments, enjoying the peace and quiet and listening for any further sounds. There were none.
He glanced up at the closed door of the upstairs bedroom, wondering if Micky had come back during the night. They hadn’t gone out looking for the drummer, figuring that time and a good long walk would go much further to calming Micky than anything his friends could say to him. Mike’s temper had calmed several hours after Micky’s departure, and the Texan had gone to bed early complaining of a headache.
He’s usually not out this late, Peter thought. I hope he’s not in trouble.
He turned to head back into the bedroom and paused, his neck beginning its familiar tingling. He glanced at the front door, getting the sudden urge to open it, and crossed the room in a few strides. He unbolted it; it swung open on its own, as if something was leaning on it, and Peter’s night-sharpened eyes focused on the sprawled figure in the doorway.
He turned, fighting to pull enough breath into his lungs to scream. “Mike. Mike! MIKE!”
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