THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 041 ] five makes friends at a strip club

XLI.

f i v e m a k e s
f r i e n d s a t a
s t r i p c l u b

—TO SAY THAT FIVE was unlucky was an understatement of epic proportions.

After being dropped out of the sky—directly into a rain puddle, mind you—he had stumbled barely three steps out of the alley when a Soviet soldier tried gunning him down.

Thus began the trail of bad luck that would plague Five for the next ten days.

"Hey, kid, get down!" yelled a soldier.

Five dropped to his knees quickly, the sharp gravel on the ground making little crater-shaped indents on his skin. The air was thick, heavy with smoke, and Russian voices intermingled with American ones.

A newsletter was protruding out from underneath the concrete rubble. Five grasped at it. SOVIETS ATTACK AMERICA! JFK DECLARES WAR ON REDS!

He stood up unsteadily, the rumble of the impeding tanks shaking the ground that had once felt so solid beneath his legs. He felt very faintly seasick as he looked around the abandoned street.

There were many Soviet soldiers, yes, but quite a lot had been reduced to carrion for the lurking rats. It was pitiful, really. There were bullet wounds—some deep, some shallow—as well as cuts, broken limbs, torn hands. Either the American troops were doing an insanely good job, or they had help.

And there they were—the other Hargreeves—fighting for their lives against the invading cavalry. Five counted them off in his head. Luther—Diego—Allison—Klaus—Ben—Vanya . . .

And Zara? A horrible feeling of dread rose up in Five's chest as he realized Zara was nowhere to be seen. Was she dead? No—no, she couldn't be dead—not again—not Zara—

"Five, you sick son of a bitch!"

The thundering voice interrupted his thoughts. Five turned to see Diego, knives strapped to his blood-splattered black suit like a gladiator of old, glaring at him.

A machine gun went off nearby. Five ducked behind an overturned police car with the windows smashed in. Diego ran quickly for shelter, appearing next to him. The man pulled in one ragged breath after another, gasping. The fighting had gone on for long. They were all exhausted.

At last, Diego turned to Five accusingly.

"Asshole," he said. "Where have you been this whole time?"

But Five ignored that question and asked his own. "Is this everyone? What happened to Zara?"

Diego shook his head. "I think you mean who happened to Zara."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You haven't heard?" Diego's face turned sympathetic. "Look, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but—"

He was cut off suddenly when a hail of missiles—bullets, blades, and fire—were launched towards them, forming a deadly arc in the sky. The air was blackened by the rush of lead pellets.

Diego cussed under his breath and darted out from behind the car. He had gotten better with knives, Five noticed. More skilled.

Five got up and prepared to join the fight. But for a moment he remained rooted to the spot, unable to move. The scene was so fantastical, so utterly absurd, that for a moment he could do nothing but take it all in.

The fighting had turned into confusion, man against man, sometimes two or three of the soldiers tearing at one of the siblings, like dogs in a pack attacking a bear. There were at least ten soldiers dead on the ground, then fifteen, then twenty. Screams reached Five's ears from across the street as two soldiers went down in a scuffle with Luther. Then all the fighting, all the screams, blended together and became indistinguishable.