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A trash bin full of newspapers and rags looked promising. He thought about rolling the bin down to the building closest to the water, but changed his mind. It’d be better to find an open one first.
One by one he tried the doors, and was disappointed. The windows were easy, but breaking them was a fast way to get unwanted attention. He kept them in mind as a last resort, and scanned the grounds for an easier target. Quickly, though. Darker and darker it grew, and the streetlamps were too few and far between to be of much assistance.
At some point, the night would have to level off, wouldn’t it? There must be some plateau with dawn on the other side. But dawn was a long ways off and he planned to be long gone by then.
Something splashed nearby, and he jumped.
Hurry. Do it and go.
At the end of the row closest to the river, one strip of homes was not yet finished. The front door was locked, but that was irrelevant since one wall was comprised of exposed beams and plastic wrap.
In the trash bin with the papers, Christ found a Coke bottle. He struck it against the sidewalk until it broke, then used one of the sharp edges to draw a jagged slit in the plastic, big enough for him to pass through. Inside it was dark like everything else,
filled with drywall dust and piles of junk he couldn’t make out clearly. Some of it was bound to be flammable.
He pulled the lighter fluid out of his pocket, and with its tiny nozzle he squirted the contents on the walls, on the dry-wall, on the plastic wrapping that’d been piled up in the corners. Then he went back to the trash bin and grabbed an armload. He had to squeeze through the slit sideways. On the second trip he tore it a little more, and on the third he stretched it wide enough that he could step through it with ease.
There wasn’t much point in a fifth trip. Everything that would light had been retrieved, and there wouldn’t be enough fluid to treat more than that, anyway.
Sparingly, Christ sprinkled the newspapers, sandwich wrappers, and other trash until there was nothing left in the can, then threw the can in on top of the pile. He pulled out his lighter. He couldn’t remember who he’d stolen it from, so it wasn’t likely to be traced back to him.
He struck the wheel with his thumb and the tall, steady flame nearly blinded him. He looked away and let his eyes adjust, retreating to the improvised doorway he’d made with the soda bottle.
He stepped outside, glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, checked that his skateboard was still where he’d stashed it . . . and threw the lighter inside, onto the nearest pile of trash.
The trash caught quickly. A crackling whoosh, a flare of light, and a burst of heat announced that the arson was underway.
Christ ran.
With one swift swoop he grabbed the skateboard and swung it around to the nearest window on the fly. The back wheels cracked through, and the sound of tinkling glass joined the hisses and pops of the fire. Christ skipped the next window along his escape route, but hit two more with that same fast swing, knocking brand new panes clear of their frames.
“That’s for Pat,” he grumbled, changing course and doubling back to a second row of buildings. He might as well hit as many windows as possible on the way out. He swung the board again and brought it through a big kitchen window. “That one’s for Catfood Dude. ”
Next building down. His skateboard went through a bay window that faced the river. It wouldn’t be enough, not to stop them. He’d need an army of kids to do enough damage for that. Even two or three people could have started more trouble than a few broken windows.
It was too bad. A few minors would have been helpful. Reckless, and only minimally prosecutable—they would have made glorious mayhem, delightful anarchy. They would have torn the place up like hell.
But when you’re thirty and still wearing duct tape on your shoes, you have to get a little careful. The courts are more forgiving of young hooligans than old ones.
Old hooligans have used up all of their second chances.
And maybe the courts were right, thought Christ as he swung the board again, as hard as he could, at a patio door. But the patio was sturdier than the kitchen glass, or maybe he was getting tired. The door didn’t break.
Behind him, the fire was gaining a good foothold and the sound and smell of crackling ashes climbed up out of the half-built apartment block. If it hadn’t been noticed yet, someone would spot it soon.
Forget it. Forget the patio door.
His hands were starting to shake, and he didn’t know why. Just the force of it all, he guessed—the skateboard against the glass, his arms laden down with debris, his feet numb from running over concrete blocks and vinyl siding.
He shook his head, maybe to clear it. He felt disoriented, and turned around. He knew where he was, and how to leave the compound. Back to the main drag, or over to Manufacturers Row, where the darkness wasn’t so loaded.
The sidewalks ended, the pavement was broken, and there was nowhere to ride—so Christ had to run. Somewhere off to his right, he heard the sound of sirens. They weren’t cop cars. He knew the wail of a cop car, and this siren was longer and louder in its caterwauling—either a fire engine or an ambulance.
Run, then.
His footsteps staggered into something like a jog, and then faster, into a sprint towards the edge of the brand new complex and into the warehouse district. It wasn’t far. It wouldn’t take him long.
That siren was definitely getting louder.
