Hunting Rabbits

"Cops'll never catch us now, Brodie. This junkyard has too many ways in, too many ways out for them t'catch all of us."

"Scratch is right, boys. If we see any cops, just split and scram. Run any which way. We'll meet at the usual spot in two days."

After swarming into a jewelry store, the gang of fifteen boys, most under eighteen, had run as a group to the nearby junkyard, seeking refuge inside the warren of crushed cars and piles of discarded appliances. Armed with hammers and knapsacks, the gang had smashed and grabbed, carrying away most of the store's display stock in less than a minute.

The plan was Scratch's, a bright 18-year-old whose need for speed and other amphetamines had derailed his ambitions for a college education. Scratch had explained the idea to his charismatic friend, Brodie. Brodie smiled, and Scratch scratched at a rash on the back of his neck, and the plan came together.

The gang stood in a loose circle, surrounded by stacks of rusting automotive wreckage, and panted from their ten-block sprint. Scratch worked his fingernails across the skin under his sleeve, and winced when Ronald spoke up. Ronald was slow, and Scratch knew what his question was going to be the moment Ronald took a slow breath before speaking.

"Uh, whatsa usual spot? Brodie?"

"Geez, did we have to bring him along?"

The other boys laughed. Even Ronald laughed, but only because everyone else had, and he didn't want anyone to know he hadn't got the joke.

"Hey, Scratch, the more the merrier."

Ronald took another slow breath. "So, uh, Brodie..."

"Behind Morrison's garage."

"Oh yeah. Right. Morrison's garage."

Scratch suspected that Brodie was going to have to round up Ronald and bring him to Morrison's. He was just about to mutter as much to Brodie, when his thoughts were interrupted by a thump behind him. He looked up at the others, and then turned to follow their surprised gazes over his shoulder.

The dust was still settling around the enormous leather boots of the biggest guy he'd ever seen. He was easily eight feet tall, with huge hands and large features that seemed to crowd each other for space on his face. His voice boomed.

"Thanks boys. I thought for a moment no one was going to say where ‘the usual place' was."

Scratch looked at Brodie. Brodie looked at Scratch. Their response was in unison. "Run!"

Scratch ran one way. Brodie ran another. The big guy grabbed Ronald, who was too slow to react to their panicked instruction. Everyone else followed Scratch or Brodie.

Ronald started yelling his head off. "Hey, wait for me! Guys?! Don't leave me behind!" Then he stopped. He was sure that, a moment ago, there had only been one big guy, the one who had his meaty hands wrapped securely around his shoulders. Now there was a second one. Maybe, thought Ronald, he just hadn't counted correctly.

Ronald blinked. Now there were three big guys. One of them started running after Brodie and his gang, his gigantic feet kicking up small clouds of dust. The other watched the last of Scratch's followers disappear around a wall of cars. He took three running steps directly at the wall, and then leapt to the top. The cars wobbled a little, and little bits of metal and plastic skittered down the sides. The crunching noise the top car made as the big guy landed on it was immediately followed by muffled yells of surprise from the other side. Ronald heard Scratch's strained, frantic voice. "Split up!" Ronald was sure he saw two of the big guys jump down to the other side of the wall.

He craned his neck around to get a look at the big guy with the ugly face who held him, just in time to see yet another one, just as big and just as ugly, reach out at him with a rusty iron bar held crosswise between two hairy-knuckled fists. One of them held Ronald, and the other wrapped the bar around his arms and chest -- Ronald just wasn't sure which was which. Next he was lifted up, feet four feet off the ground, and another steel rod was twisted around his ankles. Four big guys left him dangling head-down from a pile of wrecks, and Ronald's laughter rang off the scrap piles as he watched their legs working upside down, a pair each in four different directions.

By the time the police appeared at the gates to the junkyard, a small pile of juvenile miscreants had formed in the churned-up mud by the entrance. Some were bruised, or sported black eyes. Others pressed their sleeves against their bleeding noses. All of them were immobilized by the scraps of metal that bound their arms and legs.

The officers had drawn their weapons when they first jumped out of their flashing black-and-whites, and holstered them again when they saw the teens were not going anywhere. Three of them were standing, hands on chins, trying to figure out how to disentangle the captives from their rusty bonds, and one of the officers had gone back to her squad car to radio for a metalworker, when the big guy came sailing over a wall of cars with another metal-bound perpetrator across his shoulder.

"Morning, officers. Here's another one, " he said in a cheerful English accent as he unloaded the boy beside the others, splashing mud on the boy's cohorts in the process.

The police officers, clearly in the presence of a super-hero, didn't bother drawing their pistols again. Two of them looked at each other, as if to say, "Hey, I've seen this guy before... what's his name?" The third looked directly up into shadows of the big guy's solid brow, and said, "Hey, I've seen you before... what's your name?"

The big guy held out his meaty hand in a friendly gesture. "U2. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The officers stared at his muscular digits, clearly amazed by the size of each one.

After an awkward moment, when the first officer failed to shake the proffered hand, he turned and headed back into the maze. "There's still a few more of these rabbits in here," he called back over his shoulder. "Guard the main entrance here. I've got the other exits covered."

The officer who'd gone to call for help came back to see the big guy disappear around a corner. "Hey, I've seen him before," she said to the others. "What's his name?"

"Gee, I dunno. We asked him, but I'm not sure he answered."

The officers were still conferring among themselves about what the superhero had said, when he came back, from a different direction, dragging another gang member behind him. This one was bound at ankles and wrists with heavy rubber timing belts salvaged from car engines.

"Hey, there's Brodie!" one of the teens shouted around a fat lip.

The big guy dragged his quarry up to the jumble of teenagers, and flopped him in the mud.

"Had a bit of a fall, this one. Chased him around a corner, and he tripped over a couple of old tires. Must've hit his head too hard when he fell. There's no blood, but he must have a concussion. Make sure he gets to the hospital." He turned to face one of the officers. "Have you called for an ambulance yet."

"Paramedics are on the way." She pointed at his cheek, which was bleeding slightly. "Looks like you've cut yourself there."

"That's alright! I've got all my shots. Need ‘em, in this business." He reached out his hand again, and this time, the officer shook it.

"You folks guard the main entrance here. I've got the other exits covered," he said as he turned to go. "There's still a few more of these rabbits in here."

Two of the officers looked at each other. "Didn't he say that already?"

"Hey," one of them called out as he rounded a stack of spent steel drums. "What's your name?"

The reply was hollowed by the drums between them. "U2!"

The officers looked at each other again, perplexed. "Me too?"

Three of them at once opened their mouths to speak, unintentionally initiating a babble of miscomprehension. Their confusion was interrupted, or perhaps increased, by the fourth officer, who pointed between the other three, and exclaimed, "Look!"

When they followed the fellow's arm, they saw the big guy jogging into the main entrance area with two more of the teenagers, one under each arm. Again, both were bound by metal from the junkyard twisted around them.

"Morning, officers! Lovely day!" he called out cheerily as he jogged up to them, and dumped the two struggling youths into the mudpile.

This time, all four of the officers started to talk at once. The big guy smiled, his face softening. He was still ugly, but when he smiled, he wasn't as hard to look at.

He waited for a moment, until they finished interrupting each other. After the other three had given up, the fourth, who had noticed the cut on the big guy's cheek before, pointed again.

"Hey, your cheek has healed already!"

The big guy reached up, and touched his unmarked cheek. He started to speak, but was interrupted by a flurry of curses coming from somewhere behind him. Everyone, including the boys tied up in the mud, turned to look.

Standing there, panting and swearing and scratching, was Scratch. His faded blue jean jacket was torn at one shoulder, the front of his white T-shirt was marked with rust, and the knees of his jeans were covered in mud. Dust rose from his hair as he shook it, shouting, "No, no! No way!" and pointing at the hero standing with police officers.

Scratch turned to run, back the way he'd come. The police officers fumbled at their hips for their pistols. The big guy pivoted on the ball of one huge foot, and took a step toward his quarry. Ronald, bound and muddy in the middle of the pile, shouted, "Whoo-hoo! Go Scratch!"

Scratch never got any further. He made an awkward stop in the middle of his start, and then swore again, twice as loud as before. He even stopped scratching, as his hands dropped limply to his sides. The officers, weapons now drawn, slowly lowered them until their muzzles pointed at the ground, and then stood, staring. Ronald started another "Whoo-hoo!" but it quickly drooped into a timid, confused silence. The big guy smiled again, this time with his grin stretched almost ear to ear, and made two more long strides in Scratch's direction. He was the only one who wasn't confused.

Not that he could say he was expecting it to happen, but certainly, he was not at all surprised to see himself coming at a dead run, from the other direction, to catch up with Scratch.

The two met at Scratch. They smiled at each other, identical friendly smiles, as if each was smiling at his best friend in the whole world. The one behind Scratch reached out with his massive right arm, and dropped a heavy hand on Scratch's right shoulder. The one in front did the same thing, with his hand landing on Scratch's left shoulder. Then they both laughed a big, hearty laugh -- almost in unison.

As their laughter died down, the officers approached them. One of them had his handcuffs out.

"Can we just cuff this one?"

More laughter followed, from the quartet of officers, and from the twin heroes. Ronald started laughing too, like he always did, just to make sure people didn't think he didn't get the joke. Scratch wasn't laughing.

While two of the officers took Scratch to a squad car, the other two asked questions. Each one addressed a different twin, but both asked the same question.

"Who are you?"

One of the big guys offered his hand to shake. "U2. Glad I could be of assistance." The other smiled his friendly smile and said, "Like I said before, the name's U2. Y'know, like the band."

The two officers turned to look at each other, trying to hide their confusion, but hoping to see that the other one understood. Before they could exchange more than a glance, however, they were surprised to see yet another big guy walking up to the other two police officers as they returned from incarcerating Scratch in the squad car. This one approached with hands spread open, calloused palms turned upwards.

"I think that's all of them, officers. That's quite a warren back there. Speedy little rabbits, too! By the way, my name's U2. Y'know, like the band."

Now all the officers were looking to each other, hoping for a sense of comprehension.

Before they could find any, their thoughts were interrupted by a melodic buzzing sound. Each one looked to the nearest of the big guys, and saw a pager, encased in brushed aluminum, with a single red LED flashing, attached to the big guy's belt. Each one reached down with the same hand, pulled the pager off their hips, and flipped the casing open. They all frowned at what they saw on the display, but only one of them, the last one to arrive, spoke.

"Sorry officers. Got another problem to handle. Guess I'll be off, then."

At this, the other two stepped toward the first. They each held out an arm to him, and he reached out to them. None of the officers were sure whether they had blinked. The teens on the ground, those who were conscious, couldn't say for sure whether they had been looking directly at them either. Regardless of the vantage point, all they really knew was that one moment there were three, a triad of outstretched arms, and the next, there was only one of them, leaping high over the nearest wall of junkers, looking back and waving.

The silence that followed was finally broken by Ronald, who started to laugh uncontrollably again. He kept on laughing, until one of the other gang members managed to twist around and kick him in the chest, feet still held in their rusty bonds.

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