Read Will the Sun Ever Come Out Again? for Free Online

fields of green and blue and red. It all looks crazy, like something from a different world.
    Then the stars disappear and an image flashes through his brain. He sees himself kicking a gagged and bound Mexican, a Loco, arms covered in ink. The man grunts into his gag, so he kicks him again. He has a knife in his hand. Other Gray Street Bangers stand next to him, blades in their fists. There’s laughter. And blood. And somebody starts screaming. Beneath it all he hears a voice, quiet and gentle and a little amazed.
    “He stepped through.”
    2Bit opens his eyes and gasps. He looks at his reflection and almost cries when he sees it pointing at him, smiling.
     
    Ricky keeps shop in a shithole apartment off Rosecrans. Walker knows the dealer can afford better digs, but the building with the central courtyard offers good security. Ricky rents four additional one-rooms, and he keeps soldiers stashed in each. Anybody tries to come in and start shit, they have to climb three flights of stairs with bullets flying at them from four different directions. Going on five years, and Ricky hasn’t been knocked over yet.
    Walker opens the iron gate and enters the courtyard. He doesn’t worry about catching a round. Ricky’s boys know he’s a friendly. Their boss owes him for more than a couple of in-roads to new markets.
    The courtyard bakes with heat despite the overcast skies. The air presses against his skin. It feels wet and hot in his lungs, making breathing a fun little challenge. Maybe the air is the reason he doesn’t spot any kids out playing. Usually, the hole is a little more jumping.
    He starts up the stairs. His footsteps echo like gunshots through the air. He stomps at the top of the stairwell to get Ricky’s attention, and the sound rings out like a shotgun blast. No reply comes. He hears no children or televisions or radios. The building even deflects the sounds of the Compton streets. He wonders if it’s always been that way and he just never noticed it. Something tells him it’s a new phenomenon. Weird fucking day.
    He reaches the top floor without catching a hint of life in the building. Hairs rise on the back of his neck. He wants to draw his pistol or at least unsnap his holster, but he fears giving the soldiers anything that might violate his friendly status.
    He keeps his eyes peeled as he reaches Ricky’s door. He delivers his knock, three and then two.
    “Yeah,” comes the reply. Ricky’s voice, but a little off. Weak, maybe. “C’mon in.”
    Walker turns the knob and opens the door.
     
    “Holy shit,” Megan says through grit teeth. “Holy fucking shit.”
    Beside her, Christian begins to cough and gag. She hears him stumble-run back outside and wretch, but she can’t peel her eyes off the scene in front of her.
    The home’s living room is a slaughter pen. Parts of what must be a dozen Mexican men litter the floor. Heads and arms and torsos decorate the room in piles. Sightless eyes stare at ceilings, walls, and discarded flesh. The thick scents of blood and shit fill the room like a fog and force Megan’s hand to her mouth and nose. The soapy smell of her palm does next to nothing to improve the air.
    She hears Christian coughing again. The sound provides a staccato counterpoint to the constant droning of the flies that fill the living room like a cloud. She hears sirens approaching from far away, and she guesses their backup is on its way.
    She tries to make sense of the horrific sight in front of her. The tats covering the discarded arms mark the bodies as members of The Locos. The house is deep in Gray Street territory. The knowledge does not comfort her, though. This is hell and gone from any gang violence she’s seen in her three years on the job. If the Gray Street boys have decided to step up their game, they’ve done it in the most psychotic way possible.
    “Megan!” Christian says as he enters the house again. “Backup’s a block away.”
    “Good,” she says. She points at