The Warriors by Sol Yurick

get a transfer, unless they just wanted to cut out. But nobody was going to leave without that pass. And now, his hour come round, an old change-booth man, wearing a celluloid eyeshade, his head thrown back, looked down out of the bottoms of his eyes as if considering which of the hands clawing in at him through the space under the grill was worthy, and then doled out transfers with disdainful and deliberate jabs, safe in his cage, impervious to the screaming faces stuck against the grill.
    The Simp’s face was completely twisted now; a little drool ran down the side of his chin. He had gotten his hand around the Duchess somehow and she was whooping. The stubbled face of the Professor was splayed out and he was saying something which sounded like, “Let us behave like human beings. Let us have a little dignity. Let us have a little reason,” while the roar inside the station house beat all around and that calm old man behind the grill, who to show he had control, not only of the situation, but of himself, didn’t hear the curses screamed at him, and didn’t bother to smile in triumph.
    Hector saw that it was almost pointless to try for transfers. They were all crazy; it was too frightening. He yelled for his children to turn off and not to bother with the change booth. Butthey almost couldn’t free themselves. Panicky Lunkface beat a space around himself with his fists and got them out and they were through the turnstiles and past the doors and clattering down the stairs faster and faster, pushing people aside, running away from the roaring scream behind them. An indignant voice said, “God-damned J.D.s.”
    There was a big line in the street being filtered slowly into the buses which were there to take the passengers to where the trains resumed running. A few soldiers leaned against a candy-store newsstand, laughing at the coolie mob scene. They saw the men come off and from the way their faces immediately chilled, the Family could see that they were alerting: the enemy on their turf. There were only three soldiers, so they didn’t make trouble, but one of them took off casually, strolled a few steps, cut fast into the darkness and was out of sight. Hector knew what that meant: reinforcements. The other two stayed edgy, but cool, showing heart.
    They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know whose country they were in, but they knew they were in trouble. By now every truce in the whole city was off and they had been spotted because they were uniformed and they wore their insignia.
    Hector called up The Junior and asked, “Man, where do we go?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou were supposed to be watching the stations.”
    â€œI didn’t know we’d stop like that.”
    â€œWhich way do we go?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI’ll deal with you later.” Hector decided they would move out and follow down along the line of the tracks. They couldn’t wait for the bus because they would have to hang around that block-long line with those wild Other. Who knew what would happen before they got away. Soldiers were probably moving up. The thing to do, Hector decided, was to parley for safe passage.

July 5th, 1:30–2:30 A.M.
    It was hotter, here in the street. The buildings cut off the air from the sides and the tracks of the elevated closed in above. Firecracker strings were being shot off all around; the noise came down to them from the dark side streets; now and then heavier stuff went off. The two soldiers standing in front of the candy store were looking jazzed-up, wearing pegged pants and bright, striped shirts; their high, cloth-front shoes were held together with pearl buttons; they wore wide-brimmed, straw plantation-owner hats set low over their faces so they had to tilt their heads back to look down on anyone they talked to. You could just tell, Hector thought, they were practically off the plane from the