Shadow Dragon

by wade coleman

Angrily, the troll pushes on the fence some more, and the crowd is inspired to help. Finally, the fence goes down, and suddenly, the National Guard men are trampled by a herd of frantic mutants. Looking at the scene, I feel powerless. There’s nothing I can do to help.

  Turning around, I head back uphill, knowing I’m only a few blocks from Mr. Fukui’s restaurant. The smoky haze of the fire dims the moonlight, and I move unseen to the Honshu restaurant, the headquarters of the Inner-City Gang.

  Hiding in the shade of a dumpster overflowing with rotting fish, a garage door of the restaurant opens, and an armored pickup pulls out, the windshield replaced with a piece of metal with a horizontal strip to see through. It’s heading to the bridge with two well-armed mutants sitting in the back. After the truck leaves and the garage door closes, I notice two parked electric bikes next to the kitchen. It takes me less than a minute to hot-wire a cycle and soon I’m heading to the bridge.

  Mr. Fukui’s men are loading the injured Guard’s men onto their truck and head back up the hill. They pass the restaurant, and I follow with my headlight off. The armor weighs down the vehicle. It’s slow in the turns and sluggish getting up to speed. With my goggles, I can follow their headlights without being seen.

  A gate opens, and they drive behind a chain-link fence. Zooming in with my goggles, I watch them stop in front of a two-acre auto manufacturing plant where they mold parts for cars and trucks. A garage door opens, and the vehicle is swallowed inside.

  Laying my bike in a ditch, I walk up the dry creek bed that leads to the facility. The gully ends in a five-foot culvert that goes under the fence. Bent over, I walk up the pipe until I find a metal grate.

  I pop the lid, sticking my head out with my goggles on low light. Above me is a washing area to clean auto parts. The concrete floor is sloped with a grate in the middle to collect runoff.

  I pull the grate off, climb inside, and quietly replace the cover. Light is coming from the direction of the loading dock, where I saw the truck enter the building. I move silently through the shadows inside the plant.

  Near the large garage door, big enough for a semi-truck, the four Guardsmen are sitting with their backs against the wall.

  Parked near the loading bay is the armored truck, and in the bed of the truck is the National Guard equipment. Hiding in the shadows, I make my way to the truck. The tailgate is down. In the back are four rifles, some body armor and drying blood. Making my way to the passenger door, I open it. On the seat is a military radio taken from the National Guard. Grabbing it, I leave the door slightly ajar, not wanting to make a sound.

  I go out a side door, the ground littered with cigarette butts, and turn on the radio.

  “Hello to anyone out there. The National Guard troops at the bridge are being held at the auto manufacturing plant.”

  “Who are you?” a voice over the radio asks.

  “That’s not important, what is important is that four guardsmen are being held at the auto plant.”

  “How do I know this information is valid?”

  “Call Captain Fields at this frequency and tell him you need a helicopter.”

  “Who you are?” the voice asks again.

  “A missile destroyed an auto body shop. Cars are being retrofitted to spread the virus. Check the site. The car trunks will have metal canisters and tubing in the back.” I pause, take a breath and then continue: “The license plates of twenty cars that have been retrofitted to spread the virus are...” Natasha spends the next few minutes reciting numbers.

  Beams of light pass under the door, the light shifting and getting brighter. Someone is coming.

  After turning off the radio, I stand next to the door and wait. It opens, and an elf steps out. I punch the elf in the jaw before he can turn his head. Stepping into the door, I see a man behind him as well, holding a pistol, but I manage to knee him in the stomach before he can fire a shot. Picking up both their pistols, I release the clips.

  I walk inside and find a shelf and hide the two guns. Suddenly, the lights come on, and my hiding places all disappear at once. I might as well be a vampire.

  Hearing footsteps, I duck behind a pillar. The footsteps are coming my way. When they are close enough, I step out and hit the first man in the neck with the side of my hand, then quickly turn to face his partner. He fires a shot, which clips my shin, the force knocking me off my feet. On the way down, Natasha takes over and I pull out my baton. I hit the ground swinging and connect with his knee. He drops. When he reaches for his rifle, I swing again and hit him squarely in the thumb.

  “Fuck!-Fuck!-Fuck!” he screams.

  After getting to my feet, I grab his rifle, check the safety, and use it as a cane while hobbling away from the sound of running feet. I find a bench to hide under when someone runs past. While crouched under the counter, I go through my vest pockets, find a stim patch and then attach it to my neck. My shin feels like it’s on fire, but I feel around anyway. Luckily, it’s not broken, at least not all the way through.

  There are too many lights; the LED bulbs are illuminating the building like midday. They’re spaced fifty feet apart and emit a harsh white glare. The meds kick in, and the burn in my shin fades. “Can you shoot out those lights?” I ask Natasha in a whisper.

  “Like shooting fish in a barrel, darling.”

  Getting to my feet, I limp at a fast walk, take aim and fire. The shot takes out one of the lights, and Natasha shoots again.

  It’s a curious feeling with Natasha controlling my arms and me working my legs. This is what a marionette feels like. With each shot, my playground grows with more shadows.

  People shout and more footsteps approach. Ducking into a shadow cast by a pillar, I slide past the two men and reform behind them. I move behind a crane and head back to the prisoners. On the way, Natasha shoots twenty lights with twenty consecutive shots. And the area around the National Guard is rich with shadows, my home sweet home.

  In the darkness, I observe an armed man pacing in front of the prisoners, their hands tied in front of them. Pointing his rifle at a man’s head, he says. “Last chance to tell me who’s out there?”

  Stepping out from the shadow, I keep half my face in darkness. “Are you looking for me?”

  A tall mutant turns and raises his rifle. “Come here.”

  “Why, so you can shoot me up close and personal?” Seeing him threaten to kill helpless, unarmed prisoners has my blood boiling. “If you want to shoot me, then you can do it from there.” I give him the finger with both hands.

  Before he squeezes off a round, I’m standing behind him at the edge of a shadow. I wait for him to empty the clip and put my hand on his shoulder. “Tough break, kid,” I use my Bogart voice. Then I swing my knee around and connect with his balls with enough force that he drops to his knees and retches.

  “You’ll gonna wanna get the boys on ice as soon as possible.”

  Getting out my pocketknife, I cut the restraints of the prisoner’s hands.

  A dwarf picks up the rifle, then smashes the butt into the man’s nose. The body twitches like it was hit by a bolt of lightning, then lies still. The dwarf goes into the corpse’s pockets and finds a spare clip.

  “Follow me.” I walk towards the loading dock. Exiting the manufacturing plant, we run to the front gate. Halfway there, someone opens fire. The dwarf stops and returns fire while the rest of us run through the gate. Looking back, I see a dwarf go down.

  I lead them back to the dry creek bed where I parked my bike. We hide in the shadows and turn on the radio.

  “We need a ride out of here now.”

  “Is this Michael?” Captain Fields voice asks over the radio.

  “Yes, we have five people who need immediate evac. There are hostiles on the ground.”

  In the distance, I hear chopper blades. The loading dock door opens, and a half dozen men come out, heading in our direction. The sound of the helicopter gets louder. Soon, it hovers over the parking lot loading dock.

  The mutants from
the Inner-City Gang start shooting. The chopper returns fire with a fifty-caliber machine gun. The impact of the bullets knock the mutants off there feet. In a matter of seconds, the gun battle is over. The helicopter lands in the parking lot, and we run towards it, me in the rear with my crippled leg. Hobbling the last few steps, I hold out my hand, and someone pulls me in. Taking off, I lean my weary head against the window, the moon low on the horizon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I’m at Rick’s Café, the dust thick, windows are blown out and glass is everywhere. Stepping around the overturned chairs and tables, I make my way to the piano. Sam is dead, and two men carry him away on a stretcher.

  Bogart stands in front of the broken front windows. I walk over beside him and look out. Glass litters the streets, people are collecting the dead and putting them on stretchers.

  “I did the best I could,” I say.

  “We know, kid,” he says and lights a cigarette.

  Clouds move in and the rain dampens the smoldering fires.

  * * *

  I wake up back in the naval hospital where a nurse is opening the curtains to my room.

  The nurse is a tall man, early forties, dark skin and hair. He leans against the wall, watching me while my eyes adjust to the light.

  I get up and stretch. “I could use a shower.”

  He hands me a small card with four holes punched in it. “Here you go.”

  “What’s this?”

  “After five more visits, the tenth is free.”

  I look at the card closely, a punch card for a local shop where Pam and I had coffee. I raise my eyebrows, amused.

  He laughs and slaps my back, taking his card, some joke at my expense. Leading me to a shower, he points to a small locker with a piece of tape on the metal door. Written on the tape in black magic marker ink is the name, “Spooky.”

  Damn, no matter what, my nickname spooky follows me around. I feel like I got a sign taped to my back. I grab a towel and head for the shower.

  I check my shin, sore to the touch, but I can walk on it. While the water runs down my back, I have an uneasy feeling…like I forgot something. It’s like searching your home for a secret door that you can never find. I try to focus, but all that comes to mind is the movie Casablanca. After drying off, I head to my locker.

  After I finish dressing, I walk out and Pam is leaning against a wall.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Good, how long was I out?

  “Two days.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The LA Times printed a story exposing Mayor Clay, first for covering up the virus and then blaming the military for its creation.” She walks over to me and looks me in the eye. “So, how did you convince a whole city of the existence of the mutant-killing virus?”

  Pam’s giving me that one eye look. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Is that your story, Danny Boy? ‘You didn’t do anything?’” Pam is using her Irish accent. Pam gets out her phone and plays a recording of me reciting license plates.

  “No, that’s not me. Do I sound that nasally?”

  “You came in with a fractured tibia, along with four National Guardsmen.” She puts her phone away. “They said a skinny guy appeared out of nowhere and saved their skin.”

  “I’m sorry. My default setting is to deny everything. It’s an occupational hazard.” My stomach changes the subject by growling.

  “There is a proper way for a man to escort a woman.” She stands to my right. “Bend your arm.” With her left hand, she reaches around and holds onto my bicep.

  “Wow. This is the stuff dreams are made of.”

  “I didn’t peg you as a man who read Shakespeare.”

  “Shakespeare? That was from Bogart in the Maltese Falcon.”

  Pam smiles and then shakes her head. Walking down the hall, we pass the nurses’ station. Mike is sitting on a stool, the nurse who called me “Spooky.”

  He stands up and makes a tisking sound when we pass. “Pamela, Pamela, I’m gonna tell your momma.”

  Pam makes an obscene gesture with her free hand, and Mike slaps his thigh and laughs.

  Stopping in front of the elevator, I punch the button.

  While we wait, Pam says, “After you squawked the numbers, a ham radio operation recorded your speech. The cells towers were still down, but he was able to replay your message over the local internet. Each wireless router can transmit and receive over a few hundred feet. They form a web throughout Frisco that got the word out.”

  The door opens to the elevator, and we get in. Pam continues: “By sunrise, there were thousands of eyes on the street. The vehicles spraying the virus didn’t get very far before they were caught, dragged out of their cars and beaten to death. The National Guard arrested Mayor Clay, and the Lieutenant Mayor will be sworn in tomorrow.”

  “‘Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.’”

  “Don’t be cynical.” She slaps my arm lightly.

  “I’m not cynical. It’s ‘The Who, a rock band.’”

  “The what?”

  “Nothing,” I say and Natasha laughs.

  Entering the cafeteria, I load a bowl with blue scrambled algae, grab a dozen little squares of butter and put them on my plate. Pam pays with a thumbprint, and we find a place to sit by the window.

  Pam waits for me to finish. “Hermes, how do you eat like that and still stay thin?”

  I put my hand on my belly and stick it out. “I’m eating for two, Natasha and me.”

  She smiles, “You’re evading the question.”

  “Go out with me,” I blurt out.

  Her smile turns upside down.

  “My mom says your society has a lot of rules. I don’t have much experience with rules or girlfriends.”

  “You fancy me as your girlfriend?” she asks in her Irish accent. “Do you know what it means to be acquainted with a Pureblood Irish woman, keeper of the Breen heritage?”

  “What can I say, I like adventure, and you’re not scaring me. Okay, that’s a little scary, but tell me more.”

  She takes a deep breath, lets it out and leans back in her chair. “As a Pureblood woman, I must keep our traditions, sing the old songs, and make sure my children are genetically superior.” She looks at me, gauging my reaction.

  “What kind of songs do you sing?”

  “Sad ones. Breen in Irish means sorrow. For most of our songs, someone dies and leaves their lover to pine away in misery. When they both die together, it’s a happy ending.”

  I laugh and then look out over the ocean, the tide going out. “I like Irish ballads. There’s strength in the purity of their emotion.” Turning back, I look at Pam. “I’d love to hear you sing.”

  She looks away towards the bay, then looks back at me. “There is a database of approved genes. I need to make sure that my children conform to that list. Otherwise, they don’t go to the right schools and meet the right people.”

  I raise my hands. “I’m not talking about children. I just want to cook dinner for you at my house.”

  Pam cocks her head to the side. “Okay, I’ll bring wine and watch you cook.”

  My triumphant feeling soon fades when I realize, “Pam, I live with my parents.”

  “Chaperones…that’s even better.”

  “So…you’ll be meeting my parents. I understand that means something in your society.”

  She gives me a one-eyed look again, sizing me up. “Yes.”

  “For this conversation, I need real coffee and chocolate. The darker and bitterer, the better.”

  Pam checks her lipstick, and we get up. Next to the hospital are little shops that cater to injured mutants. Men from the Colombia War come here to get patched up and sent back.

  We stroll past window fronts. A man in a wheelchair is being pushed by a woman with only one eye.

  We enter a coffee shop. A male elf behind the counter waits for me to order.

  “Yeah, I’ll have the coffee with fre
e refills. Two espressos and two brownies. Do you have anything stronger?”

  “I have a chocolate bar, ninety-one percent cocoa content.”

  “Yeah, throw that in.” I turn and look at Pam. “What do you want?”

  Her eyebrow goes up. “For a moment I thought you were ordering for me.” Pam turns to the man behind the counter. “I’ll have a latte and a nibble off his plate.”

  We sit down in a booth, and the man soon brings us our treats. I take a bite of brownie and slug it down with coffee.

  I smile at Pam. “The simple things in life are always the best things.”

  Pam sips her coffee and asks in a level tone, “Why do you crave fat and caffeine?”

  “I want to be honest, but I don’t want to scare you away, Pam.”

  “You think a Breen scares easily?” she says in her Irish accent.

  Her charm is disarming, I smile and go on: “Caffeine is like vitamin D, the sunshine drug. When the sun is out, I feel heavy. All I want to do is lie down and sleep like a cat. Coffee is the cure.” I slam the first espresso and chase it with a brownie.

  “What about your fat cravings?”

  “Shadow walking burns a lot of energy.”

  “Say that again…slowly this time.”

  I finish the second espresso. The fat and coffee are kicking in; I start feeling more my old self. If I smoked, I would light one up right now, and Bogart comes to mind again. I wonder why I’m thinking about him so much lately.

  Pam looks at me, waiting for me to speak.

  I open my mouth, making a few vowel sounds. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “What’s a shadow walk?”

  “At night, and only at night, I can step into a shadow then step out anywhere along its edge. If the shadows are interconnected like the ones downtown, I can cover a lot of ground very fast.”

  She puts her cup down. “Yes, it was at night when you disappeared off our monitors.” She takes a piece of the dark chocolate and eats a square. “Also at night, your skin temperature drops to fifty-five degrees, but your core temperature remains the same.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, that’s harder to explain.”