by CM Raymond
There, on Elijah’s chest was the same symbol—clear as day now that she knew what she was looking for. The diamond intersected by harsh, curved lines.
What the hell?
There was no denying its resemblance. The uniqueness of its shape made it clear. Brooke had never seen it anywhere else.
Then it struck her. She actually had seen it elsewhere.
She flipped through a couple pages of notes and came across a printed out photo. The image was grainy, a screenshot from a poorly made YouTube video. One that Brooke had watched a hundred times.
The Molten Menace, screaming on Mount Washington. And there, wreathed in flames on its chest stood her family’s symbol.
Brooke scrambled out of bed and dressed quickly without taking her eyes off Elijah. Panic replaced the peace she had felt only moments earlier.
She turned toward the door, then stopped, her mind already calculating. She turned back, grabbed the folder with Elijah’s notes and the medallion, and fled.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Brooke sat in the torn up driveway of the old mill, letting the engine idle. She had been here only once before, with her father. The day they closed the mill down.
She remembered the cursing, the angry faces of the workers as they filed out for the last time. All their rage directed at her dad.
As they sat there watching, Brooke, only a child at the time, had asked why it was happening. Her father’s words still carried the same weight they did that day. “We close one so the others can survive. We do this for Pittsburgh. It hurts now, seeing their anger. And I’m angry too, but it’s the hottest fires that forge the coldest steel.”
Now as she stared at the empty building, she understood for the first time what he meant. Sacrifice. That’s what being a hero was all about.
She stared down at the notes scattered across the passenger seat. Elijah’s notes. It was clear now that he had lied to her, almost from the start. She didn’t quite understand his chicken scratch and got the sense that he didn’t either. Monsters. Magic. Ghosts from her family’s past.
It all reads like some gruesome children’s fantasy.
And yet...she had been there. She had seen the monster with her own eyes.
Brooke reached into the passenger side and grabbed a wool beanie and a flashlight. She slid the medallion into the pocket of her puffy jacket.
Everything about the mill looked tired and abused. An amateur Crips tag and an enormous penis were spray-painted on the building’s side. She grinned. Kids. A chain draped around the handles of the main entrance likely had kept people out for some time. Now, a Master Lock sat broken in the dust. Mills like this were surprisingly popular among urban adventurers. Although that mostly consisted of teenagers looking for a place to get high. Their trespasses didn’t bother her much. If the old building could offer some amusement, so be it.
She pulled open the door and was hit by three decades’ worth of must. Flicking on the flashlight, she stepped across the threshold.
The beam illuminated the manager’s office through a broken window. Apart from the thin layer of dust that covered everything, the office looked as if it were ready for a week’s work: papers neatly stacked in well-ordered piles, a pen lined up perfectly parallel with the edge of the desk. Even a coffee mug with the handle turned in for a left-handed employee sat, waiting for its master to return. There was a certain sadness to the scene; a foreshadowing of what was in store for the rest of AI.
Brooke couldn’t bring herself to look any longer. She switched the flashlight to her right hand and stuffed her dominant hand into her pocket. Cold metal reminded her why she had come. She drew the medallion out and held it inches from her face. It glimmered in the artificial light.
Brooke stared at the strange symbol, half expecting it to come alive. The curved lines were dynamic, penetrating the diamond shape at its center. She wondered if there was power in the place—in the medallion itself. Or if it was another false hope. Her slender hand curled around the ornate metal token. Foolish or not, it was an option she needed to try.
The crunching of concrete and broken glass echoed through the hall as she proceeded past the other offices. Water, filtered through cracks in the ceiling, made a pathway in the dirt on the floor. She pushed open a door and stepped into the mill.
Fresh footprints, likely from Elijah, led her toward a metal-grate staircase. It ascended from the plant floor to a platform overlooking the main work area. She climbed, hearing the metal groan beneath her feet. She trusted the metal like family. In ways, Pittsburgh steel was the Alarawn family’s backbone—the true patriarch. It wouldn’t let her down.
Crossing the plant from above, she found a spot where the railing was broken. Turning the light toward the fracture, she noticed the break was fresh, like the footprints. Oxidation hadn’t tarnished the exposed metal.
Finding another staircase, Brooked made her way down to the floor. Underneath the walkway, she discovered several lengths of broken metal—the missing piece of the guardrail. Cracks ran in the concrete beneath her feet.
In front of her was an open-hearth furnace. She placed her hand upon the large cauldron, the crucible, capable of containing boiling steel. But those fires were long dead. A cold chill ran up her arm.
With one hand on the furnace and another on the medallion, Brooke found herself praying—whether to her father, her grandfather, or God, she couldn’t say. But she begged for something to happen, anything. There was some secret here, she knew it. She stood in her factory, her legacy. Whatever happened to Elijah Branton, whatever power he possessed, it was meant for her.
She punched the cauldron. Pain surged through her hand. She hit it again, screaming. “It’s not fair. What the hell am I supposed to do?” Her cries echoed throughout the building, but the mill returned no answer.
An hour later she emerged from the abandoned factory. Tired, her knuckles bloody, she sat in her car and laughed at her stupidity. Magic and demons. What bullshit. I must be truly desperate. Elijah’s transformation was real, that she didn’t doubt. But there must have been another explanation. She thought about their night together; his body, covered with bruises and strange burns. It was better than she expected. He was so anxious to be with her. It was exhilarating to be that wanted.
But it was all a lie. He was no different than Van Pelt.
She rifled through the notes again, looking for the missing piece. It was there she found the small business card.
Percival Carver Scott, Chemical Research.
Then she smiled as she remembered the text message on Elijah’s phone.
Pulling out her cell phone she typed a hasty message to Rex.
Mill was a bust but I have a new lead. I need you to do something for me after all. I think we can save the company.
PART THREE
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.
Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.
“Prayers of Steel,” Carl Sandburg
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Chem balanced a Starbucks cup on his padfolio as he pulled the outside door open. This feat of dexterity was a daily event for him. He slid through the gap and swiped his identification at the next set of doors. Beeping, the doors clicked unlocked.
“Hey, Bill.” Chem nodded to the guard seated at the desk.
The middle-aged security guard returned the gesture. The man’s arm was still in a sling from a recent workplace accident. Apparently, someone had broken into a medical supply closet and blew the place up.
The chemist felt bad that his friend suffered, but if you wa
nt to make an omelet… “How’s the arm healing up?”
“It’s okay. You know, occupational hazard and all.” Bill’s friendly smile only made the chemist feel worse.
“In the line of duty, right?” Chem grinned.
“Always.”
As he paced toward the lab, Chem pushed the guilt out of his mind. It wasn’t hard. The Vida Serum filled his mind. The project was all he ever thought about, and it neared completion—ready for animal testing. He briefly considered skipping the mandatory lab tests in order to expedite the process. Making little metal monster mice wouldn’t show its effects on humans, and it was the stabilizing compound of thermo-icilin with Elijah’s blood that needed to be mastered.
But, research ethics aside, the question of who the subject would be remained. Naturally, he couldn’t administer it to himself. He was the scientist, after all. Chem needed to remain disconnected, objective. A night’s worth of good sleep helped him regain that.
He considered placing an ad on Craigslist for a test patient. This tactic always drew a hundred college students and a few meth-heads desperate for cash. It could work, but it left too many variables out of his control. There was no telling what his compound would do to a person.
Elijah’s changed form was nearly perfect. If the transformation could be replicated and then altered into diverse enhancements, Chem would be breaking new ground in the biochemical community. These kinds of results would change his life forever.
Chem kept thinking of the other side of the equation. The aspect of Elijah’s blood that kept him alive through the change and led to what Chem could only consider his rapid healing. If the serum worked, if it effectively could isolate this factor and mobilize it with the icilin, there was no telling what Chem could accomplish.
The door to his lab was ajar and light seeped into the hall. Chem was always the first to arrive—and the last to leave.
Someone is against a deadline, he thought, looking at the cracked door.
The room was empty—and clean. Chem scanned for any signs of other occupants, but everything was put away and untouched. The machines were still broken, but maintenance had come by to change the lights.
Perfect, he thought, realizing he could get to work right away.
He settled into his workspace. Pulling out his composition book, he reviewed the notes. Chem turned to his lockbox—where his sensitive materials were stored. As he moved the key toward its home, something caught his eye. Scratches. The shiny metal surrounding the keyhole was scuffed. The edge of the box was slightly bent.
What the hell?
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Chem opened the box. The serum was missing.
“No. Shit. No,” Chem screamed into the empty lab.
He stood and paced.
“Think, man, think.”
He turned to run back toward the guards’ desk but first, he grabbed the untouched Starbucks and another vial from his lockbox.
“I don’t know, brother. I’d love to help, but we need to get clearance first to allow you to look at the tapes.” Bill paused and pursed his lips. “You sure you didn’t put your stuff somewhere else? Maybe your partner took it out for further, um, analysis—or whatever.”
“I don’t have a partner,” Chem replied through clenched teeth. “And this is not the kind of thing you misplace.” He paused, realizing he was getting forceful. “Listen, Bill, let’s just skip all the bureaucratic bullshit. You know I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
The portly guard laughed. “I know that, Chem. You’re the only egghead who actually treats me like a human. But with the other break-in, I’m kind of on thin ice. I can’t lose this job. You know, with Katie in school and all. Just can’t risk it. I’m sorry.” Bill’s eyes pleaded with him.
Chem smiled and nodded. “I get it, man. It’s cool.”
Bill opened the desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. He slid it across the table. “Here. Make this report out. I’ll come down and check out the lab, and we’ll get this in today. We should be able to watch the film by this time tomorrow.” He tapped the desktop tower, which held the recordings. “This baby’s not going anywhere.” His mouth curled in an uncomfortable smile.
“It’s cool, Bill. You know I wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt your family.” Chem nodded and turned to go. He took three steps stopped and turned. “Bill, I almost forgot.” He paced back to the desk.
“What’s that?” Bill said.
“I picked up a coffee for you. Black. The only way to take it,” Chem said.
The two men laughed. “Kind of racist, don’t you think?” Bill winked.
“Only if you say it.” Chem smiled, placed the coffee on the desk, and walked back toward the lab. Turning the corner, he stopped and leaned against the wall. He pulled out his phone and noted the time, then opened his Facebook app. It always amazed him to see what the people from his childhood were up to. If they only knew the work of his hands. After three minutes, he pocketed the phone and walked back to the desk.
Right on time, Bill.
The guard was slumped in his chair, chin on his chest. Chem slid over the desk and squeezed his legs into the tight space next to his unconscious friend. He pulled out a laptop from his bag and linked a USB cord to the desktop computer. Within two minutes he had the surveillance video downloaded to his hard drive. He dropped his computer into the bag and pulled out a vial and hypodermic needle. Chem rotated Bill’s left arm and gave the antecubital vein a quick slap. Thankfully, Bill had the pipes of a bull. “Sorry, man. Again.”
He thrust the needle into the vein and shoved the plunger with one swift move. Chem was able to dislodge the needle and drop it into his open bag just as Bill opened his eyes.
“What…what…what happened?”
Chem raised his eyebrows. “Beats me. I just came back—I left my phone.” He waved his phone in the air. “You were all slumped down. I thought I was gonna have to give you CPR. Looking at that mouth of yours, I decided to pray instead.”
Bill shook his head and rubbed his hands across his face.
“Your face is pale as shit,” Chem said. “You want me to call an ambulance?”
Bill pushed his palms against his eyes. “No. I think I’m all right. Just a little groggy. My shift’s almost over.”
Chem nodded. “All right. But be careful, okay?”
The chemist grabbed the sedative-spiked coffee and paced toward his lab.
Back at the lab, Chem sat in a cubicle facing the door. He wore his headphones. The video didn’t include sound, but it was a barrier to keep his colleagues at bay if they should show up. Chem pulled up the file and scrolled the time stamp to the moment he had left the lab. The video player ran at 10X speed; nothing happened for nearly thirty minutes. Finally, a figure entered the room.
Walking across the camera’s line of vision, the figure blacked out the screen. A few seconds passed and the screen washed out white, as the light filtered back into the lens. The man strode with intention directly for Chem’s work area. He knew exactly what he was there for.
What the shit damn hell?
Chem rubbed his eyes and squinted, only inches from the screen. He pulled his glasses from his nose and then put them back in place. But the video was clear as day.
An enormous man in a perfect suit and a cheap black mask was stealing his life’s work.
Chem had no idea who the thief was, or where he might find him. But a cold sweat began to creep down his back.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
A two-inch beam of light shone through a crack in the curtains directly across Elijah Branton’s eyes. He was sure his body still hurt like hell, but he couldn’t feel anything except the pounding of his head.
The headache was well-earned.
Reaching over, he found the space on the full-sized bed next to him vacant and cold. But her smell still lingered in the room.
So it wasn’t a dream after
all.
Emotions swept over him. Sadness came first. Below the surface, Elijah was the quintessential romantic. He wished she had stayed for breakfast or at least a quick cup of coffee. But contentment soon replaced the disappointment, and he laid there still for a moment, relishing the memory of his evening with Brooke Alarawn. The sex was good. But there was something about their connection that remained deeper than the carnal experience. He laid there, smiling, playing the conversations and her full laughter over in his mind.
Finally, Elijah pulled out his phone. He flicked through a dozen or so campus-wide emails and student notes asking for extensions on assignments. But there, unopened and nagging at the back of his mind was a series of messages originating from one Willa Weil. She had been trying to get ahold of him since he stormed out of her apartment, but he wasn’t ready for that conversation.
Not yet.
He hoped the poet would fade from his mind like a bad dream, the way his passenger had left him. Lying there in his soft bed—after a perfect night—it was easy to pretend that the craziness of the last few days was just that. Craziness. Now he could settle back into his life. His teaching and his research and whatever the hell was going to happen with Brooke.
But still, those messages stared up at him. Elijah hesitated for a second, then pressed delete. Again and again. One after another, all reminders of the so-called magician faded from his phone.
Feeling suddenly productive, he eased out of bed. A shower and breakfast would be the perfect way to start this already great morning.
A knock on his apartment door interrupted him. He smiled again as he quickly threw on some gym shorts. He was wrong. Brooke returning would be the perfect way to start the morning. She had probably just gone to get coffee or something.
Elijah opened the door. “Well, well, well, back for m—”
It wasn’t Brooke Alarawn standing in front of him, but rather a tear-stained Willa Weil.