Beginnings

by J. S. Frankel

  Families…he would have to think of that and shut the concept down. It didn’t work, though, and his mood turned sour. He trudged on, his idea of having a decent morning shot to hell.

  Turning his eyes on the creek, Paul realized that someone had decided to use it as their own personal dumping ground. A bicycle and what looked to be a small fridge stuck their noses out of the water, and the sight repelled him. He’d seen enough garbage in the Bronx. This kind of place, though, didn’t deserve all this trash and in spite of the cold air, a distinctly foul smell came from the water.

  “Well, that’s that for now,” he said, tired from his sightseeing sojourn, and walked back.

  Once he’d reached the house, he was about to go in when a voice stopped him. “Excuse me, young man.”

  Surprised, he turned around. Who else would be up at this time of day? An old woman wearing a threadbare coat, a woolen cap and galoshes stood in front of him. A small Corgi stood at the end of the leash and tugged on it, whining. “Be still,” she scolded the dog and peered through myopic eyes. “My name’s Mrs. Porter. Are you related to Mr. Bolson?”

  Bolson…the old guy’s name was Bolson. Thinking quickly, Paul nodded. “Yes ma’am, I’m his nephew. I’m just visiting for a few days.”

  The dog panted and whined. It pulled again on the leash and scrabbled to get away. She sighed, apparently embarrassed at her dog’s lack of manners and when she spoke, it sounded like someone who was used to endlessly disciplining her pet. “Yes, Peter, we’re going soon.”

  Instead of leaving, though, Mrs. Porter continued to stare at him, seemingly filing away every detail. He felt the power of her gaze but didn’t move. Her dog kept whining and she yanked sharply on the leash, which caused the dog to yelp. It stopped and crouched down, growling softly.

  “I thought you were new here,” she said, and nodded with satisfaction as if she’d solved the case of the century. “I know the people in this town. I’ve lived here all my life. I haven’t seen Mr. Bolson around lately. He bought this place about two years ago and always kept to himself.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “It most certainly is.” She nodded. “He bought the place and had some workmen come in to fix it up. Not from around here, no, he brought them in from other towns and cities. He couldn’t give the locals a chance to get some pay in.”

  She continued to ramble on about how the noise kept some of the “honest folk” as she put it, awake at night. Bolson had trucks deliver parts—“plastic things and wiring and cables,” she said—and usually kept to himself.

  Paul desperately wished he could come up with an excuse to dash back inside the house, but knew he couldn’t. He’d seen looks like this in the orphanage and in the foster homes. The looks meant the people were sizing him up, weighing what kind of character he was and what they could get away with. The looks were ones of suspicion, dislike and indifference all rolled into one.

  No, he couldn’t leave, not yet, for she’d get suspicious and might tell someone. That could lead to trouble. With a massive mental effort, he forced himself to put on a cheery smile. “My uncle and I, er, haven’t seen each other for a long time. He likes to sit and chat.”

  “He’s not under the weather, is he? I notice the shades in his house were drawn.”

  Wow, this lady was nosy! In fact, Paul wanted to say Dr. Bolson was a little more than under the weather, but in a burst of inspiration he came out with, “Yes ma’am, actually, he’s had, er, a bad cold and he needs his rest. I’m helping him around the house. Like I said, we talk a lot.”

  “I see.”

  If she did, then her eyes betrayed her, as something sparked in them. It looked like suspicion. “Well, I’ll be going now…” he said and started to turn away.

  In a surprisingly quick move, her hand shot out to snag his sleeve and she squinted at him. “Your face is all bruised up. What happened?”

  How about I got my butt kicked a couple of days ago by a group of homicidal maniacs? A second later, he checked his thoughts. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the response. “Slipped on the carpet, fell down the stairs.”

  Dumb answer, but it seemed to satisfy her as she lifted her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Well, you’re young. You’ll get over it. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  Then she was gone, yanking on her poor dog’s leash as she went. Paul walked inside and locked the door, breathing heavily. That had been close. He was not only a fugitive, but if anyone saw him with…

  “Did you go out?”

  The voice startled him. Angela stood at the staircase, dressed in a pair of dark blue pajamas. Arms folded across her chest, the expression on her face resembled a volcano about to erupt. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re supposed to keep a low profile here.”

  Embarrassed at being called out, Paul felt the heat rush to his face. He’d screwed up and he had to own it. “Sorry,” he began, “I was just trying to figure out where everything was, and…”

  Angela waved off his response. “And someone saw you. I have pretty decent hearing and I heard you talking to some old lady. Remember, we go out at night. At least, I do.” She uncrossed her arms and the severe expression faded. “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. “There’s just some bread in the fridge. That, and some jam. I, uh, don’t have any money for food, and—”

  She interrupted, “You need to eat.”

  Pivoting on her heel, she walked away and into the kitchen. While she was gone, he thought about what Mrs. Porter had said. Workmen coming in, delivering parts, secrecy…this had to be kept a secret…

  “Food’s ready,” Angela said as she reemerged from the kitchen carrying a plate with a slice of bread covered in jam. She proffered the plate. “Here you are.”

  Paul took it and bit into the bread. It was stale and the jam had no taste, but like the lady said, he needed to eat. A clump of bread lodged in his throat and made him gag. With an effort, he forced it down.

  “It tastes good?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he lied, but put the plate down. He’d eat later on.

  Angela nodded and went over to the large cabinet in the living room. Opening a drawer and reaching inside, she pulled out a large wad of bills. “I guess this is enough,” she said as she returned to his position and handed over the money.

  When counted, it came to over five thousand dollars. “It’s, uh… Yeah, it’ll do,” Paul said, impressed at the amount of money he held. She’d mentioned having enough money to pay the bills, but this? Totally ridiculous. He’d never seen this much cash before, much less held it. He was used to getting a few dollars here and there from the Brothers at the orphanage to buy books and they were always used books.

  “Our maker wanted us to have this,” continued Angela as she pulled open the bottom drawer.

  The sight of the sea of greenbacks almost made Paul’s heart stop. The doctor had taken a lot more than equipment from his company. Continuing to gaze at the drawer, Paul saw it had been packed with new bills, all hundreds, and he gave up counting after five seconds. “I think that’s more than enough.”

  Angela shut the drawer, took a seat on the couch, and waved him over. He sat next to her, feeling uncomfortable. This was an awkward moment in time. He’d never spoken to any girl as long as this and didn’t know what to say. “Um, I guess I could get some food from a supermarket later on.”

  “You’re not going to buy it here,” she stated with an air of certainty. As if to underscore her statement, she pointed to the front door. “Too many people might see you. Secrecy, remember?”

  So, if he had to remain cooped up, what would he do? As if reading his mind, Angela said, “Listen, I’m going to go on patrol tonight. We can go together, if you want.”

  It sounded good, but with no superpowers, he thought that he’d just get in the way. Crisis management in terms of gang control wasn’t hi
s forte. “I don’t know what I can do to help.”

  A tiny grin crossed her face. “I have an idea.”

  * * * *

  Midnight, back in the Bronx, and this was most definitely a déjà vu moment. This spot was only a couple of blocks from where he’d almost met eternity the first time. During the day, he’d gone over the notes while Ooze worked. The water-bag man shuttled back and forth between working on the computer and mixing chemicals. He worked with a quiet diligence, and rarely spoke except to ask for help holding some vials and adding in some chemicals. Paul tried to stifle his feelings of frustration at not being able to understand things entirely, and finally Ooze let out a grunt. “Hey,” he said.

  Paul looked up from his file. “What is it?”

  “These things take time, and I’m not a technician. Have a little patience, will ya?”

  Patience was the one thing needed, but this stuff went way beyond anything traditionally taught in chemistry class or perhaps anywhere else. The only thing Paul did understand was Bolson—Dr. Bolson—had managed to infuse a single stem cell with the necessary powers to allow these people to do what they did. It didn’t explain why CF was decomposing nor did it explain why Angela could do what she could do. He just had to accept it as fact.

  Finally, after his brain shut down, he excused himself and went back to his room. Lying in bed, he started to nod off, spiraled down into a world of black.

  Minutes—or perhaps hours—later, he felt a hand shake him gently. When he opened his eyes, he saw Angela. “Hey, if you’re ready, let’s get going,” she said. “It’s almost eleven.” She held some fresh clothes in her hands. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”

  After dressing warmly in a pair of pants and a couple of shirts under his jacket, Paul opened his bedroom door and met her outside. “Um…what do we do now?” he asked.

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him downstairs. “I’ve got this. C’mon.”

  In the backyard, the sounds of the night, mainly quiet punctuated by the hoots of an owl and the flutter of a bat’s wings, came through. The neighborhood was quiet and still and she looked up at the sky. “It’s clear tonight. The stars… They’re pretty.”

  Following her lead, he turned his gaze to the night sky and the stars shone out, a brilliant white that seemed to beckon him. “Hang on,” Angela said. After looping her arm around his waist, she took off.

  A second later they were well over two hundred feet above the ground. Paul thought he should be terrified, but he felt her arm, iron-hard yet gentle, supporting his weight and went with it. “Pretty cool,” he said and his voice shook, but only for a moment.

  “Yeah, flying is pretty decent,” she replied. “It’s…like freedom from what I am.”

  She sounded somewhat subdued, almost sad, but he decided not to ask her about it, not yet. She’d mentioned something about other peoples’ reactions—negative ones.

  Instead, he turned his attention to the night sky, felt the wind whip by his face, smelled the cleanness of the air and thought, yeah, flying… I’m actually flying!

  They were moving fast, and soon the concrete jungle known as New York appeared. Angela dove for the ground and landed in an alleyway. Paul let out a breath and actually felt stoked about being here. “That was a rush—the flying, I mean.”

  “Good, get ready for more thrills,” she replied as she took a step back. “Hang around here for a bit. I’ll be watching.”

  Before he could get a word out, she leapt up into the air as straight as an arrow. Paul stared at her quickly vanishing figure and scuffed his toe in the dirt, pissed off that she’d ditched him.

  “Hang around for a bit,” he muttered then inhaled sharply as the truth hit home. Oh crap, she was using him for bait! “Thanks a lot.”

  Bait—he’d been set up and dangled like a worm on a hook over shark-infested water. All he needed now was for the killers from the deep to smell the blood and it didn’t take long for trouble to arrive. Three Bangers men dressed in their usual garb strolled by the alley.

  A second later—after looking around to see if the coast was clear—they entered and mean smiles crossed their faces. Immediately, the leader—he stood a good six inches taller than the other two men and was built like a pro wrestler—waved to the entrance and his compadres formed a wall, blocking off any chance of escape. Paul looked behind him. A concrete wall around twenty feet high lay at the other end. He was trapped.

  “What’ve we got here?” the leader asked.

  “Looks like a punk who should be at home,” another member chimed in and began to chortle. “It’s a school night. Do you know where your children are?”

  His voice trailed off, and the third member of the group—a squat, fat slob with a tattoo of a cross on his cheek—nudged him. “What’s up?” he asked. “You know this kid or something?”

  Scumbag number two stared at Paul and began to nod. “Yeah, I do! I heard about it from Louis.”

  The leader cut him off with a smack to his face. “Louis is bugged out. You know what I’m saying? I’m runnin’ things now.”

  “But I saw his face on the news…”

  He didn’t get another word out as Angela silently dropped down behind scumbags two and three and clanged their heads together. Bone smashed against bone with a resounding crack and they sagged to the pavement. The leader backed up against the wall, shaking his head at the sight of a fanged woman coming at him. In spite of his overwhelming size, right now he resembled a frightened child trying to hide from the boogeyman—or woman, in this case.

  “No, no, keep away!” he yelled.

  “Too late,” she replied and decked him with a swift right hook. Once he crashed to the ground, Angela turned around with an ear-to-ear grin. “Hey, that went well. I’d chalk this up to a successful mission. Glad you stuck around.”

  Paul didn’t see any reason to be overly joyful. In fact, he was downright pissed off and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of moral outrage. “Thanks for setting me up. I’ve already gotten my ass kicked once.”

  “Did you think I’d let them hurt you?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand in hers. He didn’t shy away, simply stayed there, surprised at her warmth—and strength. “I told you,” she said in her soft voice, “I’m here to protect the city. And that means you too, okay?”

  Her tone sounded sincere enough, but Paul didn’t feel comfortable being a potential target. Recalling the first time he’d been rescued, he asked, “Why did you pick me?”

  Angela released his hand and regarded him with a slight smile. “If you mean when you were jumped the first time, I was flying overhead doing reconnaissance. I saw you. You needed help. I gave it. And,” she hesitated, “I think you’re cute.”

  Tapping the side of her head, she added, “Downloaded knowledge, remember? I know what people are supposed to look like. I’ve got my own conception of cute and you’re it.”

  “Oh…”

  Her answer got him all flustered, and in spite of the cold, he felt the blood rush to his face. Averting his gaze, he scuffed the ground with his toe, wondering how to provide a suitable answer. His stomach then did the talking by rumbling loudly, which made him feel even more embarrassed. “Um, well, thanks. I guess I need to eat.”

  Flipping her hair back, she scanned the immediate area and pointed to a convenience store across the street. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait and watch for trouble.”

  It was bright inside the store. Paul kept his head down in order to avoid being recognized by the security cameras and avoided making eye contact with the few other late-night shoppers. He’d taken two hundred dollars with him in order to buy food. Grabbing a basket, he loaded it up with some eggs, bread, pasta, and other essentials, and after paying for it, walked outside. A donut shop a few steps down the street caught his attention and he headed in its direction.

  A millisecond later, Angela joined him. “What
are you doing?”

  “I need a donut,” he said, thinking of the ensuing sugar rush. He hadn’t eaten a donut or anything sweet since…he couldn’t remember. Store cameras or no, it was worth the risk. “C’mon.”

  Doubt reigned on her face, but she shrugged. “Okay, but after that, we go back to work.”

  “I guess I have to get used to being cannon fodder,” he quipped, which elicited a giggle from her.

  The Donut Hole was a small place, and only a few people sat in the booths, nursing coffee and chowing down on donuts. The booths were leather-lined set-ups, curved for maximum customer potential, and each booth had an old mini jukebox on it with earphones for some privacy.

  Paul gazed at the music machines and smiled at the retro idea, wondering if anyone actually used them. He ordered a chocolate donut and hot chocolate, and carried his tray back to the booth where Angela sat.

  As he sat down, the patrons began to do the stop-and-nudge-each-other-and-stare routine. Not all of them, but he heard the whispers of “Weird”, “Strange”, “Freaky” and more.

  Angela also heard them and began to fidget. Paul noticed her discomfiture and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re staring,” she muttered and turned her head away.

  Craning his neck around, he observed the stare crowd doing the goggle-eye act. “Well, first of all, you’re not wearing a coat and it is the middle of winter.”

  “I don’t get cold,” she answered.

  That figured. “Second,” he continued, “they’re being jerks. Just pretend it’s a Goth look you’ve got on.”

  “What’s Goth?” she asked, blinking her eyes as if suddenly confused by the term.

  Apparently her download didn’t account for modern trends. “Uh, it’s a fashion choice,” he said. “You wear black leather or ripped up black clothes, white makeup and have piercings—that kind of thing.”

  In voice full of doubt, she said, “It doesn’t sound very fun. This is comfortable. I like it.”