by David Jobe
“You can come out from the shadows, boy,” a familiar voice said.
Drew tried to remember the voice, but his mind drew a blank. Just like the odor, the voice set off warning bells in Drew’s mind but gave no indication of why. His mind screamed to release the link with Golem and run; run as far and as fast as he could.
“I said come out. I heard you form, or whatever it is you call that process.”
“Spawn,” Golem said stepping out of the tree line.
The figure raised her head and nodded at him. “A gamer term. As I suspected.” The plumper version of Henchwomen smiled at him with open malice. “You and I have much to discuss.”
“I saw you die.”
“You saw three of me die,” she said. “Never once having the foresight to imagine that there was a fourth. And a fifth. Truth is, you don’t know how many of me there are out there.”
“Good lord, how big was the original you?”
Henchwomen sprang to her feet, crossing the distance between the two of them in a hobble that spoke of purpose and anger. Standing before him, she glared up at the creature’s face. “The mechanics of my ability are of no concern to you. What you should concern yourself with is the fact that you will never be able to find all of me, and as long as one exists, I can make more. Which, puts you in quite a pickle.”
“I don’t follow.” Golem remained unmoving, his gaping eyes motionless.
Henchwomen sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you do. You aren’t very bright at all. So, I am going to spell it out for you, so I know you will understand. You owe me my cut, and now that your little girlfriend is dead, I want her cut too.”
“Or what?”
A slow smirk played across her lips. “Or I hunt you down and kill you. I kill everything that you love. Perhaps not in that order.”
A low rumble escaped Golem, his version of a laugh. “You have no idea who I am. Your threats are meaningless. Nice knowing you Hench.” Golem turned to return to the area he had spawned from but found himself facing another Henchwomen.
This one smiled up at him. “You are an eleven to fourteen-year-old boy. Your family is wealthy and Jewish. You obviously live in this city and you go to a private school. Odds are you live within five miles of this rest stop and are known for being an antisocial smart mouth. I am willing to bet you bill yourself as a genius, though I have yet to see you display it. Odds are, I will find you before the week." She gave a shrill laugh. "And the best part is, I don't mind being wrong. Way I see it, I owe you at least three deaths for what happened at the overpass. Plus some torture, because you burned two alive and let one bleed out. I will bath this city in Jewish blood like it was a biblical story."
Back in his room Drew felt sweat starting to bead on his forehead. She had been close enough on all of them that he doubted she would have to be wrong more than once to get within spitting distance of him.
“The money was a ruse. There is no money.” Golem told the second Henchwomen.
Both laughed and said in unison, “Then you best plan your best caper yet, because in a week, if you aren’t back here with my money, I will rain hell down on you.” The henchwomen before him gave the briefest of nods.
Drew sat up in bed, a sharp pain exploding in the back of his skull. They had killed Golem; at least that incarnation of him. He could try to summon another one, but he found that his head rang far too much for him to concentrate. Plus, if he was being honest with himself, he had no desire to return to that place right now, if ever.
Though he had never completed the thought, the idea had hung in the back of his mind since the destruction on the highway. He had decided that being a villain was not for him. He had no desire to be a criminal anymore. In truth, he wanted that part of his life to slip away into a memory, perhaps one day to a point where he could make believe that it had been all some terrible nightmare. All that blood and carnage had been enthralling in his video games, but when you had to show up to the funeral of one of the NPCs and watch his wife grieve at the loss, you couldn’t just hit the reset button. No, this game was saved with him having been an evil bastard of a villain, killing when death had not been needed. He remembered playing games like that, where the main character tried to shy away from killing and Drew had taken a perverse pleasure in making that character run over people with his tricked out car or planting explosives that would kill when detonated. He had talked with his friends and they had all done variations of the same thing.
It was only Drew that had done that to himself. Now, he couldn’t play violent video games for that very reason. All the cops looked like the ones he had killed in real life. The screams of the dying mirrored the wail of the fallen’s wife as she laid across that smooth black coffin and cried to the heavens in disbelief.
He closed the laptop, Spongebob cackling at something in the last second before the screen blanked out and the sound died in his ears. Perhaps there was a way he could raise money without hurting anyone. He could try robbing a bank. The three heroes that had stopped him before were now out of the picture. One laid up in the hospital, the other two in jail. He sighed. He could do this, he told himself. Just one more time as a villain, and then he could return to his normal life.
Chapter Four
Six Inches from Death
Six inches from death. That’s how close he had come to dying. Detective Monty Lanton stared hard at the tip of a hollow point bullet that peeked through splintered wood six inches from his face. Inside the hollow point, he saw a small dab of silver roll from the center and fall like a tear drop on the base of the podium. Just a smidge more force and that bullet would have torn through his face.
He had been watching the press conference with passing interest, knowing that the point of the whole thing was to announce him as the head of whatever they decided on calling the division that specialized in Altered persons. It was supposed to have been a cut and dried press conference, with a quick announcement, very few questions and enough time for Lanton to hurry over to the hospital to catch Millie before her shift ended. It had been going just that way until the reporter up front asked to speak with Brian, who had dubbed himself "Bulletproof". That was off script, yet the Mayor seemed to have been looking for a chance to get out of this particular spotlight. Lanton guessed that the whole Altered thing was spooking the Mayor, and that held true for more than half of the city.
Though he had been paying the mayor’s speech little mind, he had been paying close attention to one of the reporters that stood near the front of the crowd. His face had been familiar, but Lanton had imagined that all the faces of reporters were and would continue to be familiar to him. But it wasn’t the face that had drawn his attention. Hovering around the man had been something odd. Something he doubted he was seeing, yet despite blinking and rubbing his eyes, the thing remained. Behind the reporter, or maybe over the reporter was this sort of afterimage. It was as if Lanton was looking at a photo where the photographer had double exposed the image. He had seen something like it with some of the Photoshop jobs on the internet, though not quite like this. There seemed to be an image existing in the same space as the reporter, it did not move as he did. Not like the vision he had seen when the death of the officer had played in reverse. This other image seemed to bear no resemblance to the timing of the reporter. The other image wasn’t even of the reporter, but instead of something slightly larger and ten times more menacing. The best he could figure was that it was a sort of elongated shadow with lighter features that held no face, other than a cruel smile littered with sharp white teeth. The other image grew stronger as if its opaqueness was dialed back a bit when the reporter asked to speak with Brian. As Brian moved forward, Lanton’s skin broke out in goosebumps.
Lanton eased forward to stand near Brian, though more to get a closer look at the reporter.
Then he saw it. The reporter had glanced over his shoulder, making the smallest of nods. It might have been just a twitch, or him trying to pop a crick in his neck, but not long
after a beer bottle thrown with eerie accuracy had shattered against Brian. That was when Lanton switched from bored bystander to protection detail, what little good it had done him.
Mr. Swandon had appeared after the crowd had parted for his outburst. It was then that Lanton saw another oddity. This was less of an another image, and more of just pure shadow swirling around the man. As he moved forward, doing his little song and dance, Lanton could see that the tendrils of shadows that clung to the man circled body parts, like loops or cuffs. From the cuff, they rose up, much in the same way smoke rose from a fire, fading as they got further from the man. The whole thing made the man look like he was a life-sized marionette of some sort, with shadows for strings.
His eyes darted to the reporter as the other image turned to regard Mr. Swandon with a smile that reached past where it should have had ears. Something in his gut told him this was some sort of warning, but it wasn't until the gun was visible and the drunk guise dropped that Lanton clued in. He had jumped in front of the poor kid, hoping his vest would catch the shot, but nothing had hit him.
And now the dripping tip of a bullet mocked him, like a spent sex crime staring him in the eye. He rolled over to determine what was happening. Brian lay on the ground, blood flowing from his left eye onto the wood of the podium. Lanton had seen many a body, but he still felt ill each time he saw someone down. The kid had to be dead. The gun the assailant had been using was no 22 caliber, and at that range, an eye shot could mean the back of the poor boy's head would be gone. He couldn't tell from this angle, not with the Brian's hair splayed out like it was. Maybe it was just a graze. His hope would be short lived as he rose to check on him.
Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the crowd screaming; fleeing in every direction except toward the stage.
Behind him, the protection detail of police officers stood still as statues. Lanton roared as he got to his feet. "What are you doing?!" He stomped toward the first police officer. "Why did none of you do anything?" He was in a younger man's face, staring into his wide blue eyes. "Well?!"
The man he was staring at stammered, "He. He. said his name was Bulletproof."
Lanton shrieked in rage. "You think he meant his eye?!" He pointed at the body on the stage. "Does he look Bulletproof?" He rounded on the officer next to him, "And why had nobody apprehended the shooter?" He turned to look for the man and found him standing in the same spot he had been, also wide-eyed.
The shadow strings gone.
"I...I..I." He stared at Brian's body. "He said he was Bulletproof."
"Is there a fucking echo in here?" Lanton bellowed, pulling his service revolver and pointing it at Mr. Swandon. "Drop the gun and back away!"
Mr. Swandon blinked, looking up at Lanton. His eyes widened as he registered the gun pointed at him. In one motion he dropped the gun and put his hand up. "I..I...I... was just trying to hurt him."
"With mercury tipped hollow points? I don't think so." Lanton stepped forward, keeping the gun trained on Mr. Swandon. "Step back two paces and lie down on the ground with your hands behind your back." Lanton yelled over his shoulder. "One of you idiots cuff this man and read him his rights." He took a knee next to Brian. "Come on, kid. Don't be dead."
"What? No. It was supposed to be regular bullets. He said it would be regular bullets. That it would hurt like hell, but he had survived harder shots." Mr. Swandon talked as he stepped back and complied with Lanton's command. Soon another officer was bending over handcuffing and reading him his Miranda rights.
With the assailant under control, Lanton dropped his gun and placed a finger to Brian’s neck. "Please." he whispered. It took a long drawn out pull, but he felt the pulse. It was slow and weak, but it was there. It was something. "Did anyone call a bus?!" He bellowed.
There was another officer standing next to him. "Bullets passed right through you," the officer told Lanton. "Like you were made of mist."
Lanton came up in a fluid motion, his fist connecting with the officer's jaw just enough to stagger him back. Had he planted himself and aimed more for the center of the jaw, Lanton knew he would have put the officer on his back, and probably knocked him out. Instead, the officer stumbled back, clutching his jaw with wide dismay. "Did that feel like a ghost? Do I look like a ghost? Call a damn bus, before they need two!" Lanton rounded and saw another officer. This one he knew. "Officer Wolfe," he started.
Officer Wolfe tore his gaze away from Brian and looked at Lanton. For a moment Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. Then Wolfe shook his head and spit towards Brian. "Little stain got off easy." He started to walk away.
"You do not walk away from me.”
Wolfe lifted a single finger in goodbye and said over his shoulder, "I need to get the Mayor to safety. In case another shooter shows up."
Lanton growled but turned back to kneel down beside Brian. "Can you hear me, kid?"
Brian's only answer was to cough up blood.
"Brian," Lanton sighed, trying to look the kid over without moving him. The back of his head appeared to remain intact, but there was so much hair he couldn't be sure. There were holes in Brian's orange jumpsuit, with the silver liquid staining the clothes around them. "Whoever did this meant to make sure it stuck." Lanton shook his head. He would take his time pulling the information from Swandon when he was sure the kid had proper help.
He could hear the sirens approaching. It was a good thing that the police station and the main hospital were blocks apart, though Lanton had to admit that he wasn't sure it would make a difference for the kid. Liquid mercury is poisonous to humans in a very small amount. Just one bullet would carry enough to finish a person off, and Lanton had no way of knowing how many had delivered their deadly payload. "Hurry up," he whispered to the sound of the ambulance. "Stay with me, Kid." Lanton took the kids hand in his. "You just keep fighting and we’ll get you healed up."
He said the words, but he didn't believe them. He tried his best to keep his lack of faith out of his voice. After all, this kid was an Altered. Surely that counted for something. As Lanton kneeled there, he could see them escorting the shooter to a nearby police cruiser. The man kept looking over his shoulder, eyes questioning Lanton. Right before they pushed his head down into the cruiser he took another look back.
This time, Lanton shook his head at the man.
Chapter Five
About That Time
As a beat cop and then later a detective, Chris Taylor had been to the Lyssa Hospital on a few occasions, though not enough to require two hands to count. He could only remember one time that he had dared step beyond the waiting room to wander the pristine white hall and address a patient there. It had been a murder case where the only witness was a distraught young woman who would rather slam her head into a wall than recount the tale of what she had witnessed. The place had always given him the creeps, seeming far too clean and orderly to be the forced home of so many people suffering from severe mental illness. The hospital was divided into several floors, with the first being the mild cases, the overnights and the attention seeking suicide cases. The second floor was the one where the patients took up permanent residence and the crazy seeped into the walls. The third floor, well, no one talked about that floor. Not even the most boisterous of head cases that stood on tables and crowed on the second floor.
Chris sat in a comfortable nook on the second floor that gave him a full view of the large common area. Padded with brown cushions that belonged in the seventies, at least the wall was cool when he placed his back on it. He had been here a week so far and had started to get a lay of the land and an understanding of the routines. They wanted him to come to group therapy and talk about his addiction and his delusions, but he had no patience for it. His addiction was gone; he no longer felt the need to use. That was the one true blessing of whatever curse had befallen him. The drugs that had helped him cope with the failure he had made of his life had been powerful and almost been deadly. If the drugs had left him a clear enough head to plan his suicide properly,
he wouldn’t have tried to hang himself from a poorly installed fan. Instead of killing himself, he had accomplished what resulted in a sort of pratfall that got him tossed in the hospital. Then it was down the rabbit hole he went.
“Mr. Taylor.” It was Nurse Silvia Ray speaking in her docile voice that reminded him of times on the beat when he tried to de-escalate a situation that wasn’t volatile yet but had all the earmarks. She was a pretty young thing, but not in the traditional sense. She would never make the movies as lead, but she would make a fine best friend of the lead. You know, the common sense one that drops that final nugget of truth that gets the main character to snap out of her drama-induced daze and realize that the man she loved had always been the pseudo-stalker type that had latched onto her from day one. Oh, the romantic nature of it all.
“It’s Chris,” he told her for the twelfth time. He was counting. Maybe when it hit twenty, he would try to barter for a kiss.
She nodded a smirk with those thin pale pink lips of hers. “It’s time for your group.” She nodded toward the clock on the wall above a man playing chess with himself. That would be Trip. Probably not his real name. Trip was a very smart man who may have read himself crazy. It was just a theory. The man slept on a pile of books. They were all arranged like a pallet and then blankets put on top, but the whole thing was just books. Well, his pillow was a faded yellow duck stuffed animal. And Trip was one of the tamer ones.
Chris picked up a black marker from the window ledge next to him and began to draw a watch hand on his wrist. As a last impulse, he made the clock read four-twenty. “My watch says it’s not.” He held it up for her to read.
She stifled another large smirk, so quickly it came and went it might have been his imagination. “I see. That’s a lovely watch you have.”
He nodded and smiled. “I spared no expense. I am a wealthy man, and I am not ashamed to flaunt it.” He played at pondering something. “You know. I was thinking of going to see a play tonight. Would you care to join me? I could have my man, Trip, pick you up, say…” He glanced at his watch, “About four twenty-five?” He yelled over to Trip. “Trip, pull the car around!”