The Broken Ones (Book 2): The Broken Families

by David Jobe

  Chapter Ten

  Not So Alone in the Dark

  Allison lay on her cot, listening to the sounds of the prison at night. Lights out had been an hour before, but she couldn’t seem to get herself to fall asleep. Each cough from a nearby cell made her eyes pop open. The creak of leather in the shoes of the guards that walked by grated on her failing sense of calm. The guards made a point of coming by her cell specifically more often than the others. While it annoyed her to no end, she couldn’t deny that it made sense. There had been a man who had appeared out of nowhere, then disappeared again with two other men, one of them her boyfriend. Though she had no idea who the man had been, the police could not be sure of that. This unknown Altered might pop in one night and vanish with her. If the police let that happen, she could only imagine the public outcry that would create.

  Another guard walked by, stopping before her cell to peer in. She didn’t know this one’s name. A taller blond with short cropped hair and a face that showed no signs of having the capacity for humor. Even now, the woman gripped a nightstick in her right hand, ready to use it should Allison get mouthy or physical. Another guard, a younger plumper woman had informed her the first night that the guards called those night-sticks “Inmate-be-good sticks”. This woman, whose badge read Cavalier, had informed Allison that she looked forward to setting Allison straight one day.

  The tall blonde with the be-good-stick nodded, and sauntered away, returning Allison to her inner conflict.

  The discussion with the doctor still weighed heavy on her mind. Had she been out of line with her actions on the freeway? She had ended another person’s life. That was not something that should be taken lightly. She reasoned that the woman had been stuck in murder mode, and even after Allison had literally disarmed her, the woman seemed set on killing. She thought of the many video clips she had seen online before she had ended up behind bars. People holding demonstrations against the use of violence that police had used. The police always said they had acted in self-defense, and the other side argued that they had not tried any other method before resulting to lethal force. She had to admit that on quite a few videos she had felt for the people saying that other options should have been tried first. Yet now she was behind bars for the very same quick to kill reflexes.

  Another guard walked by, standing before her cell. Had it already been an hour? Or had they decided to stop by more frequently? She tried to ignore the woman and to stay with her thoughts. She doubted that she would be able to sleep tonight until she found some ground to land on. She had to decide on what she had become. Was she still someone on the side of good, or had she crossed the line?

  She thought of Mac, and what he might say. He had read so many comic books. Was this a topic they covered? Had Punisher come up with a justifiable argument for shoot first? Was there a storyline where he killed when he could have held off? Had he ever been in jail?

  Allison realized that the guard still stood there, staring in at her. It had to have been more than five minutes. Far longer than any other guard had stood there. Was it Cavalier standing there, trying to push her into doing something that would allow her to use her be-good-stick on her?

  She looked up and froze.

  The figure standing just outside her cell was not a guard. That was apparent even with the little amount of light that illuminated the walkway outside the cells. A single bulb, placed around two cells away illuminated half of the woman’s face. In that half, she could see that the eye was a ruined mess. Black, blue and red covered the socket where the eye should have been, a black liquid oozing down the cheek like a demon’s tear. The corpse of Miss Fire raised her ruined stump of an arm and thrust it through the space between the bars. Black drops fell from the end, dotting the floor of her cell.

  “Go away.” Allison said. She pulled her knees up to her chest. She realized how pathetic she sounded, but her mind refused to come up with anything more forceful or witty.

  Miss Fire pressed her body against the bars, extending the ruined arm in further as if to bring attention to it. As if the corpse wanted Allison to take stock of the damage she had done. Of what she had done. Miss Fire turned her head so that both sides were illuminated in the low light, showing off both ruined eyes. A sneer formed on pale lips, revealing teeth coated in black blood. Her skin had taken on a greenish hue and appeared to be swelling. The ruined arm gestured as if the corpse were trying to point with a hand now missing.

  “Please.” The voice that escaped Allison was small and weak.

  Miss Fire pressed her face against the bars, the swelling more pronounced as the bars pressed in against the bloated flesh. Tears formed in the skin of her face, bursting open to leak a greenish-black liquid that coated the woman’s ruined face. Glimmers of white peered out from the horrid wound.

  Allison stumbled from her bed, reaching the toilet just as vomit spewed from her. Head bowed over the toilet, her whole body remained tensed as she expected the corpse to slip through the bar and grab her, yet still, her hands gripped the edge of the steel seat as her stomach tried to empty itself of everything she had ever eaten in her life. This went on for a few minutes, each bout of calm replaced with another set of violent spasms that left her whole body weak and her head swimming.

  When she was sure the sickness had passed, she rolled to the side, one arm still using the toilet seat for support, so she could look at the cell door.

  The walkway outside her cell door stood empty. No sign that Miss Fire had ever been there.

  Allison rested her head against the cool concrete of the wall, breathing out a sigh that burned the inside of her mouth and nose. She nodded to herself, her internal struggle solved with the ghostly visit. “Innocent people are not haunted by their victims.” The words left her mouth with the same small sadness that had escaped her before.

  She reached over to her bed, gripping the toilet still, to keep her from falling over. Grabbing the bed sheet, she struggled to pull it off the bed. The other end was still tucked under the mattress. Try as she might, her body remained too weak to pull the blanket out. She continued to struggle, pulling and growling until she let go in frustration. “I’ll make a rope tomorrow.” She looked up at the ceiling. There she found nothing she would be able to loop the makeshift rope around. She remembered though that she had heard about people hanging themselves on their knees, just by leaning over with a rope affixed in a tight loop.

  If people could do it accidentally, she was sure that she could manage it intentionally.

  “Tomorrow,” she promised. Then she laid her head on the edge of the toilet seat and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Commanding Presence

  The Blue Line sat in a small outdoor shopping center on the north side of Indianapolis. Nestled in the corner of two major streets, it sat between a Hookah Bar and a dry cleaner. Frequented mostly by off-duty police officers, it had become a favorite for Stephen Holger for the past six months. He could sit in a corner booth that shielded him from strangers but still allowed him to overhear conversations that tipsy cops were having at nearby tables. Quite a few scoops had come his way because of this easy method. It also helped that the bar didn’t water down its drinks and didn’t try to extort you for more money than a drink was worth.

  Today though, he had opted not to sit in his usual booth, but instead to sit at a four seater that had been placed before a large flat screen on the wall. With a tall glass of whiskey in his hands, he waited for the evening news to play. Today had been eventful, but there were failures as well as successes. He pulled his ball cap closer around his eyes, fearful of being recognized as he took a fiery swallow from his glass. Behind him, a small crowd had seated themselves two tables away and they were even now discussing the talk of the town. Altereds and the death of one of them as a public spectacle.

  A commercial for a douche finished. The product, not a person. Though the smiling woman in the ad bordered on earning the title with her canned speech and ho
rrible eye placement. She stared at the camera when the shot would have been better with her staring off screen.

  Cameron Stevens, the hack from Channel 17, faded into shot on the wide screen. Giving a nod that made Stephen wince at the unprofessionalism, Cameron began his obvious reading of the teleprompter.

  “Jesus, do they even try to hire talent. You don’t nod to the guy who tells you that you are live. Moron.” Stephen drowned his criticism in another swallow of whiskey. “You don’t even have presence. You have to speak with authority, or else you sound like, well, you.”

  Cameron continued, despite Stephen’s criticism. “Famous Altered, Brian Lockhart, known to some as Bulletproof was shot today at a press conference to announce the new division of Altered policing. The accused gunman, Gerald Swandon is being held for questioning with today’s shooting. Lockhart was shot several times and transported to Mercy Hospital downtown, where he later died of his injuries. Sources report that Swandon was quoted as saying that he had not intended to kill Lockhart, only to hurt him. There are some conflicting reports that he also stated he had gotten the gun from someone who had loaded it with mercury tipped hollow points. Police had declined to comment on if they believe Swandon had an accomplice in the murder, but they do state that the investigation is ongoing.”

  “Accomplice.” Stephen winced. Worse than being tied to the brat’s murder, he was getting second billing. He wasn’t sure which he hated more. Had Swandon sung? Were the cops looking for him even now? He had hoped that Swandon would bring the kid down. That shot to the eye had been a lucky break for Stephen. He had no doubt that it had been the killing blow. He marveled at the fact that it hadn’t killed him outright. A shot like that would have downed any normal man instantly.

  A man from the group behind him staggered into view, a hand reaching out to touch the side of the television, where the controls were located.

  “Do not touch the television,” Stephen said. He felt a cold chill run through him. He took another gulp of whiskey.

  The man stopped mid-reach, turning to look at Stephen. With eyes somewhat glazed from the booze, he nodded and moved to return to his group. Behind him, Stephen could hear the rest of his group start to give him grief for backing down so easily. “Come on, man, the game is on already. We are missing it.”

  Stephen heard another chair screech as it slid across the floor. To his other side, another man walked into view, this one showing fewer signs of intoxication. He too reached for the television, looking over his extended arm at Stephen in defiance.

  “Stop,” Stephen said.

  The man stopped, looking at him. Perhaps waiting for Stephen to issue some threat before clicking the channel over anyways.

  Stephen sighed, and resigned himself. He was outnumbered and possibly already being hunted by the police. “I am trying to watch this. Just go play in traffic or something.” Again he felt the chill run down his spine.

  The man looked at him for a moment longer, perhaps debating the most flippant way to ignore him. Then he dropped his arm and walked back toward his friend’s table. A groan erupted from his table and already the jokes at his expense were flying. The second man took more of a verbal beating, perhaps for the bravado of intending to show up the first and then backing down.

  Stephen turned back to the news again, but the show had moved onto some rising conflict overseas. Some town he didn’t know the name of had been bombed again.

  “Come on Harrison, don’t be a poor sport!” Someone at the table yelled.

  “Come back.” Another said.

  Stephen looked over his shoulder to see the second man, Harrison, he assumed, march out the door. Perhaps the man had not been in a mood for the ribbing that his friends had been giving him. Stephen thought he should feel partially responsible for the man’s predicament, but Stephen hadn’t been the one to decide he needed to prove his manhood by standing up to another patron.

  Stephen shook his head and went back to watching the show, hoping there would be something that would let him know if he needed to go into hiding. Another commercial break flickered on, this one of a man scrubbing an oven.

  Outside the sound of tires screeching dominated the air, followed by a crash. After a pregnant pause, a scream erupted from outside. Stephen, as well as the crowd behind him dashed for the door. With some pushing, they all managed to stumble out into the night air. More screams erupted, some from men, others from women.

  One of those old style wagon cars idled with the front passenger side wheel up on the curve. The car had a sort of puke green look to it in the lamplight of the street, and was missing the paneling that usually came with a vehicle like that, but it wasn’t the ill color or the missing paneling that caught Stephen’s attention. It was the damage apparent on the driver side of the vehicle and the reason for the damage. The front driver side of the old car had been crumpled in, the hood folding up over the shattered headlight. Amazingly, the light still shone, though it gave a reddish hue with the blood coating that it now had. A bit of steam drifted from the corner of the crumpled hood, indicating that the radiator had ruptured. A man rested with his back against the passenger door of the car, head in his hands, weeping loud enough to be heard over the noise of the gathering crowd. Stephen imagined that the man was the car’s driver as the driver door remained open and the driver seat empty. The car gave off a small ding, alerting them that the door was open. With each ding, it sounded less and less a solid noise, as if it were losing power.

  Harrison lay a few yards away, one arm pinned under his body, the other half raised. The raised hand appeared broken in several places, include three fingers that had been bent back far enough to break the skin around the knuckles. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose as he tried to say something. It lasted for a few seconds before his movement stopped.

  “What happened?” Someone from behind Stephen asked.

  “He just ran into traffic,” another voice said.

  “Well, he kind of hopped. He squatted down at the edge of the road. Then he looked both ways and hopped into traffic. Kinda like..” The man speaking trailed off, his eyes catching that the dead man’s friends were standing within earshot. He lifted his hands as if to add something but just dropped them again. He shook his head and didn’t say anything else.

  Stephen looked over the scene again, seeing that the front driver side wheel had a shoe lodged halfway under it. He looked and confirmed that Harrison was short a shoe. It all felt surreal to him. What had Harrison been doing, and why? Stephen shook his head and realized that he needed to get away from the scene. The cops would be here soon, and he still hadn’t determined if he was being looked for. He started to move away, passing by in front of the Hookah bar.

  A man in baggy clothes and a glazed look in his eyes stumbled out the door. He turned to another man who stood nearby. “What happened?” His words came out as if each took extra thought to form.

  A taller man with a full beard and shaved head gave a shrug. “Some idiot decided to play in traffic.”

  Stephen froze. His mind raced. Could that have been it? Could he? He shook the thoughts from his head. He would have to sort it out later. First, he needed to be free of the area. He needed to know he wasn’t going to jail first.

  Besides, it was too far-fetched to be true.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hard Truths

  The sound of rustling paper pulled Mac from his sleep. He could still hear the rhythmic beep of the machines, reminding him that he was in the hospital. Though he could not place why, the rustling of papers felt ominous and threatening. He decided to not open his eyes and to listen a bit longer. He could hear the oxygen as it pumped through the hose that poked like spikes into his nostrils. The sound of rustling papers came again, to his right. He tried to remember if that was where Detective Lanton had been sitting when he had awoken last time.

  “I know you are awake, Machiavelli. Your O2 has increased two points and your heart rate has increased ten. You still fail at
the simplest of ruses.” His father’s voice held the cold air of authority and disappointment.

  Mac opened his eyes and turned his head to face his father.

  Doctor Jesuit Patton sat in the same chair that Detective Lanton had sat in, but his father managed to make the chair look smaller by comparison. His father sat relaxed, one foot resting on his knee while he flipped through some pamphlet. His father wore a three-piece suit that he knew to be tailored. One of his father’s most repeated phrases was the age old adage that the clothes make the man. His chiseled jaw set as he poured over the paper, gray eyes scanning the contents in quick order. “The hospital has tasked me with delivering the bad news.” His eyes never left the paper.

  “So they know you then,” Mac said, turning his head away and looking at the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sat outside, a full moon showing the bottom half through the partially opened window.

  “They thought it would come better from a relative. Studies show that it may soften the blow, sure, but that the subject is less likely to accept the diagnosis from a family member than from a professional.”

  “Good thing you are both.” Mac gave a long sigh.

  The sound of paper rustling. “The bullet clipped your spine. You are paralyzed from the just above the waist down. Their diagnosis is that you will never walk again.”

  “Their?” A tear streaked down Mac’s face, but he wiped it away before his father might see it.

  “Good,” his father said. “There is the superior intellect that I know you have. With the technology they possess, yes, you would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life.” Mac heard the paper rustle again, and the sound of his father standing. “Luckily for you, I own greater technology.”