by LE Barbant
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tenth Avenue was starting to feel like home. Chem had proposed that Tim just move in with him and Elijah, but the mercenary wanted to keep his options open—it was his style. On that drizzly evening, Tim joined the boys as they lounged around the living room, each doing his own thing. Elijah, as usual, had a book propped up, covering his face, and Chem was scratching away in a composition book. The man had hundreds of them. While Tim’s pastimes included fishing and drinking beer, the chemist seemed completely content to work on science experiments in his free time away from working on his science experiments. He was relentless.
Things had cooled off between Tim and Chem. As men tend to do, the two of them ignored the fight and slid back into normal life.
Tim flipped the channels on the television. Grainy images of Elijah and the Ice Queen—as Brooke had been aptly named by the media—filled the screen. Talk about monsters had waned after a few months. Other news cycles had taken over, and people chalked the videos up as pranks or some strange inexplicable event. Tim was amazed how short attention spans were. He figured the latest episode of “Honey Boo Boo” or “Survivor” was probably more important than creatures taking over their city. Even Chem and Elijah lacked interest in the images of themselves on the television. They had been there so many times.
But the cycle turned, and it seemed the monsters were back. The death of Robert Vinton had inspired the hysteria again, and Mayor Dobbs was riding the wave all the way to November. His political rhetoric was at once brilliant and disgusting. Tim spit tobacco-laced saliva into a Mountain Dew bottle as he considered the politician’s machinations. If the man could make people realize just how dangerous things were, they might switch over to his team—the one for security and peace of mind.
Two women sat on either side of a cheap-looking office table in the newsroom. Dirk Kirkwood, a Pittsburgh news legend, sat between them. His immaculate suit matched his hair, which was just as dark as his first day in front of the camera—nearly forty years prior.
“Let’s see what Dirk and his concubine have to say,” Tim said, turning up the television.
Elijah set the paperback down on the table next to the faded La-Z-Boy and pulled off his glasses. Chem remained enthralled with his work, undistracted by the onscreen circus.
“Monsters. They’ve been the talk of the town since February, and now with the death of the Mayor’s chief of staff, people are talking once again. I’m joined by two of Pittsburgh’s finest to discuss the attacks and the implications they have on the city. On my right is Jillian Stephens.” Dirk glanced at his cue cards. “Jillian is a writer for the blog Keystone Voice. Her work is prolific, covering everything from Steelers summer training to the mayoral race.”
A woman with strawberry blonde hair and alabaster skin forced a smile at the camera. “Thanks for having me, Dirk. And, it’s a journal, not a blog.”
“Sure,” Dirk said, with a smirk. “And on my left is Darlene Henderson of the Pittsburgh Times.”
A woman with big bleached hair and makeup to match, splitting the difference between Dirk’s and Jillian’s ages, smiled and nodded.
“So, let’s start with you, Darlene. What do we make of these monsters?”
“To be blunt, Dirk, these monsters are a threat and they need to be dealt with. It was a mistake that some sort of zero-tolerance mandate wasn’t enacted after the PPG Event. Who knows what’s running around in our city? It’s time we wake up and realize that the monsters are the true threat. These…these…things are the true terrorists.”
Tim Ford turned to Elijah. “She just made you a jihadist, Eli. What do you make of that?”
The historian didn’t say a word.
“Jillian?” Dirk asked, pivoting to his new guest.
“I couldn’t disagree with Darlene more. In fact, I think she’s watched far too many sci-fi films. What we need now is sound reasoning and evidence. Unfortunately, neither of these sells papers. People need to maintain a sense of calm until we understand what is real and what’s a fabrication.”
Red splotches grew through the heavy makeup on Darlene’s neck. “Really? What else could explain the gore and destruction at PPG Place? A dozen people saw monsters flying through the air and fighting in the square. Not to mention Robert Vinton. What killed him? You and your blog can’t see what’s really happening here. This is an invasion and it needs to be stopped.”
Dirk chuckled. “Now, ladies. Let’s be civilized.”
“Something happened in February, that’s the truth,” the young reporter said. “But we need proof before we start screaming about the end of the world. It’s easier to profit from a situation like this than it is to confirm it, and I for one am not convinced that a glowing Bigfoot is behind the murder of our Mayor’s chief of staff.”
As the other reporter leaned in for attack, Tim shut off the television. “I’ve seen enough war to last me a lifetime. I’m gonna bounce.”
He gave Elijah and Chem a nod as he walked out the door.
****
Light rain blanketed the Pittsburgh sky, making Tim Ford’s flannel cling to his bulky frame. He didn’t mind the weather. In fact, he relished it. The overcast skies and thick dampness matched his disposition. After years in the arid Middle East, the Western Pennsylvanian humidity was a constant reminder of where he belonged. The smell of fresh rain on the hot city streets was the odor of home—and he had been away from it for far too long.
When Tim returned to Pittsburgh, monsters were all anyone would talk about. He didn’t know whether or not to believe the stories—titans of fire and ice duking it out downtown—but he was determined to find out for himself. That was how he first encountered Chem, and Rita.
Although they turned out to be non-threatening to the city he called home, there were other forces at work, legitimate dangers to be confronted.
Robert Vinton’s death confirmed Tim’s hunch.
If folks like Elijah and Rita were real, then it stood to reason that something more nefarious could be behind the recent death. Whatever this monster was, it would serve as an appropriate match for the ex-military specialist. Ford needed a formidable opponent, and Chem’s drug-slinging clients weren’t enough to appease his need. Tracking across steel and concrete differed from his previous experience in the jungles of South America or the deserts of Iraq. Harder, in a way, as the environment hid signs of passage. But Ford was born and raised in the Steel City; he knew it like the back of his hand, and the creature wasn’t exactly hard to find.
Crouching behind a parked SUV, Ford spotted the monster as it lumbered down the darkened street. Its heavy footsteps, metal on concrete, filled his ears. Over seven feet tall, the figure stalked across the road, eyes fastened directly ahead. Its surface reflected the scant light available in the dim of the early morning hours. Hints of glowing red danced around its surface. From all accounts given to him by Chem, this thing could have been the transformed figure of Elijah Branton. It also matched the grainy videos captured by the YouTube journalists whose videos had gone viral. But the historian claimed to be out of this game, and Tim’s gut told him to trust the guy. This thing was something else entirely.
Tim cut across a side street, trying to get in front of the lumbering creature. He positioned himself behind a subcompact car parked alongside the thing’s trajectory. Tim held his breath and waited. If there was one thing his operations had taught him, it was the importance of patience. Rushing into a fight, whether on the streets of Fallujah or Pittsburgh, was a sure sign of defeat. A well-trained warrior waited for the right moment to attack.
Timing was everything.
Adrenaline enhanced his senses. He was in the zone. All else vanished. A peace that only a predator knows came over him. It transcended all worry, all guilt, all thoughts of yesterday and tomorrow. The only thing that mattered was the hunt. Victory was an afterthought, if that. But the merc rarely lost.
Ford let the creature pass by his hiding place. He waited for half a second. Then he leap
t onto the hood of the vehicle and launched his body at the giant’s metal back.
But the element of surprise eluded the hunter.
Before Ford’s foot had left the hood of the car, the creature turned, ready for defense. The metal figure swiped at Ford’s hurtling body out of thin air. The combination of his momentum and the monster’s brute force drove Tim sideways through a storefront window. Shattering glass surrounded him as he landed and rolled across the dusty tile floor. Bits of glass bit at his skin. His ears were filled with the cacophony of destruction.
Tim’s head was hazy as he tried and failed to lift himself off the ground. He was vaguely aware of a sharp pain in his forearm.
Rolling onto his back, he saw a large form hovering over him. Darkness threatened to obscure his vision, but a faint red light shined through.
For some reason, all he could think of was Anna.
The last thing Tim Ford saw was a large metal fist crashing toward him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By late August, the current running between the banks of the Monongahela was like bathwater—far too warm to offer much comfort for Rita’s flesh. Her condition required a cool, wet environment. Even though she hated the city, Pittsburgh’s near-constant precipitation accommodated her needs for three-quarters of the year. But the late summer heat forced her to stay hidden most nights.
Early on in her new form, she learned how to cope with her body’s demands. Learning to live with her altered appearance took far longer.
Her reptilian form, even more than her physical aversion to sunlight, kept her in isolation. She disgusted herself, and it took no great insight to assess how others viewed her.
She’d never expected to return to her normal state, but last year’s events shattered her worldview. If someone could cure her, she knew it was Chem. Before encountering the scientist, Rita’s desperation had reached its pinnacle. Seeing Chem in action gave her a sliver of hope. Her mother had always told her that hope never disappoints. Rita wasn’t so sure. But the chemist’s skills offered her a way out of the hell she was living in.
Crawling out of the river and up across the slick black rocks, Rita covered herself with her bright yellow jacket. Avoiding well-lit streets, she moved toward her canvas. The masterpiece was almost complete, and an hour’s worth of uninterrupted effort would finish it. It mattered little to her that few would see her work of art. Purpose didn’t always lie in the appreciation of others; sometimes it was simply for the sake of oneself. She created beautiful things in the hope that she might one day be beautiful again.
Streetlights provided enough ambient light to work by, but the situation only made her miss her old studio even more. Rita walked over to a burned-out old car, raised off the ground by cinder blocks. Her webbed hand reached under and pulled out the plastic crate that held her supplies. Flipping it open she grabbed a can and shook it, the metal ball rattling around and mixing the liquid that would manifest the image from her dreams.
Rain started to fall. It was just enough to cool her skin and hopefully not too much to ruin her work. The building’s broad surface was protected by a three-foot overhang. It could handle a light rain like the one currently moistening the night air and Rita’s scaled exterior. The shelter was a necessity. Even now, painting was her life. But she needed access to water if she were to be out for any extent of time.
In the bottom right-hand corner Rita crafted rounded cheekbones and a pointed chin on the image of an elementary school girl. The eyes were set apart wide and the nose had a symmetrical form. Dark, curly hair fell down past her shoulders. The girl could have been a child model, perfect in every way.
Pausing from her work, Rita ran her nails over the girl’s brow.
Her mind wandered as she added the finishing touches. She thought of him and their last night together.
The change came quickly after the accident. Even in the early stages of her transformation, Rita knew that she couldn’t face him—couldn’t face anyone.
So she ran.
The running continued for months. She would hide out in the woods near lakes or streams, scavenging for food. More often than once, Rita considered ending it all. It would’ve been easy to do. But the thought of some hunter, or a group of teenage kids looking to get high, stumbling upon the monster in the woods and reporting it to the police or the local paper was more than she could bear. She would have become the aquatic Bigfoot. The thought of her grotesque figure adorning the cover of tabloids internationally kept her alive.
With a final stroke, Rita dropped the can to the ground and stepped back toward the river. She took in her masterpiece; her eyes started at the little girl and followed the direction of the child’s gaze. The scene was something like Central Park on a clear June day, but instead of Manhattan, it was a city of her own imagination.
It was a delight.
Perfect.
The scene moved. It stretched past the girl toward the left side of the wall; the cityscape turned into a skyline of destruction, becoming a crumpled mess by the end of the portrait. The green of the park turned yellow then brown then black. The earth was decimated. It was beauty destroyed; paradise lost.
But the young black girl’s eyes weren’t on the destruction. Instead they looked up toward the top left-hand corner. There, the sun assaulted the clouds, casting beams upon the dead cityscape. The vegetation closest to the sun was coming back to life.
It was hope.
It was her.
Rita started to tremble, taking in her pièce de résistance. Beautiful by any standard, it would never be submitted to the art critics of her past.
The rain grew harder in her outdoor studio.
Hope turned to anger—anger to rage.
Without thinking, Rita grabbed two spray cans from her plastic box and ran at the mural, a scream of indignation erupting from her throat. As one possessed, she defaced her work of art. Spraying in every direction, it took seconds to destroy the beauty that had taken weeks to create.
The cans rattled as she dropped them to the asphalt: empty guns from the hands of a killer.
Tearless sobs echoed into the rainy night air.
Then the sweet smell of blood invaded her senses. It was familiar.
Rita pivoted, running for the river.
A step from the rocky bank, she leapt, hurtling her small frame twenty feet through the night and into the choppy Monongahela.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You need anything?” Kate asked.
“A shot and a beer,” Rhett said, resting his legal pad on the edge of the desk. The speechwriter had been working twelve-hour days since starting for the Dobbs administration. As money started to dry up and polls plummeted, everyone took on more. Being new, Rhett realized that he had to carve out a place at the office through sheer determination. Upping his hours to fourteen a day wasn’t a problem. He had nothing else in the world, except his brother Paul, who seemed to show up in his office more often than expected.
“Those are a dime a dozen in Pittsburgh,” Kate said. Her smile warmed the room.
“Literally. Drinking here is way cheaper than D.C.”
Kate giggled. Which wasn’t surprising. Rhett, with his good looks and quick wit, had heard the giggles of admiring women since puberty. He wasn’t even sure what he said that inspired such joviality.
“Cute laugh.” He lied. It was more like the sound of a mating hyena.
“Ahhh, thank you. My ex used to make fun of it. You’re sweet.”
“Like southern tea.” Rhett winked.
Eyelashes batted. “You going to work that thing all night? It’s just a speech, right?”
“Kate, there is no such thing as just a speech. Words have the power to wound, to heal, to inspire, and devour. I just want to be a faithful steward of them,” Rhett said, picking up the pad. “Not to mention we’re against the wall right now. Let’s just say my job might depend on this speech. And so does yours.”
“Well, even stewards need a break.
It’s nearly seven. Why don’t we go get that drink? The speech’ll be here when you get back. And I’ll show you part of Pittsburgh you haven’t seen.”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t.” Rhett lied again. He had planned this for days—he was only surprised it had taken this long for her to make a move. “I serve at the pleasure of the Mayor.”
“Come on. One drink and then I’ll drop you back off here.” She tilted her head like a cocker spaniel.
“I shouldn’t,” Rhett said, looking at his shoes. “But, OK. Just one.”
“Yes! And I promise. One drink and I’ll bring you right back. I don’t want to get in between you and your…”
“Stewardship.”
“Right, stewardship.”
****
“That was really nice,” Rhett said, running his finger across Kate’s rib cage and down to her navel. She had an outie, which always weirded him out.
The hyena giggle returned. “That tickles,” she said. “You were a-maze-ing. Did you take classes or something?” Her body trembled as his finger moved south.
“Some of us are just blessed with special abilities, I guess.”
“Well, this girl is certainly thankful for your committed stewardship.” Kate kissed his neck.
Rhett pulled away. He rolled over and threw his feet to the floor. “I need a beer. You want anything?”
“You said just one drink and then back to work…”
“Building relationships with colleagues is one of the most important things to do when you’re new.”
“Not sure this is what that means.”
He plodded down the hall, away from the obnoxious giggle.
A noise from Paul’s room drew his attention. “Oh, hey. I didn’t think you were coming home,” Rhett said, sticking his head through the door.
The smaller of the two bedrooms was always immaculate, as if no one even lived there. Rhett saw dark circles were under his twin’s eyes. “Yeah. Job hunting sucks. Decided to call it a day.”