They pulled into a neighborhood that was more trailer homes than houses. They drove down the winding road until it turned from asphalt to gravel. Patrick ran from tree to tree, doing his best to stay hidden. He considered running close behind them since they were now out of town, but he didn’t want to risk them seeing his eyes glowing blue. He made a mental note to see if there was any way to get control of that, and then ran to the next tree.
They turned right at the end of the road. A sign there read No Outlet.
Perfect, Patrick thought.
On the other side of a cattle gate at the end of the road sat an old, run-down house. A light at the top of a post illuminated the driveway, which was overflowing with trash.
Deciding that the house was the only place they could be going, Patrick ran ahead of them—making sure to get a good look at their unsuspecting faces as he went by.
The yard was like a sea of trash. Old rusted ovens, grills, and lawnmowers littered the lawn. There were two rusted-out trucks sitting at the back of the gravel driveway next to the house.
Patrick wasn’t even sure if you could call the house a house, though. It looked more like a large shed that stood on the verge of implosion at any moment. Its blue paint was peeling, revealing the wood beneath. Most of the windows were cracked, and two were completely broken, with cardboard and duct tape taking the place of glass.
Patrick ran around to the back of the house. The light from the post in the front barely bled into the back, which made him grateful for his glowing eyes. The two beams lit up the backyard, illuminating a back door that sat behind a dry-rotted screen door.
Patrick snuck into the house, reeling from the stench. Judging from the smell, he guessed they didn’t have working plumbing. He looked around for someplace to hide. There were plenty of places—behind a stack of boxes, behind a couch with holes and springs sticking out—but none of them seemed right.
The beams from the car’s headlights flooded the house, and Patrick knew he had to act fast. A plan began to form in his head, and a smile grew across his face. He decided to go with a more in-your-face method of confronting them.
The engine of the car died and the headlights went out. Patrick got into position as the car doors opened and slammed shut. The crunching of Harvey’s and Tovin’s shoes on the gravel filled the otherwise quiet night. The two of them weren’t saying a word to each other. They grew closer and closer.
Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so excited. Not only was he finally about to reveal his powers to someone, but he was going to get his things back and get revenge. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on Harvey’s and Tovin’s faces when he revealed himself to them.
The doorknob twisted, but Harvey didn’t get the chance to open the door. Patrick punched his hand through the weak, rotted wood, grabbed Harvey around the neck and pulled him through, sending pieces of the door flying everywhere. Harvey screamed as Patrick threw him into the kitchen at the back of the house. Harvey slammed into the cabinets, bounced off, then sat there moaning in pain.
Something slammed into the back of Patrick’s head. He flinched and turned to see that Tovin was standing there holding a piece of wood that he’d just broken across Patrick’s head.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?” the hulking man screamed, pointing frantically at Patrick and his glowing blue eyes. He backed away from the house and tripped over a birdbath.
Patrick walked toward him, grimacing. Tovin continued to back up, although now he was on the ground. He turned and scrambled to his feet, but Patrick was way ahead of him. He ran around in front of the man as fast as he could, so that when Tovin was on his feet, Patrick was standing in front of him.
Patrick had to fight the urge to laugh when he saw the look of pure shock and terror on Tovin’s face.
“W-w-what do you want? P-please, take whatever you want!” Tovin said.
Patrick stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Tovin’s neck. Tobin’s giant hands grabbed Patrick’s wrists. His huge sausage fingers tried to pry Patrick’s fingers off his throat, but Patrick wasn’t letting go. He was having too much fun.
Patrick lifted Tovin into the air like it was nothing. “A few days ago you mugged me. You took a couple of things from me that didn’t belong to you,” he said calmly. He loved being the one in charge of the situation.
“We take things all the time,” Tovin said, his voice strained. “But tell me what it is and you can have it. You can have anything you want.”
“You took my phone, my wallet. You found the wallet to be particularly, as you said, artisanal,” Patrick said, squeezing a little tighter.
Tovin made a strangled, guttural sound. “Yes, yes! I remember! Set me down I’ll get them for you!”
Patrick lifted him a bit tighter. “Tell me where you put my belongings.”
“Wallet is in the car, Harvey has the phone!” Tovin wheezed.
“Thank you. I’m going to put you down now,” Patrick said with a smile. He threw Tovin like a rag doll onto a pile of rusted metal. Tovin screamed when he landed, and Patrick could only hope it was from pain. The hate and disgust he felt for two men surprised him. They were trash to him, just like the place they lived.
Patrick ran to the car and ripped the passenger door off in one smooth motion. He smirked, thinking, Car’s so shitty, I probably didn’t need super strength to tear that door off. He dug through the trash in the front seat but couldn’t find anything. then he pulled open the glove box, and more trash almost exploded out of it. Paper, fast food garbage, you name it, it was shoved into the box.
Patrick grunted in frustration and slammed his fist into the passenger seat, sending the seat right through the bottom of the car. He lifted up the center console, and that was when he saw it. Sitting atop a pile of garbage was the dark brown wallet he’d made with his grandfather. He grabbed it and opened it up. His driver’s license, debit card, and school ID were still in there. He opened the cash compartment, but it was all gone. “Son of a bitch,” he said through gritted teeth.
A loud explosion sounded behind him. Hot lead ripped through Patrick’s torso, sending a cloud of blood splattering throughout the inside of the car. Patrick looked down at the holes in his shirt,, feeling odd sensations rippling through his body. Another shot rang out, and another volley of lead ripped through Patrick. More blood splattered everywhere. Patrick looked down, and his heart sank. The pellets from the shotgun had ripped through him and had torn through his wallet. Two holes had been ripped clean through the leather, ruining the wallet.
Patrick vibrated with anger. Fury and rage boiled within him. Patrick gripped the outside of the vehicle, his right hand on the frame right next to the windshield, the other as far left as he could reach. He backed out of the car, and in a smooth motion, pulled his hands together. Metal screeched as it bent, and glass exploded. Two more shots rocked Patrick’s body, but he paid them no mind. He screamed with power and anger as he crumpled the car like it was a piece of paper that had a bad idea scribbled on it.
Patrick turned swiftly and, using his momentum, threw the car toward Tovin, who was standing there reloading his shotgun. The car slammed into him and carried him through the side wall of the house, and out the back. The entire house collapsed on itself, sending bits of dusty wood flying everywhere. It sounded like a bomb had gone off, and the place looked as if it’d been destroyed by an earthquake.
A cough caught Patrick’s attention. He turned his head toward the source of the noise and saw Harvey crawling out of the spot where the front door to the house had once been. Patrick walked over to him, as calm as could be. Apparently, Harvey had been in the process of running out to help Tovin when the house came down on him.
When Patrick got right over him, he saw that a piece of metal was lodged in Harvey’s torso. He didn’t know whether that had come from throwing him or the house coming down on top of him, but either way, Patrick didn’t care. All he cared about was what was in Harvey’s pocket.
“Please, call 911,” Harvey gasped as Patrick crouched down next to him.
Patrick ignored him. He reached into the man’s pocket and pulled a phone out. Sure enough, it was his phone. He smiled in relief, and then looked down at Harvey. “Don’t take things that don’t belong to you, alright?” He gave Harvey a tap on the head with his phone, smirking.
Then he stood and took everything in one last time. Satisfied with his work, he turned and ran away as fast as he could, the gravity of what he’d just done not yet setting in.
Superhero
Patrick sat up in bed, his arms wrapped around his legs. Nearby, the fan creaked as it slowly circulated the air in the room. The light from the lamp cast long shadows across the floor as Patrick stared at the corner, lost in his thoughts. He shook slightly, his adrenaline still pumping. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.
His eyes drifted to the end of his bed, where his ruined wallet was sitting. He still hadn’t washed the blood off it—his own blood. He looked at his phone, his eyes running along the crack that went diagonally across the screen. That hadn’t been there when the phone was stolen. Do you think it got there before or after you brought an entire house down on it? he asked himself.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and out. It was all he could do to keep himself from freaking out. A barrage of thoughts hammered at his mind, begging to be set free. Patrick wouldn’t let them in. He’d rather think about nothing at all than think about what he’d done.
They deserved it.
They were trash.
You saw the squalor they live in.
The look on Harvey’s face when you pulled him through the door was worth it. Patrick laughed at the thought.
His mind flooded with thoughts and emotions, most of which he didn’t have the slightest idea how to process. He leapt out of bed and started pacing back and forth. He kicked clothes and books aside to make a path. I need to clean this room, he thought.
Yes—maybe some action would help. He sped around the room, picking things up, putting them where they were supposed to go, separating his clothes into piles. He organized his desk, making sure every pencil and pen was right where it needed to go. In seconds his entire room was organized and clean, something it almost never was. It was all he could do to keep his mind off things. He looked around the room for something else to do, but nothing jumped out at him.
The way that car crushed like that was really cool.
He smirked. It wasn’t just cool; it had felt amazing. The way the steel had crushed in his grasp. The way the glass had exploded with a satisfying pop. The way he’d tossed the car through the house like it was nothing. The memory of it all got his blood pumping. Crushing the car had been as satisfying as scratching a hard-to-reach itch.
You also threw it at somebody, he reminded himself, then huffed and began pacing again. “It’ll be fine,” he told himself. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I mean, they’re just a couple of no-good, thieving, hoarding, pieces of trash. They’re criminals, plain and simple.
He felt a bit better. He looked at himself in the mirror on the wall next to his closet. “They were criminals, and I took care of them,” he told himself. “I’m kinda like a superhero.” He smiled at the thought of that. A superhero. That was something he could get behind. “I’m just a good guy who took care of some bad guys, that’s all.”
He felt much better now. In his eyes, he’d done the entire world a giant favor. He climbed back into bed and turned out the light. He would have no trouble falling asleep now.
THE SATISFYING CRUNCH. The explosion of glass. The screaming.
He threw the truck with a shout, and from it came a scream. Somebody had been hiding in the back.
He flew through the air and landed on one. Another almost reached the ones. He ran to stop them.
Into the fire, licked by the flames.
Everything changed.
A KNOCK ON THE DOOR woke him. He sat straight up in bed, a sheet of sweat on his skin. He was out of breath, struggling to remember what that dream he’d just had was all about.
“What is it?” Patrick asked whoever was on the other side of the door.
“Hey, get dressed and get down here fast,” Patrick’s dad said. “Detectives Winston and Francis are here.”
“Oh, shit,” Patrick said under his breath. “I’ll be right there,” he told his dad.
He hopped out of bed, threw on a t-shirt and jeans, and slipped on a pair of socks. Then he left his room and did his best to not run downstairs. When he reached the bottom, he headed for the TV room, where people were talking.
“There he is, the man of the hour,” Detective Winston said when Patrick entered the room.
Winston and Francis were standing near the dining table at the far side of the room. In one of the chairs sat somebody Patrick didn’t recognize. It was an older-looking, pudgy woman who had black hair with gray roots. She was digging in her bag and brought some sort of kit out. Patrick’s parents were standing next to Winston, watching the woman.
“What’s going on?” Patrick asked.
“We have a court order to obtain a blood sample, Patrick. That’s what Dr. Jenna is here to do,” Detective Winston said.
Patrick looked to his parents, who both nodded. “A blood sample? What for?”
“We’re just collecting samples from everyone we know was at the party. We need it to run some tests, make sure nobody’s falsely IDed, that kind of stuff,” Francis said.
Patrick didn’t believe him. There was something else going on, but he didn’t know what.
“Come on, Patrick, take a seat. This will only take a minute. Then we have some questions for you,” Detective Winston said.
“Shouldn’t you ask me questions before you take my blood? I can’t think as clearly if I’m lightheaded,” Patrick said, trying to stall.
“We’re just taking a small sample. You’re not donating a whole pint or anything,” Detective Winston said with a smile, as if he’d just told some sort of joke. “Dr. Jenna needs to take the sample back to her lab as soon as possible, so we’re just going to get that out of the way, alright?” Winston said, gesturing toward the empty chair in front of him.
Patrick didn’t see what other option he had. They had a court order. If he didn’t cooperate, he’d be in huge trouble. Maybe they won’t do anything with it, he thought as he walked over to the chair. Stop being so paranoid, he told himself as he sat down.
“Arm,” Dr. Jenna said as she put on her gloves.
Less than a minute later, she pulled the needle out of Patrick’s arm and put the small vial of his blood away.
“This is all I need,” she said, then collected her things and stood up.
“All right. We’ll see you later,” Detective Winston said.
Dr. Jenna nodded and left the house.
“Mr. and Mrs. Henry, if you’ll please give us the room, that’d be much appreciated. We just have a few questions we’d like to ask Patrick,” Detective Winston said.
Patrick’s mom shook her head. “Absolutely not. You cannot question our son without us present.”
“Actually, ma’am, Patrick is eighteen—a legal adult. We can question him without a parent present,” Detective Francis said.
Patrick looked up at his mom and dad, giving them a reassuring look. “It’ll be fine, guys.”
His dad gave him a nod. “I think he’s got this under control, Pam.”
“Thank you, folks. This won’t take long, I promise,” Detective Winston said.
Patrick’s mom gave him a smile, and he smiled back. Then his parents left the room.
Detectives Winston and Francis sat in two chairs on the other side of the table. Patrick took a deep breath, ready for whatever it was they were going to throw his way.
Closing In
“I’ll be recording this,” Detective Francis said as he put a recorder out on the table.
“That’s fine,” Patrick said,
not taking his eyes off the man.
“Okay, Patrick—refresh my memory for me, if you will. About what time did you say you left the party?”
“Well, as I mentioned last time, I don’t know exactly what time it was, because I didn’t have my phone. I think it was only an hour or two into the party. It hadn’t been going on for very long,” Patrick said coolly. He was ready for anything the detectives were going to ask him.
“That’s funny,” Winston said as he leaned back in his chair “Because we have two different witnesses who put you at the party four, even five hours into it.”
Patrick hadn’t been ready for that. He sat up in his chair, then leaned forward against the table. “Who said that? I could tell you how drunk they were. That probably messed with their judgment a bit.”
Detective Winston let out a guttural laugh, as if he’d just heard a hilarious joke. “Yeah, it can definitely do that. The other people who survived are Lace Tomlinson, Thomas Peters, Carl Johnson, and Alyssa Richards. Now, some of them say you were at the party for a long time. A lot longer than you led us to believe.”
Patrick barely paid attention to the last thing Winston had said. Thomas, Carl, Alyssa. And then there were three. Patrick had his list. One of them did this. One of them is going to pay.
“Patrick?” Detective Winston asked.
Patrick perked up. His mind raced. Did he ask me something? What’d I miss? “What was the question?”
Winston shook his head. “No question. I was just wondering if you had anything to say about being placed at the scene later than you’d previously said.”
Patrick shrugged. “Not really, no. I’ve already told you everything, I have nothing else to add. They were all drinking. Everybody was. They may think I was there later, but I know for a fact that I left that party early.”
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