by Nic Widhalm
Teachers were rushing to the table, but Hunter didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he turned back to Francis, whose eyes were filled with tears and cupcake frosting. Hunter stepped forward, fists raised.
“Ah God. Ah God, just leave me alone!” Francis cried.
The next part was fuzzy. Hunter remembered reaching Francis and grabbing him with both hands. He had a clear sensation of lifting the struggling boy, knowing it shouldn’t have been possible. Francis was big for his age, and must have weighed at least eighty pounds.
Then, the rest really did go black, and the next thing Hunter knew he was in the nurse’s office. His parents were there, a worried look on his mom’s face. Hunter’s dad, on the other hand, seemed like he might burst a blood vessel. The nurse had talked with his folks a bit, assuring them Hunter was fine. Later, he’d learned there hadn’t been a scratch on him. Not one. But back then all he could think about was the angry red of his dad’s cheeks, and his mom’s eyes spilling mascara down her face.
The principal had told his parents to take Hunter home, that he was suspended for a week. He told them they were lucky the kid wasn’t expelled, and his parents had assured him nothing like this would happen again.
They were all nods and smiles in the principal’s office, but when they got home Hunter’s dad exploded. “You broke a kid’s nose?” His dad screamed the moment they entered the house. “What the hell’s a’matter with you?”
Hunter’s mom grabbed his dad’s hand. “George, don’t yell at him. Those other boys were—”
“What Marie? Those other boys were what? Asking for it? He broke a kid’s fucking nose!”
“Language, George!”
“They called me a baby, Papa,” Hunter said. “What was I supposed to do?”
George stepped forward, pulled his hand free and smacked Hunter across the face. Hunter cried out, collapsing to the floor. He reached up, gingerly touching his stinging cheek, and looked at his father in shock. He had never hit Hunter before.
“Don’t you ever say that to me, Hunter. Not ever.”
“But Papa—”
“What did I say, boy? The next time I catch you in a fight you won’t be able to sit for a week. Someone starts picking on you, you turn away, got me? You turn away and ignore them, because that’s what civilized people do.” Hunter’s dad paused, his chest heaving like a marathon runner. Finally he stepped forward and offered a hand. Helping him to his feet, he roughly turned Hunter’s face and examined the swelling bruise.
“You’ll live,” he muttered. Then, looking at Marie, he stomped off to their bedroom and slammed the door.
Hunter’s mom rushed over and hugged Hunter. “Shhh, it’s okay baby. It’s okay, don’t cry,” –he wasn’t— “Momma’s here, don’t cry.” Hunter swayed gently in his mother’s arms, his cheek rubbing painfully against her cotton blouse. He vowed to never get in a fight again.
Of course, when he came back to school Hunter was an outcast. The other boys refused to play with him, and the girls who used to flirt so innocently before were nowhere to be found. Hunter was a pariah at the age of seven. More than that, after a few weeks Hunter noticed strangers, people he’d meet while shopping with his mom or playing at the park, giving him the same hateful glares as his classmates. It was the start of what Hunter called his “penance.”
And when other boys, new kids eager to establish themselves in the intricate hierarchy of grammar school, discovered who Hunter was—well, his dad kept his promise. Hunter’s ass was swollen from third grade to tenth, and by then his father had to finally give up and admit he couldn’t beat the violence out of his son.
There are just some things you’re born to do.
“Hey, pal,” The voice startled Hunter from his thoughts. “You lost?” An emaciated figure stepped out of the shadows of the alley and shambled toward Hunter.
After fleeing the hospital he had taken a series of back streets and alleys, making sure to change up his turns at each stop. Now and then Hunter thought he heard the thin wail of a distant siren, but it had been hours since the last time and he was certain by now he’d lost any pursuit.
The alley was in one of the worst neighborhoods in town, and Hunter cursed himself for letting down his guard and getting caught in the open. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out the hooded figure coming near him. “I’m good. Just taking a walk, getting some air.”
The hooded man laughed. As he neared, Hunter saw a feverish gleam in the man’s eyes. He wore a pair of dirty, torn jeans and a black sweatshirt so faded it was almost gray. The man was horrifically thin, bones jutting out in sharp angles under his sweater, and judging from his shakes probably high. His laugh dribbled from his lips, thin and frail, echoing weakly off the brick walls surrounding them.
“Shit, nobody comes out here for fresh air. You got a thing for trash?” The man made his thin giggle, and out of the corner of his eye Hunter saw figures slip out of the piled garbage littering the back street. He eyed the entrance to the alley, but a couple of desiccated figures were coming up behind Hunter, blocking the way. He looked forward, thinking he might sprint past the hooded man and make it to the street, but was blocked by the back entrance to an old cathedral. There was a door, but it was barred by a series of heavy-looking locks, and Hunter doubted there was anyone at this hour who would hear him knock.
He weighed his odds. There were four men in front now: the hooded one who’d laughed at Hunter, and three others that looked just as high as their leader. One of them kept rubbing his arms, and the others trembled and barked short peals of laughter. Worse, there were two more joining them, one on Hunter’s left and one on his right.
Six. He eyed the thugs. All strung out. They probably haven’t eaten in days, but the drugs will keep them fast, and they’re not going to feel anything I throw at them.
“I don’t have any money,” Hunter shrugged and motioned at his scrubs. “Left my wallet in my other pants.”
The hooded man smiled sickly. “Sorry pal, but we’re not a trusting bunch. Don’t think we can take your word on it.”
They weren’t leaving him any choice. He had to fight—even Hunter’s dad could understand that. He smiled and felt his guilt fade, leaving him clear and focused. The thugs must have seen him relax, because the leader’s smile dropped and he shouted, “Get him!”
Hunter didn’t give them a chance. His left arm shot out and grabbed the man on his left, wrapping around his hand. Hunter flexed and felt the bones snap in a satisfying crunch. He flung the man back, ignoring his cries, and leaned backward, letting his right leg shoot out and connect with his second attacker’s stomach. As his kick sent the man flying into the wall, Hunter’s headache flared into sudden life.
Not now, Hunter pleaded. Just a few more seconds.
But the visions had already begun.
As the remaining four raced toward him from the entrance of the alley their forms wavered for a moment, and Hunter thought he saw swords fill their hands. A dusty red filter settled over the scene, painting the night blood-red, and a keening cry filled the air.
As the first of the four reached him, Hunter bolted to the side and let his right leg snap behind him. The man tripped, tumbling into the thug who was trying to pick himself up after Hunter’s first kick. Hunter jumped to his feet, but not before one of the attacker’s fists smashed into his temple. He felt the punch land, but only registered a dim throb of pain. The fight was on in full, and Hunter could ignore the pain. His temples were already throbbing from his headache—physical blows couldn’t compare.
Hunter squinted through the red haze, eying the remaining three warily. The original hooded man was still with them, but the feverish glint in his eyes had changed to doubt. Their hands wavered in Hunter’s eyes, now holding swords and spears, now empty. The keening cries of phantom voices crescendoed, driving all other sound from his ears.
One of the men, his hands trembling from more than just drugs, turned to their leader and said something, but a
ll Hunter could hear was that strange static-laced language that accompanied his dreams.
While I’m awake? What the hell is happening to me?
Whatever the thug said, the hooded man didn’t seem to care. He still looked doubtful, but Hunter had been in enough fights to know when a man was beat. This man wasn’t. Hunter flexed his biceps, feeling the muscles tighten against his scrubs. The power, the rage that filled him when his fought—it was all here. The visions continued to throb in time with his aching head, but Hunter only had eyes for the men in front of him.
Hunter’s hands filled with his own swords, now. His sweaty grip tightened on the leather hafts as he raced toward his enemies. As he reached the first, his hand shot out—empty now, the swords nothing but memory—and closed around warm flesh. The thug gurgled for a moment, then fell limply to the ground. Hunter didn’t stop to examine the results, but turned to the next, his fists seeking a new target. Hunter felt them connect with the thin bones of nose and cheeks, and tasted the salty spray of blood on his lips. Everything was a red haze in his eyes, but by instinct he found the man’s throat, squeezed, and felt the thug go limp.
He turned to the hooded-one last, the only man still on his feet, and smiled. The visions were a chaos of whirling red skies, echoing sword crashes, and a thousand voices screaming words he didn’t understand. Hunter started forward, ready to finish this, but stopped as the hooded man opened his mouth.
The familiar sounds of the unknown language spilled from the frightened man’s lips. Hunter was sure the thug was saying something—begging for his life probably—but the static-laced words erased everything else.
So close.
Hunter lowered his hands and moved closer, until his ear was only a few inches from the thug’s mouth. “…war…” he made out. Then, focusing all his attention on decoding the words, “…the…ladder...”
“What are you saying?” Hunter yelled. He reached out and grabbed the man’s grimy sweater. The red filter of his visions had started to lift, the headache dissipating.
“Not yet, you son of a bitch,” Hunter shook the man violently. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Go to hell,” the thug whispered, and Hunter felt a heavy weight smash against his skull. Crashing into a pile of garbage, Hunter flung out his hands to protect his head, grunting as a fist buried itself in his gut.
“Wait—” A fist crushed his lips before he could finish the sentence. He tried to pull himself up, but was forced down by another thug.
You idiot. Why did you let them out of your sight?
One of the gang members was holding a metal pipe, and sent it thundering down on Hunter’s outstretched arm. He felt something give, and watched distantly as his arm crumpled, unresponsive. It felt like it was happening to someone else. The leader slowly stood from where Hunter had dropped him. Most of the gang members were on him now, and Hunter could hardly see from the blows raining down.
The hooded man’s feverish gleam was back, and he laughed his coyote chuckle one last time. “Kill the fucker.”
CHAPTER THREE
Father Anthony Valdis was working on his own headache when he heard the commotion outside.
He had been reading only a moment earlier, and had just put aside his tome when a heavy thud vibrated through his window. Pausing as he set down his book, Father Valdis wondered whether to bother investigating.
The Cathedral of Saint Catherine of Bologna was in a part of town that had a reputation. There were seldom nights when Valdis didn’t start awake at a muffled gunshot or shriek, only to rush to the window and find the perpetrators already fled. After several years he had grown shamefully accustomed to the violence.
The muffled thud echoed again, louder this time, and Valdis finally rose and crossed to the window. Standing on his tiptoes he was just able to peek through the heavy bars that protected him from the outside world, and saw a group of strangers pummeling a crouched figure.
“Hey!” Valdis yelled through the grate. “I’m calling the cops, you hear me? They’ll be here any minute.” The threat was flimsy and Valdis feared the thugs knew it, but he had to try anyway. Cops rarely came to this part of town after midnight, knowing crime and its attendants would be long gone by the time they arrived. But the thugs startled at Valdis’ voice even so, and scattered down the alley, leaving their victim alone in the garbage. The priest turned and pushed open the door to his tiny room, exiting into a massive stone corridor. A few quick turns down the hallway and he reached the door exiting to the alley. Pausing a minute to give the attackers ample time to flee, Valdis opened the spy hole and peered outside.
The muggers had fled, but Valdis hesitated. Looks could be deceiving, after all, and no one was really safe in this neighborhood after dark. A priest was no exception. Even now, he could see at least two other shapes lying in the shadows, a distance away from the man they’d beaten. But after a quiet minute, when neither figure had moved, Valdis convinced himself they must have been too drunk to notice the fight.
Finally, he opened the heavy iron door and stepped outside, making his way first to the two huddled masses he hoped were just bums. They were skinny men, with familiar pockmarked skin Valdis remembered from several Saint Catherine’s Tuesday Night dinners. He swallowed nervously, and bent to take a closer look. The men were unconscious—thankfully—and judging by the bruises covering their necks, not innocent bystanders after all.
Well, at least this guy gave as good as he got.
Valdis surveyed the alley with quick, furtive glances. Then, certain the men wouldn’t awake anytime soon, scurried to the figure that had provoked the attack. The shape proved to be a large man curled in the fetal position. He was partly obscured by garbage, and at first Valdis thought he was dead. But, after gingerly pulling aside a shirt soaked with trash juice, Valdis saw the man’s chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He leaned down to touch the stranger’s shoulder, and started back when the figure turned over; the man’s face was a mass of puffy, darkening bruises. Amazingly, he was still conscious.
“Hold on, I’ll get help,” Valdis said. He turned back to the church, but stopped as the man grabbed his leg. He looked over his shoulder and saw the stranger moving his lips in slow, awkward jerks. Valdis dropped to his knees, ignoring the wet, stinking garbage.
“Come again?” Valdis asked, leaning closer.
The man’s swollen lips parted. “Legion.”
Valdis froze. “What?”
“We…are many,” the man gasped, then his eyes closed and Valdis felt his hand go slack. No! The priest fumbled for a pulse, then relaxed when he saw the stranger’s chest doing its slow up-and-down. Straightening his shoulders, Valdis grabbed the man’s two legs and dragged him inside.
Lord, this guy weighs more than my old Chevy. Valdis mopped his forehead with a limp swipe of his forearm, then went back to dragging the stranger into his chamber.
The priest had thought about moving him to one of the spare rooms dotting the rectory, but changed his mind once he got the giant through the doorway. First, the stranger was too large for Valdis to drag anywhere but the priest’s own room. Thankfully, it was only a few feet down the hall. Second, Valdis didn’t want to share his mystery with anyone else. Especially a fellow clergyman.
The priest continued dragging the man down the hall, wincing every time the stranger bumped against a corner. He couldn’t be sure, but the angle of the stranger’s wrist and knee cap suggested at least a couple of broken bones. Stopping again to wipe his brow, Father Valdis finally got the massive figure rolled into his small cell. The man would never make it to the bed, so Valdis settled for arranging him on the rug covering the bare, stone floor.
Valdis flopped into his only chair and studied the unconscious man. He was going to have a hard time positioning himself around the massive figure to remove his soaking clothes. Strike that, Valdis thought as he looked closer. Not clothes. Scrubs.
He should have called an ambulance. The stranger’s injuri
es had grown frighteningly clear once Valdis had dragged him inside, and now, with candlelight playing over the purpling bruises and dried blood, the priest wondered if he’d made the wrong choice. In the alley it had been easy to convince himself he could treat the stranger, that a few swipes from the first aid kit and a couple blankets would bring the man to consciousness and allow Valdis to ask his questions. But now, with the candles illuminating each cut and bringing the bruises to painful light…was it worth putting this poor guy’s life in danger just because he mumbled “legion?”
Well, in for a penny in for a pound, as his mother used to say. He’d already brought the stranger this far, the least he could do was get him a change of clothes and clean up some of the blood.
It was rough going at first, and Valdis found himself frequently wedged between the man, the bed, and the desk that filled his shrinking cell. But finally, after a quarter-hour, the stranger had been stripped, cleaned as well as Valdis could manage with paper towels and hand soap, and wrapped in towels from the laundry. It was in stripping the stranger that Valdis discovered the mystery extended even further.
The priest had easily removed the stranger’s pants, but when he got to his torso Valdis found himself stuck. The man was just too big, and the scrubs too small—Did they shrink in the wash?—and too damp for anything but shears. Valdis set to work cutting the ruined mess from the stranger, and that’s when he discovered the mark on the stranger’s left arm. Peering closer, his eyes widened at the strange little whorls and twists decorating the man’s upper bicep.
Dear God. DearGodDearGodDearGod…
Valdis sat up and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath he slowly opened them and looked again at the stranger’s arm.
The symbol was still there.
At a distance it looked like a failed tattoo; the mark was small and fell back on itself multiple times, seeming more like a botched Chinese letter than anything else. Closer inspection, however, revealed it was slightly raised. A birthmark most likely. But nothing that precise could have formed naturally. Besides, Valdis had seen markings like it before.