Mark balled his fists. He could feel the rage building inside him. Who do they think they are? I’m not one you want to fuck with. I killed someone yesterday, just by yelling at them!
Mark opened his mouth to yell again but all that escaped was a tiny squeak, like when his voice cracked as a pubescent boy. That was all the kids needed. They unleashed a barrage of names and puberty jokes.
One kid even had the audacity to scream, “I think he just grew a pube!”
“I have lots of pubes. I just shave them!” Mark yelled.
“That way they don’t stick in your mommy’s teeth!” the ginger yelled.
“You’re fucking dead, you little bitch,” Mark mumbled.
His head filled with thoughts of blowing up the school bus. He envisioned the little ginger brat melting into a pile of human goo. He imagined the rest of the bus bursting into flames.
Mark’s ears were ringing now, filled with a tinnitus-like hum. He stuck his arms out in front of himself toward the bus. He pretended to be choking the kids. Those smart-ass little shits. What did they know, anyways?
He imagined the vinyl seats catching fire as the children frantically climbed over them to get off the bus and put out the fires that engulfed them. Mark could see the yellow paint charring to black. He could smell the rubber of the tires burning.
A car horn sounded to his left. A long, deep, irritating honk. Mark pointed his left hand at that car as if telling the driver that the honking had to stop.
His brain pulsed with the sounds. Another horn blasted from the offending car. Mark would do anything to make it stop. He thought of a tree falling. Crashing onto the car, crushing it, smashing the driver into a thick red mush. He imagined the bus catching the fallen tree limbs ablaze.
This would, of course, catch the car on fire, effectively melting its cheap polyester foam-filled seats into nothingness. The hum in his ears was drowning out the world around him.
He was sure any minute now the police would be arriving to take his naked self into custody. But that didn’t happen. Mark just stood there, cowering behind his arms, pretending the horrible things he was thinking were really happening. He could feel his body shaking. He drew his hands in close to his face and squatted down.
Eventually the hum dimmed and was replaced by the sound of his racing heart. It was pounding so fast he couldn’t even count the beats. Mark fell into the fetal position. He could feel the cement underneath his body as he settled onto the porous surface. It wasn’t cool like he expected it to be. It was warm, very warm in fact. And what was that smell…?
Ignoring the heat for a moment, Mark peeked at his heart rate sensor. Three-hundred-two beats per minute. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke? Was that why the cement felt so warm? That would explain the humming in his ears too.
Afraid this might be the last time he would see the world, he convinced himself to open his eyes.
“Oh, my god—”
The school bus was on fire. The kids moved frantically inside, crawling over seats attempting to escape. The fire was so hot the glass windows began to warp and the paint began to blister. The hum that had once blocked Mark from hearing anything had dissipated and his ears now filled with the screams of flaming children.
Mark sat up. This was unbelievable. This is exactly what he had imagined. And now it was happening right in front of him. But how? A piercing scream belted from his left. The car, the one that had been honking at him, was fully engulfed as well. Mark could see the driver was also ablaze. A tree had fallen on top of the car and onto the bus, and once the diesel tank had flamed up, the fire had transferred to the car.
Mark sat, nude, and in awe, as the world around him burned.
***
END credits rolled on whatever television movie had been playing. Mark sat on his couch, beer in hand, staring blankly at the screen. He was exhausted from the morning's events. He’d never felt so powerful before.
What was that? Was that really me that caused that? If so… I’m practically invincible. Invincible and exhausted. Maybe I can try a little more after a quick nap.
Mark slumped over onto the nearby pillow. He didn’t really want to sleep on the couch but he was too tired to move to his bed.
***
He awoke to pounding at his front door. Whispers drifted lightly across the air, tickling his ears.
“Take your positions. Wait for my command, then move in. Sound off when you are in position,” a voice whispered. Mark immediately put it together; the police were outside his house and about to pay him a little visit.
His stomach churned with panic; it felt almost like butterflies on steroids. He was starting to enjoy this feeling. It made him feel so alive! The familiar feeling of his beating heart returned. Much like a sports car, it idled quietly but, like a well-tuned machine, at the right moment, it throttled up. This was that moment.
“Mark Thomas, this is the police. You have ten seconds to come out with your hands in the air!” the voice boomed.
His heart revved up. Vroom, vroom. He looked at his wrist and tapped the smartwatch navigating to the heart-rate sensor. Vroom, vroom! Ninety, one hundred, one-fifty. The countdown began outside.
“Ten!”
He began to shake. The butterflies in his stomach turned to angry dragons. The fire in him grew.
His worked his hands in and out of fists, rubbing the clenched one before punching it into the other with a crack! Switching hands. Another crack! Seconds passed. The hum returned to his ears.
“Five!” the voice boomed from outside.
This was it. Five seconds from now, one of two things were going to happen. Either he would be dead or they would be. One way or another, only one side would walk away.
“Three!”
Mark began sweating heavily. No time to run. Not that he wanted to.
“Two!”
“Go fuck yourselves!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“One!”
There was an enormous thud at the wooden front door. It was followed quickly by two more. Thud. Thud. Then, with one last blow, the door exploded into hundreds of splinters.
Police charged into the house. Half a dozen entered from the front, a few through the windows, and even more from the rear. All for him. All for someone that had done nothing. Nothing tangible anyway.
Mark stood still in his living room, hands deep in his pants pockets. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
“Can I help you officers?” Mark asked. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
“Hands in the air! Now!” the officers yelled.
“As you wish,” he replied. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump—
Mark’s hands shot into the air. The motion was so fast, it spooked one of the officers, a young kid who look to be in his twenties. Gunfire burst into the air. Rifles and pistols alike fired. Pop, pop, pop.
In just a matter of seconds, hundreds of rounds flew directly at Mark. The rounds impacted with his skin, instantly turning to molten metal. The glowing hot liquid splashed onto the floor, igniting the carpet.
The room filled with smoke and gunpowder from the discharging firearms. The officers stepped closer, still unleashing a barrage of rounds at him.
Liquid metal splashed back onto their skin or clothing, burning holes wherever it landed. Screams of pain joined the gunfire. Some of the men dropped to their knees, trying to wipe the molten liquid off.
Mark could see the twenty-something officer that started the battle. His face had several holes in it and blood was pouring out of the spot where his tongue used to be. It looked like the metal just ate it away.
He stared at the officer, smiling. This is the coolest thing ever! I can do whatever the fuck I want! Even bullets can’t stop me. The hum in his ears had lessened now and was replaced by the ever-growing screams and gurgles.
He reached out to the young man kneeling in front of him. A fluid-filled gasp, followed by a deeply drowned out: “Help me” poured from the man.
“Help? Is that what you want?” Mark asked.
The man shook his head in the affirmative.
“Very well.”
Mark jerked the pistol free from the officer’s holster and pointed it at his injured forehead. The youth shook with fear at the sight. Mark saw his pants darken as he pissed himself like a baby.
“Don’t be afraid. I won't shoot you,” Mark said, dropping the Glock’s magazine. One by one, he flicked the rounds out of the magazine and into his hand. Relief filled the officer's face.
Once empty, Mark cupped his hands together over the ammunition. Brief fizzles of the rounds going off could be heard. This is neat. It doesn’t even hurt. Mark peeked into his hands.
“As you requested, my boy!” Mark plunged the first two fingers into the molten metal. Before the boy know what was happening, Mark, using his fingers, splashed the liquid down, from his forehead to his upper lip. A second horizontal splash and a masterful upside-down cross was melting through his face and head.
Mark took the remaining liquid and slapped the next police officer across the face. He began laughing at the sight of death. One after the other, Mark melted whatever metal he could touch, and flung, plunged, or punched it into the nearest person.
The pungent aroma of sulfur and burning flesh was rampant throughout the house. Less than three minutes after police started this mess, it was over.
His heart slowed down and a fatigue set in. He was not nearly as tired this time. No nap would be necessary. Just a brief rest. Mark sat on the couch in the burning living room.
Flames raged and had engulfed most of the dining room and kitchen. It wouldn’t be long now until the rest of the house joined in the festivities. He could see the remains of people turning into white ash and floating up into the air.
Mark sat in awe of his work. This all seems like a dream. He hoped it wasn’t. This shit is way too cool to be a dream.
Just then he heard sirens. Firetrucks. I better go. Mark stood and immediately collapsed onto the floor. His consciousness escaped him.
***
Mark awoke, not sure where he was or what was happening. A man in a black suit approached. “Hi, Mark. It’s been a long time,” he said in a thick southern drawl.
“Who the fuck are you?” Mark asked.
“Mark. Mark. Mark. My dear boy. Let's dispatch with the unpleasantries, shall we?”
“What’s going on?”
“My boy, the hour is near. There are a few things that need explaining. First off: Your mouth stays shut. Another word out of it and I’ll seal it. Understand?”
Mark started to speak, then nodded.
The man in black stared at him. “Secondly: I don’t care what you believe in, who you believe in, or even why you believe in them. Forget what you know. You don't know shit, my boy! Is that clear enough for you?”
“Okay. But who—”
“Uh uh. What did I say about talking? We’ll get there. Just join me on the ride.”
With that, the room went black.
The light slowly returned and Mark found himself seated in an old wooden chair. Space and time moved around him as the man waved his arms.
“My boy… Welcome to 1988. That Godawful music blaring on the television is Sister Christian by Night Ranger. That whore in the corner is none other than your mother. And that scumbag meth-head beating her… Well, that’s dear old Dad.”
Mark began to recognize the area as the blur of motion faded. It was his Granny’s basement. He had spent a lot of time here when he was younger. After his dad left.
“How is this possible? How am I here? What are you?” Mark interjected.
“Shhh. Relax.” Mark noticed a letter on the nearby table and retrieved it. A foreclosure notice. While he read the letter, he’d almost forgotten that his father had been beating the shit out of his mother. A brief scream served as a reminder.
“I told you to shut up, you stupid cunt!” his father yelled.
“Jack, stop! Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You'll do whatever I want and get the rest of this whoopin’, understand?”
“Plea—” His mom was cut off by a fist to the jaw.
“I had no idea he beat her like this. I never even met the guy. He just up and left one day.”
It was painful for Mark to watch. Blood poured from his mother's mouth. Drips and splashes coated the floor under her. There was even a solitary tooth lying in a small pool of red liquid.
“Make it stop. I can’t watch any more of this,” Mark said.
“Oh? A little while ago you lit a bus full of kids on fire, and now you have an issue with violence? Ah, well, the world is full of contradictions and double standards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. That’s part of the beauty, though. The unpredictability of humanity. It makes things so much more interesting.”
Mark listened to the man but focused his attention on his mother. He hated seeing her taking a beating. Hated seeing the pain in her face. He wanted, with everything in his soul, to help her. But he knew he couldn’t. This was the past and there was no way to change the past.
“Pay attention, Marky, my boy… It’s about to get good.”
He watched as his father pulled a small silver revolver from his waistband. It had been hiding in his blue jeans under his white tank-top. He pointed it at his mother. Right at her bleeding, sad little face.
She sobbed uncontrollably, pleading with the man. “No! Please, don’t hurt me. Please. I have to tell you something. John, I have to tell you! I’m pregnant!” she screamed.
His father momentarily froze, revolver still pointed at her. No words left his mouth. No change in expression. Just the look of fear, rage, and murderous intent that had been there all along.
John pulled back on the trigger. Mark could see the hammer begin to inch back. He couldn't watch this. He wanted with everything in his soul to run to her and save her.
The revolver’s hammer crept back. Upon reaching its apex, it slammed forward. But there was no gun shot. No bang, no click, just a soft thump as the hammer slammed into the finger of the man in black. The room froze like someone pressed pause.
Mark sat awestruck as he watched the replay of the man in black stop the pistol from going off. He was bewildered. How could the man be sitting next to him and be in the past? How could any of this be happening? Let’s not pull at that thread, shall we?
The man in front of him spoke: “Hello, my dear. Looks like you are having a bad day.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“You’re a spitting image of her,” the man in black beside Mark said.
Mark didn’t even look away. The man continued to speak to his mother.
“I bet you are tired of the beatings. The abuse. The impending death. It’s pretty terrifying, isn't it?”
“Yeah. You think, genius?” she retorted.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you; it’s clear you don’t want me here. I’ll just pull my finger out and let this miserable existence of yours come to an end.”
“No! Wait! I don't want to die. I’m pregnant. I want my child to live. I want him to grow up. I don’t want to die! Please!” she begged.
“I would be happy to help, ma’am. But I need a little favor from you,” he said.
“Anything! I don't have much money. I don’t have fancy things. I just want my baby boy!”
“So do I,” he said. “So do I. One day, I will come calling for him. When that time comes, I can’t afford for him to say no. I need you to give him to me. Not his physical body so much as—his soul.
“You see, I am in the business of collecting things. It’s very important that I collect your son. You may have him until you die. That should suffice, yes?”
“What will you do with him?”
“My intentions are not for you to worry about. I assure you he’ll never be harmed. I will even get rid of this monster of a man for you. What do you say?”
“I don’t want to get in trouble for kill
ing him. I can’t lose my boy. How can you help?”
“Don’t worry. I just need your commitment. It’s as simple as that. And all your worry goes away. You can spend the rest of your days with your bouncing baby boy. That is what you want, isn't it?”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll take your help.”
“Excellent choice, my dear. One, I assure you, you’ll not regret.”
With that, the man pulled a folded piece of parchment from his jacket pocket and opened it. On it, in a language Mark had never seen, were words illegible to him.
“All I need is a signature here,” the man said, pointing to an X next to a line on the page. He removed a pen tipped with a serpent head from his pocket. The woman reached for it but he jerked it away.
“Not so fast. This signature needs to be done in a very special way.”
Mark saw his mother open her mouth, but before any words left it, the man plunged the pen into her stomach. She gasped in pain as it dug deeper. Not only into her, but into her unborn child.
“It needs to be signed in blood from his heart.”
With a final thrust, the pen plunged into the baby's heart. Mark’s heart. It made him uncomfortable the way the man said the word “his,” like it was important.
He watched as the pen was pulled from her belly. Blood coated its outside but quickly drained into the pen. The wound where the pen had pierce her faded away.
The man handed her the pen. “Sign, and all this ends now.” He gestured to John and his gun.
She did. Bright red blood flowed behind the tip of the pen. Each loop and line drained more of the fluid. Once finished, the man stood and in the blink of an eye, was gone. Her murderous boyfriend also vanished.
Mark watched her search the room for any sign of either man. There was no trace of them, like they’d never existed.
Again, his vision blurred as the man in black brought Mark back to reality.
“Well, my boy, what do you think? You ready to finish what dear ‘ol mom started?”
“Did—Did I just watch my mom sign my soul over to the devil? Jesus fucking Christ… Are you the devil?”
“You better believe it, sonny boy. Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Boogie Man. Call me whatever you want. Just remember, you and your newfound power belong to me.”
Never Fear Page 6