On inhale, pain twice that of his shoulder drilled through his chest as if he’d been gouged with a blunt stick. The burn so intense screaming wasn’t an option. His eyes rolled back, mind awash, he barely managed to fall on his good side. Hand trembling, he reached into the breast pocket and retrieved a whisky flask borrowed from his father’s collection. After a small struggle with the cap, he shook a large amount of the gritty powder under his tongue and attempted to work up some saliva. A cough erupted from deep, but the teenager refused to open his mouth and lose any of the precious powder. Blood jetted from both nostrils.
BETTER TO DIE A HERO
CHAPTER 12
Under normal conditions, the traffic creeping into Manhattan would have agitated the inexperienced driver, but Steve’s tense grip on the wheel of his uncle’s Oldsmobile had nothing to do with the surrounding gridlock. Just hours ago George had called him down stairs to watch the latest news bulletin on New York’s first superheroes. Their previous visits, dominated by the same subject matter, had proven immensely fun. He loved seeing the excitement on his uncle’s face while they watched the news and he couldn’t remember the last time the lead story had deviated from anything but the catastrophic or corrupt. A never-ending war and a never-ending supply of serial killers filled every nightly broadcast. The teenager failed to remember one upbeat story out of a never-ending cascade of human misery, that is, until he and his friends made the news.
Their story was different. In all the excitement at school, an underlying sense of hope and optimism reflected in the voices of his classmates. That same hope showed in the eyes of TV journalists, except for this evening’s broadcast. The reporter, serious and grim, recounted eyewitness testimony of how one of the superheroes ambushed the suspected Don, killing him by near decapitation. The body count reported as three dead and one seriously injured. Overnight, their grand story had regressed into the same vile broadcast that permeated the nightly news.
“What the hell was he thinking?” Steve refrained from pounding the steering wheel. He had gone twenty-four hours without a dose of the strength enhancing powder and was relieved at the absence of cravings or withdraws. This short-lived abstinence ended after stopping by Nora’s house. She thought it would be wise if he stopped by and picked up the minuscule amount Bryan had doled out to her, three doses at best. The look on her face when she answered the door was pressed into his memory forever.
Reluctantly, he had swallowed a dose the second his girl friend’s house disappeared from the rear view mirror. He found it hard to gauge how much strength remained from the last dose, not much if any, and the only way to find out, or at least the safest way, was to select a secluded building and jump upward. But, there was no time for tests. He needed to be at full strength immediately and stay strong for the next twelve hours, if he was to find and bring home his friend. According to the news reports, at least a dozen shots were fired and it was reported the vigilante lay on a rooftop for several minutes before staggering off.
Steve knew if he ran the rooftops in search of Bryan, hero spotters from every adjacent building would see and possibly call in his location. Maybe Bryan knew that too, but would he have enough sense to move to the streets or maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe his friend lay atop one of those roofs—dead. From the accounts on the news, it sure sounded like his lanky pal was in trouble. Bullet meets the bone kind of trouble.
Now in Manhattan and heading for Little Italy, the traffic and confusion challenged the young man’s concentration. Unlike the first night on the powder when they beat an implausibly difficult video game, no perceivable enhancement of perception was building; however, he could feel a massive strength inflating every muscle throughout his body. Rational thoughts advising stay calm soothed his urge to rip the steering wheel from its column. He wiped sweat from his eyes and split his attention between the road and the map spread across the passenger seat.
According to the map, he’d just left East Village and was entering Little Italy. He drove the neighborhood for thirty minutes before finding a suitable parking spot. The powder hadn’t improved his parallel parking skills, Steve emerged from his uncle’s car just plain pissed.
His mood failed to improve as he asked passers-by for directions to the famous crime scene and discovered he couldn’t have parked any farther away. At least everyone pointed in the same direction, though their guesses at the distance varied greatly. Steve accepted the directions given and jogged at a good pace, but was careful to keep in the range of normal human. Draped in paint-stained sweats, that could be easily discarded in favor of the black t-shirt and jeans beneath, he ran on. The hidden shirt bore no red M, but it would suffice. A backpack carried the food and water needed to sustain him on a vigorous evening out. Also tossed in, a better set of sweats for reclaiming his vehicle, gloves, and most important the ski-eye mask combo. He ran on.
It wasn’t long before he heard a commotion ahead and knew he’d rounded the right corner. The street was packed by a least two hundred people standing shoulder to shoulder and there were news vans everywhere. Hours had passed since the incident and the place still swarmed with human activity. Assertively, Steve pushed his way through the crowd, but careful not to step on any toes. He counted five interviews taking place by the time he reached the crime tape. Half the street was barricaded and he could gather little information from the distance the authority was keeping the public. He made a best guess as to which building his friend leapt off, about where Bryan engaged the mafia and by its proximity, what alley his friend most likely made his escape.
There was a pay phone at the end of the street and he decided to try Bryan’s cell again.
“Wish I could afford a damn cell phone,” he said under his breath while weaving his way through the throng. “I could really shove a text message up some one’s ass about now.” A man asked the teenager if he knew what all the excitement was about.
“I have no idea,” Steve said tersely.
The phone was unoccupied; he lifted the receiver and deposited two coins. His fingers danced over the key pad, the number being committed to memory. He covered his other ear and listened to the same message as a dozen times before stating the customer’s cell phone was powered off or out of the service area. Steve wanted to smash the receiver down, but took a deep breath and placed it back on the hook.
Stay composed, he told himself.
He walked several blocks, constantly looking back at the building from which Bryan had made his murderous attack. There was no other option but to jump topside and attempt to follow Bryan’s path. He ducked into an alley, slapped on the rubber masks and shed the ratty sweats. It wasn’t much of a costume, still a sense of freedom and purpose energized him and he leapt higher than ever before, bouncing zigzag from wall to wall climbing at an astonishing rate. Running full force, he hurtled the hodgepodge of rooftop objects with an ever-increasing grace. Steve approached the target building and slowed; police activity swarmed the far rooftop. An older man stood near the edge with binoculars fixed on the show, unaware of Steve’s presence.
“Sir, may I borrow your binoculars?”
Startled, the man cautiously handed them over. “Are you one of the new superheroes?”
“Yes I am.” Steve peered through the device. “But I’m the one behaving myself.”
“So, you know the funny looking one, the one that wears the red underwear?”
Focused on how thorough the police were scrutinizing the area, Steve barely heard the man. “Yeah, he’s my friend… at the moment. We’ll see after I kick his ass.” Steve handed back the binoculars. “I wish I could tell which way he went.”
The man lit up. “Oh, I know the way he went. He went right across our building.” The old man produced a rag and ran to a spot on the silvery roof. “I wiped up a fresh spot of blood here.” The man ran several more feet and shouted, “And here.” He presented the stained cloth as proof.
“You cleaned the blood up?” Steve was relieved the amount di
dn’t seem abundant.
“Sure, as far as I’m concerned your friend did us a favor. I don’t want him to get caught, so I’m doing my part.” The man pointed to a neighboring building. “My friend Willy cleaned the blood off that roof. I called him and told him to get his ass up there and get it done, quick like.” The man’s voice turned serious. “I really hope your friend lives to tell the tale.”
“I hope so too, thanks for the info.” Steve nodded, then bolted in the direction the man had pointed out. He searched the grainy surface blurring below his feet, but couldn’t find the blood trail.
Blood trail. Steve shuttered. This was not the way things were supposed to turn out.
At each alley, he stopped and peered over the edge scanning for any movement or that stupid red costume. The buildings were increasing in height and he jumped from one to the next and still he hadn’t found any blood. A skyscraper lay in the path, one so tall Bryan would not have been able to jump to it. That would be the end of the line for his friend, especially with a bullet slowing him down. Steve wondered about the wound. If his friend was moving away from the shooter, maybe he got it in the ass. Maybe this would end up a funny story the two of them would laugh about for years to come.
At twenty stories, the activity at the bottom of the latest alley was hard to see, but the angry shouting that echoed its way up the enclosure indicated a confrontation. A confrontation that probably had nothing to do with his friend’s stunt or whereabouts, but so far, nothing else proved worth checking out. The shouting distorted and unrecognizable by the time it reached the top had an unmistakable tone—hostile. For the shortest of seconds, the young man contemplated a twenty-story drop.
No way, he thought.
It didn’t matter how logical his friend’s theories were about their abilities to survive a drop at this height, now was not the time for testing. Besides, he wanted to spy on the activity, so a stealthy sneak down the fire escape was the plan. He envisioned himself a ninja and crept downward, supporting his weight on the railings so that his feet landed lightly. Dropping several steps at a time, squatting and pivoting like in the movies, the technique actually did seem to quiet his descent, while the shouting continued to reverberate skyward.
At the forth story Steve stopped, stuck his head over the railing and eavesdropped on the action under him. Two mafia style thugs, hair gel, leather jackets and good shoes, both throwing their weight around—this was promising.
The portly fellow backhanded a grey-bearded bum, sending him sprawling helplessly, flattening several large cardboard boxes. “Ah, this stink’n bum don’t know a damn thing.” He pulled out a cloth and wiped his hand. The two intimidating men turned their attention to a second bum, younger but just as frail. Cut off from the alley entrance, he had stood by quietly watching his pal being kicked around knowing his turn was coming. Even if he had slipped past and headed for the street, he looked too weak to make it more than a foot or two.
Steve swallowed hard as the smaller hood shoved Bryan’s aviator cap and goggles under the second bum’s nose. “Did you see this freak come through here?” He pushed the brown leather into the man’s face.
The loud slap of Steve’s landing reflecting off the alley walls sounded like a gunshot and the two thugs reacted predictably with a spin in the direction of the danger, a danger that to their surprise stood only two feet behind them. Steve sprang up from his landing and drilled a punch into the belly of the large man. The man crumbled to the alley floor like a wadded gum wrapper thrown to the ground. He twisted on his heels, snatched the small hood by the throat, and lifted him high.
“Get you and your buddy out of here,” Steve shouted to the younger vagabond. He elevated the crook a foot off the ground and ran to the wall, slamming the little man into the brick. The gagging mobster dropped Bryan’s gear and grabbed frantically at the inside of his leather jacket, but it was Steve that un-holstered the pistol hidden there. The mobster’s priorities quickly changed and he gripped Steve’s thick forearm in an attempt to keep from choking.
Steve lowered the wise guy enough to stop the leg thrashing and glanced back at the man lying on the cold stone moaning. He hurled the gun down the alley; it skipped nicely then settled under a beat up dumpster. Steve kept one eye on the moaning lump, while interrogating the choking man.
“Where’d you find my friend’s gear asshole?” Steve loosened his grip to let the man answer.
“Here in this alley,” the man managed to answer through clenched teeth, “earlier today.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Screw you.”
Steve squeezed.
“Wait’n for the bums that lived here to come back… to see if they saw the guy.”
Steve threw the man against the opposite wall. The hood bounced off accordingly and collapsed into a shiny leather heap.
Steve turned his attention to the fat hood. The man had pushed himself up and was scooting to the wall. He then propped himself up against the dirty brick. Steve hovering just above reached into the man’s coat and removed a semi-auto pistol. It didn’t skip as nicely as the first.
“Let me tell you something you prick,” the man said faintly. Blood coated his lips and teeth.
The horror of his own brutality paralyzed the teenager. He wanted nothing more than to dial 911 and get an ambulance for the both men. “I’m sorry, I’ll go get help.”
“You prick,” the man said in a stronger voice. The wary eyes of the big man peered straight at Steve. “You’re gonna die. Your friends are gonna die.” He paused to retrieve the handkerchief he’d used earlier and ran it around his mouth. “Were gonna find out who you are and after we kill your families,” the man spat red, “we’re gonna kill all three of ya.” The man slowly reached into his breast pocket and produced a cell phone. “I don’t need your damn help…You killed your family. You remember that.”
Steve snatched up the cap and goggles and propelled by fright leapt three stories. All guilt disappeared; terror took its place.
* * *
Warmth caressed the length of Bryan’s body, turning the corners of his mouth up in a comfortable grin. It was good to be snuggled in bed, far too good to get up and go to school. The young man stretched his legs outward and took in a deep breath then slowly exhaled. Something odd occurred. A dull ache pulsed deep in his ribs, an unfamiliar pain, not at all similar to the neck and back ailment that tended to center high on his spine. No problem a simple roll over would take care of it.
“Aaagh!”
Bryan griped his shoulder tightly as if squeezing it might push out the pain that resided there. He opened one eye, the pillow and Star Wars bedding faded to black.
Aren’t I in bed?
He opened his other eye and stared into the darkness. Not wishing the pain to increase, he lay stiff looking outward waiting for some object in the void to take shape, giving a clue to his whereabouts. He blinked hard several times expecting the guestroom at Steve’s house to materialize. The smell of rotten cabbage clung to the hurtful air. The spot where he lay was at the same time hard and soft.
Garbage?
He lay on top of, and was covered in, bagged rubbish. The brick wall of an alley emerged from the darkness, as did the memory of his encounter with Savini and gang. Disappointment flooded his being; he wished so much to be in his own bed.
He sat up. “Aaagh!”
Garbage rolled off as he pushed through the pain. He ran his fingers over the misshapen shoulder. An examination of the collarbone proved it long and straight; however, a bulbous knot lay on top indicating a dislocation. If this were a role-playing campaign, no doubt Steve’s character would be there ready to assist.
Time to call in the team.
Bryan dug into the inside coat pocket for his cell phone, more disappointment ensued as he retrieved the device to the sound of broken plastic. He held the small electronics together as best he could and repeatedly punched the power button; the phone failed to light up. He shifted hi
s grip several times, moving the pieces slightly hoping to get just the right contact to bring the phone to life, but still the display failed to illuminate.
On to plan B.
Bryan swapped the broken electronics for the whisky flask and shook a generous dose of powder into his mouth. It didn’t take long to work up the saliva and swash the gritty substance about. The powder dissolved faster and went down easier than ever before. He sat for several minutes looking up at the night sky wondering what to do next.
Time to be a man.
He crawled on his knees to the nearby dumpster. Oddly enough, his shoulder hurt more than his chest. He thought it strange a bullet hole would hurt less. Inching up to the corner of the giant dumpster on hands and knees, he lined his body up so that when plowing forward, his head would miss it entirely, but the top of the shoulder would contact the flat surface. He relaxed back on his calves, softly bounced forward one, two and then slammed hard into the metal container.
Trash piled high toppled down on him and he rolled to the middle of the alley. He clutched his shoulder and fought to stay conscious. A few people still roamed the street at night in every neighborhood; he had seen that first hand. Not wanting to call attention to his location he held in the screams—the tears he could not. Barely able to see through the salty fluid covering his eyes, the entire world was a blur; he crawled back into the pile of sweet garbage, curled up and went to sleep.
Better to Die a Hero Page 14