by Brad Murray
Traugott zoomed ahead and veered into the right lane. He reached above his left ear and touched the button on his helmet. The oxygen system was now engaged; he’d be riding into the toxic cloud soon. It was only a matter of moments now and his heart raced with exhilaration. Less than two miles ahead, a roadblock would be set by the Order’s operators wearing oxygen masks.
A dark thought crossed Traugott’s mind, considering the fact he’d been ordered to wear the suit. Did Brumeux intend for the poison to be released over the road? Did he intend for all of this to happen? Why would the crop duster be necessary in the first place? But just as quickly as the thought crossed his mind, it disappeared. Brumeux would never do such a thing – intentionally harming all these people. The suit was precautionary, and for Traugott’s sake, thank goodness the Order was so diligent in precautions.
But it was the same precautions that forced Traugott to remove Jimmy’s father from his life - the worst day of his career. It had to be done, yet there wasn’t a day gone by that Traugott didn’t feel regret. Having lost his own father at an early age, he could identify with Jimmy. Over the years, there were times Traugott wanted to shake him, wanted to tell him to be a man. Other times he wanted to console him, to tell him it was going to be alright and that there were so many bigger things in store for him. But he couldn’t – orders were orders.
Traugott had no family or true friends to call his own - save for the Order and the steady stream of one night stands - if you can count that. His mother died in child birth and his father in a car accident when he was five. Seventeen years ago, he would have never thought he’d grow to care for the Porters as much as he did. He’d even fallen in love with Emma, though he tried his best to conceal it. And, though he didn’t want to admit it, he’d grown to love those boys as his own sons. The Porters had become his surrogate family.
Hell, they even called him “Uncle.”
He gazed into the rearview mirror and found Jimmy’s face. The pain of yesterday’s argument flashed in his head – the source of last night’s drinking binge. Traugott had been watching the monitors when Jimmy pulled out that handgun. And, while it was his duty to prevent “the Super” from killing himself, he couldn’t have cared less about his duty to the Order or the mission at that moment. The sole reason he had scrambled over to the house was to save his surrogate son.
He hoped against hope that Brumeux was correct and that Jimmy would survive the next half hour. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see the emptiness in Emma’s eyes again as she learned of Jimmy’s death. He hoped his last conversation with Jimmy wouldn’t be the expletive filled tirade of yesterday.
Traugott looked away from the cycle’s mirror and the driver of the white pickup truck behind him. His mind was abuzz. As he turned his gaze to the road ahead, he fully expected to see the black dots of the Order’s vehicles forming the roadblock in the distance. Instead, the last thing Roger Ramstein ever saw was a flash of brown and white fur.
9
September 15, 1970
The doctor entered the room and hastily picked up the patient’s clipboard from the foot of the bed. He talked while he skimmed through the paperwork, occasionally looking up between pages; efficiency being the name of the game in the bedlam of an emergency room.
“What’s his story?” said the doctor to the ER nurse. The scraggly man in the hospital bed wore a thick, unkempt brownish-red colored beard. His overhauls were layered in grime, dust, and dried paint. A brown goggle-shaped line around his eyes provided a distinct demarcation between clean skin and filth.
“Fell off a scaffold. His co-workers told the medics he was about fifteen feet up when he slipped,” said the nurse, who was unstrapping the blood pressure monitor from the patient’s arm. “Hit his head at some point in the fall. He has moderate swelling just above the hair line.”
“Anything of particular note?” asked the doctor.
“He’s been unconscious since arrival, but vitals are normal. X-rays were negative. Blood work is in the lab. Should get the results soon,” replied the nurse.
“Fine.”
The doctor handed the clipboard to the nurse and moved toward the patient. “Let me know as soon as the lab report comes in.”
The patient stirred for the first time. His eyes cracked open a sliver.
“Mister Porges?” said the doctor.
Benjamin Porges shot open his eyes and frantically scanned his unfamiliar surroundings. His eyes rested on the doctor, studying him intently.
“Mister Porges? Do you know where you are? Can you remember what happened?”
“Am I in a hospital?”
“Yes. Do you know why you’re here?”
Benjamin lifted his hand and rubbed the goose egg that had swollen on the crown of his head. “I’m guessing I did a swan dive off the scaffold at work.”
“That’s right,” said the doctor. “Do you recall where you were working?”
“Yeah, at the museum. The Musée des beaux-arts on Sherbrooke.”
“Ahh! You’re working on the museum’s facelift. How fantastic! I can’t wait to see the renovations when they’re completed,” said the doctor. The doctor had a pompous way about him, an uppity quality that Benjamin Porges did not care for. Or, perhaps it was the simple fact he didn’t care for doctors in general.
“I’m on the museum’s board, so I was fortunate enough to see and approve of the drawings. The building was in such dire need of restoration. It will certainly be a transformation that will bring our museum and Montreal for that matter…” the doctor’s voice trailed off as he realized his patient’s empty gaze relayed his apathy towards the subject.
“Well, never mind about that. Mister Porges, I’m Doctor Zobrist. You’ve had quite a nasty fall. We’re going to run a few tests and keep you overnight for observation. Should have the results of your blood work soon so we’ll be able to see…”
“Blood work!? You took my blood?” said Benjamin, grunting as he sat up in his bed.
“Well of course. Standard procedure for potential internal…”
“How long ago?” asked Benjamin, cutting the doctor off.
“How long ago what?” asked the nurse.
“How long ago did you take my blood?” demanded Benjamin.
“Mister Porges, you need to calm down. We need you to lie back down and relax,” said Zobrist.
Benjamin swung his feet off the bed and gingerly placed them squarely on the floor. He cautiously tested his balance; his soiled work boots a stark contrast to the white tile of the emergency room floor.
“Has anyone contacted my wife?”
“Yes. Your wife was called. She’s on her way,” assured the nurse.
“Mister Porges, please get back in bed,” implored Zobrist. “You’ve likely sustained a concussion and there might be internal injuries…”
“I’m not staying,” Benjamin interrupted emphatically.
“But sir, in my professional opinion…”
“Listen to me,” said Benjamin, his eyes burning intensely. “I am leaving. I will sign a waiver or whatever you need, but when my wife arrives, I am leaving. Thank you for your concern but I am fine.”
Doctor Zobrist exhaled and exhaustedly shrugged his shoulders to the nurse. “Miss Dufresne, please release Mister Porges, conditional upon his signature of the waiver.” Zobrist checked his watch and grumbled out of the room.
***
It was a wearisome assignment, as assignments in the Order go, especially for three men in their thirties. Adding salt to the wound was the fact that two of the men had young children who were growing up at home without them. It would be tolerable if this were a real assignment, and not another inane hunt for what was effectively an apparition. The trio had come to the conclusion years earlier that, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, Supers simply didn’t exist.
The men had spent their childhoods listening to tales of the Superstes, but they had never actually seen one. Despite this fact, much of their careers i
n the Order had been spent chasing down the Superstes; following trails paved by rumors and imagination, fruitlessly scouring the globe. Though none of the men dared question the pointless nature of these assignments out loud, all considered the Superstes a legend - a tall tale. Finding a Super had become a sort of mythical endeavor, akin to tracking down Bigfoot. Each time they received new orders containing the word “Super,” they cringed. A “Super” assignment meant a week of senseless futility at best; at worst it meant a month or more chasing their tails in some hellhole corner of the god-forsaken world. Regardless, the men executed the assignments with vigor, even if it were at odds with their own beliefs. The Order simply wasn’t to be questioned.
Ernst Adler, Martin Traugott, and Benoit Brumeux had been in Ottawa for nearly a month. Fortunately it was a fantastic time of year to be in Ontario. Summer was fading, beginning to lose its battle with the crisp fall air. The people of the beautiful capital city remained outdoors, trying to absorb every possible second of the sun’s warmth. The outdoor patios of downtown restaurants and coffee houses were packed with patrons enjoying their final days before the forthcoming arrival of another harsh winter.
The men knew from experience that what had led them to Ottawa likely began as a mere whisper; some false lead based on half-truths or speculation. But even the flimsiest of leads about a prospective Super drew the Order’s full resources. When it came to the Superstes, the Order’s sniffer was as sensitive as a bloodhound’s. The truth would be ferreted out; the tiniest shred of information thoroughly and exhaustively investigated; until there was no stone left unturned.
The trio converged in the lobby of their posh hotel, situated just a few blocks from Parliament Hill; their home away from home for the past several weeks. It had been yet another mind-numbing day. Traugott and Adler had spent their day at two clinics. Fortunately these were the last two clinics on the list. As was typical, they had used contacts in the Order’s vast network to gain access, reviewing the files of patients who had visited each clinic on or around August 17th. Intelligence reports had indicated the possibility of blood work containing Super-like characteristics in Ottawa on that day. But, as was typical with all Super sightings, there was nothing more specific to work with. No information about the identity of the proposed Super, nor which hospital, doctor’s office, or clinic he or she may have visited. As a result, they had spent nearly a month meticulously reviewing lab results, doctor’s notes, and patient’s files, looking for the supposed tell-tale signs.
Brumeux recognized the weary look in his comrades’ eyes and knew they too had burned through yet another empty day.
“Look on the bright side, Gentlemen. At least we’re done here,” said Brumeux.
“If I never see Ottawa again, it will be too fucking soon,” huffed Adler. He took a deep pull from his cigarette and exhaled through the corner of his lips. The smoke curled around his pencil-thin mustache and floated upwards around his prominent nose. His dark, beady eyes exposed his frustration.
“How was your day, Benoit?” asked Traugott, smirking slightly. “I assume you found no evidence, no undeniable proof? Once again we must report to Command that we are coming back empty-handed,” a subtle touch of facetiousness in his voice.
Ignoring the comment, Brumeux glanced down at his watch. “Time to make the daily briefing call. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Until then, you two decide upon a restaurant. But I must tell you that I am especially in the mood for foie gras.” Brumeux turned and glided towards the bank of payphones.
Adler shook his head. He’d grown exceptionally tired of the restaurant, having eaten there nearly ten times since their arrival. Moreover, he’d grown tired of Brumeux’s domineering personality and the man’s disgusting taste for foie gras – duck or goose liver. The deliberate overfeeding of the birds produced extremely large livers, which resulted in what many considered a delicacy. Adler found the whole process of force-feeding the birds repulsive.
“But we ate at Bon Sejour’s last night,” said Adler.
Brumeux stopped in his tracks and turned sharply to face Adler, his steely eyes peering just beneath the brim of his black fedora. Adler tried in vain to meet his stare but couldn’t. His defiant resolve was broken by Brumeux almost immediately.
“Fine,” he exhaled. “Bon Sejour’s it is.”
***
Doctor Zobrist worked feverishly in the emergency room. His undivided attention was on the multiple stab wound victim who had just arrived with the medics. Needless to say, he had already put Benjamin Porges far out of his mind. Zobrist trotted alongside the gurney collecting vitals from the medics when Nurse Dufresne tapped him on the shoulder.
“What is it?” barked Zobrist.
“I have the blood tests from Mister Porges back from the lab.”
“So what? He checked out, remember? I’m busy here!”
“I think you’ll want to see these results immediately,” she said, grabbing Zobrist’s arm. “They’re rather…super.”
Zobrist stopped cold and locked eyes with the nurse.
“You mean?”
“Yes.”
“Call Doctor Fleming and ask him to cover for me immediately.”
***
Adler and Traugott sat in the hotel lounge in their business suits, each with the day’s newspapers spread out in front of them. Adler twirled a cigarette between his fingers and feigned reading a headline about parliamentary politics. Traugott looked up from his newspaper and caught the eye of the young brunette who had been leaning against the hotel piano. She had been staring at him for going on five minutes, wondering if the tanned, tall, blond-haired hunk straight out of central casting was somebody famous. Traugott, aware of the woman the entire time, played the part of Hollywood playboy. He smiled playfully at the woman, his perfect white teeth glinting as brightly as the lobby’s chandelier. The woman blushed, picked up her wine glass from the piano top and approached. Adler, who had been watching the whole ritual, rolled his eyes. Just as Traugott stood and began straightening his tie in anticipation of her arrival, Brumeux rumbled in.
“Martin, have the car brought around front. We leave in five minutes.”
Adler shot up from his seat and tossed the newspaper on the table, eager to get out of Ottawa. Traugott on the other hand, pretended not to hear Brumeux. The brunette was on her way, and Traugott knew that duty to the Order was about to ruin his conquest. She approached the men, still smiling and was about to say something when she was abruptly halted by a Brumeux stiff arm; his outstretched hand mere inches from the tip of her nose.
“I’m sorry young lady, but your presence is not required for this discussion.”
Adler laughed out loud, amused by Brumeux’s brazen disrespect and by the brunette beauty’s look of utter incredulousness. The woman huffed and looked to Traugott, certain he would defend her honor and put the rude man in his place. But to her disdain, Traugott just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. She glowered and stomped away, muttering aloud about how she had never been treated so rudely in her entire life.
“We have new orders. A lead on a Super in Montreal,” said Brumeux.
Adler and Traugott groaned in unison. “Shit,” said Adler.
“This is different,” said Brumeux with a tint of excitement in his voice. “Doctor verified. Less than ten minutes ago. He has confirmed the results himself and has provided identification – one Benjamin Porges of Longueuil, Quebec. The sample was taken within the hour but the subject has since left the hospital, refusing further treatment.”
Adler raised his eyebrows. “Porges? It is a Jewish name...”
“He may be fleeing, we must hurry,” said Brumeux.
***
Benjamin Porges tore through the streets of downtown Montreal. His wife, Juliette, and Andrew, their five year old son, rode nervously as Benjamin veered left onto Rue Sherbrooke.
“Bennie, slow down. I don’t understand what’s wrong,” complained Juliette from the passenger seat.
&nbs
p; “I’ll explain to you later. We don’t have time,” said Benjamin.
Benjamin’s mind raced as fast as his dark green 1966 Ford Fairlane. His eyes darted to the rearview mirrors every few seconds. He cut down a side street and onto Rue Saint-Catherine, squealing past Rue de la Montagne. He cursed himself for being clumsy and falling off the scaffolding, and he cursed the dark faces of the shadowy men who were pursuing him. Despite all of his precautions, he would have to move his family yet again.
They lived a nomadic existence, moving from town to town, city to city. Benjamin found work wherever he could and the family would quickly adjust to life in a new place. Eventually, Benjamin would begin to feel paranoid. He sensed - right or wrong - that the Wicked Men were closing in and that the longer he stayed in one place, the more likely he would be discovered. He couldn’t take that chance. He had seen their evil up close; been fortunate to survive their experiments, their poking and prodding - even their killing. He couldn’t let them do the same to his family.
He wouldn’t.
He had never explained to Juliette the truth behind the frequent moves. She wouldn’t have understood. Instead, he made up stories about being laid off or about finding a better opportunity somewhere else. Juliette, to her credit, never once complained. She maintained an open mind and an adventurer’s spirit, and Benjamin loved her all the more because of it. He understood and appreciated the strain of being his spouse. After all, there were far easier things than a life as the wife of Benjamin Porges.
During the entirety of Juliette’s pregnancy, Benjamin fretted over the potential of the baby’s blood being tested at birth. Newborn screening had become standard practice in the 60’s, under the guise of the government offering a mandatory “public health service,” but Benjamin knew better. He knew the power of the Wicked Men, the name he’d coined long ago. The Wicked Men lurked in their high towers manipulating, scheming, thirsting for a return to the throne they had lost 25 years earlier. He knew they were behind the implementation of the newborn screening programs. He knew they were looking for him, and they’d never stop.