Superman's Cape

by Brian Spangler

  Instead, he was left with a clouded drizzle that touched his lips and chin. He could taste the foulness of the mud. He could taste the remains of the rotting animal flesh. Kyle’s stomach turned over. Remains of dried vomit loosened from his shirt and fell onto his hands. He stabbed the floor of the woods to try and clean his palms.

  Sheets of cold rain came; a downpour he welcomed. It was a chance to wash it away. He wanted to wash it all away. He started from his head, scrubbing his hair then worked his hands down over his face. Using his fingers, he tried to clean the imaginary maggots from the holes in his ears and nose. The smell of vomit and rotting animal stayed on his shirt. Kyle wanted the shirt off of him. The dead smell and vomit was too much. With the ends of his shirt scrunched in his hands, he stopped. He wasn’t bashful about having his shirt off. It wasn’t like gym period his first day of middle school when all the kids changed quickly. It wasn’t shame or even fear; he was cold. Very cold.

  Kyle stopped. He dropped his arms when he heard the first footsteps. Then he heard another, and by the time he turned, he heard a few more. Someone or something was approaching him. Kyle narrowed his eyes against the darkness. A large figure stood there.

  “Mom,” he said impulsively.

  He heard a cough or a bark or what might have been a snort. It wasn’t human. It was animal. And it knew he was sitting there on the ground, soaked in rot and vomit and rain water. Keep it on or you’ll get stung, he thought, regretting his having cried out ‘momma.’ No sooner had the words left his mouth when the animal snorted again. Louder.

  The animal’s snorting turned into a chant, maybe expecting Kyle to respond. Kyle was terrified. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t tell if it was a dog or a coyote or a wolf. He didn’t want to know. Even in the faded light, he could see it was bigger than him. It was rounder and it was larger and heavier and it snorted indignation to Kyle for having called out for his momma.

  Kyle was frozen. Electrical charges from the base of his brain shorted every fiber of his muscles. He tried to stand up and run, but he remained. Frozen. Locked to the ground and unable to move. The animal kicked his front foot and snorted twice more. Kyle recognized the figure. It’s a Boar. “Oh my God, it’s a boar … a wild pig,” he whispered. This wasn’t the bacon on his 8 a.m. plate. This was a wild animal with fangs or tusks or whatever they were called. It was a lot bigger and faster than him and it could kill. It liked to Kill (at least that is what he told himself).

  Kyle could see the ears that stood tallest above its body. Another snort and Kyle made out the boar’s penny eyes – black holes that locked a stare on him. He could see the legs, with one in the front clapping the ground with its cloven foot. Another grunt sounded from its trumpet snout.

  The boar was charging him. At some point the wild pig decided Kyle must be an intruder. It made the decision that Kyle shouldn’t be there. That Kyle was in the wrong place. This was his place, and as a keeper of the bog mud flats, he had the right to charge. To attack. To kill. The pace of the hooves were getting quicker. Kyle pushed his eyes to focus. He could feel the hooves from the ground radiating through the palms of his hands. His heart thumped hard in his chest. The blurred figure was closing the distance between them.

  The shirt, Kyle thought. Even with a coating of rot and vomit – it was bright. Very bright. And in this light it might as well have been glowing like a hallway nightlight at midnight. The type he used to have when he was little. The one that helped him pace the shadows of his feet during late journeys to the bathroom. Unlike those days when his stuffed wubby was there to keep him company, the wild pig wasn’t here to comfort him. It wanted to kill him.

  Kyle pulled his hands from the ground and grabbed his shirt. He whipped it up and over his head. The boar’s feet were loud. A stampede, he thought. The image of the boar was clearer. He could see it. He thought he could even smell it. The snorting of breath shuffled between strides of hooves pounding the ground. Kyle was somewhat aware of crying. His crying. Fear loosened his bladder. The warm flow of urine ran down his leg.

  The boar’s hit threw him flat onto his back. In an instant, his lungs collapsed as every bit of air escaped him. The coarse hairs of the animal ran against his right shoulder. A sharp tusk brushed the face of his right arm, knocking him onto his back and leaving his legs pinned beneath. Kyle tried to heave in air as he rolled over onto his belly. He picked his face up, lifting his chin to see where the boar was. In the dark, Kyle saw his shirt parading above the ground like a night-time Halloween decoration twirling in the wind. His shirt jumped and ran and flailed around in waves. It was stuck on the boar’s tusk and covered its eyes.

  Kyle heard the wet sounds of suction as the boar’s stomping slowed. It was becoming stuck in the bog mud. The tide must still be up, he thought with some relief. The ground was thin and loose. The bog mud was still hungry and willing to eat up anything daring to move too close to it. Kyle saw the boar’s legs slow as it tried to turn. He saw it struggling to pull them, all the while waving and snorting at the nightlight glow of his shirt.

  A warm rush of wet flowed over his arm. The smell of blood was strong. And he felt the first whispers of something wrong. Whispers turned to screams as pain bloomed in him. He was bleeding. The Boar’s tusk left a deep gash that ran ragged like a lightning bolt. The lightning strike cut from below his shoulder down to his elbow. Black blood covered his arm like a sleeve. Kyle was scared. In his life he’d never seen so much blood – especially his own. So much blood from the cut, he cried, and could feel it pouring from his fingers as it dripped to the ground. Images of himself without an arm ran through his mind. The nightmare images were interrupted by grunts and screams from the pig struggling to get hold of solid ground.

  The Boar stayed blind to where Kyle was. He could see the Boar’s legs began to sink less and less. He could tell the Boar was regaining its footing on solid ground. Tide is going out, ground isn’t as soft. Run, he thought. And past the pain of cramps and exhaustion, past the rapid theft of air from his lungs, Kyle staggered to his feet. He ran.

  Kyle’s feet picked up air and his knees threw higher than he thought he was capable of. His body was feeding on the pig’s attack. The lightning bolt torn into his arm acted like a drug. Lightning coursed through his veins and fear accelerated his heart. He drew the air deep into his lungs then threw it. Kyle turned to see the Boar freeing itself of the bog mud. He saw that his shirt had come loose and fallen to the ground. The Boar could see again. It could see him.

  Kyle’s feet flew over the pine needles. He felt he could run faster than the Boar. He even dared it to take chase after him. Kyle turned once more to see that the Boar was free of the bog. Instead of pursuing him, the Boar started to walk away. The Boar left without offering protest or award for winning back his grounds.

  Kyle fled further and faster. He flew over the pine needles, high on adrenaline. His heart lifted him off the ground. He turned back from the Boar in time to see the tree he was meant to run past. He turned just in time to wish he’d turned back sooner. Kyle felt no pain. He felt no fear. Instead, there was only the raw interruption of his flight as his body ran head first into a waiting pine. The tree knocked him to the ground and gifted him with an immediate, non-negotiable absence of all his senses.

  16

  Rain drummed on the canvas of the command center tent. A thunderclap rumbled a heavy breath that ended with the sound of something falling to the ground. Captain Saunders’ attention left the command center table. Wind from the storm threatened a collection of papers spread corner to corner over a large map. Sipping from his thermos cup, his eyes followed the trees lining the Connely’s yard. He thought for a second that he heard something in the woods. Turning his head back again, he wasn’t sure if it was anything at all.

  Since arriving, he’d become accustomed to the sounds around him. An interruption, any interruption, was something that could be a twelve year old boy. It could be Kyle. The Captain thought how easy and at the same tim
e how awful it would be if Kyle was walking along the lip of these woods never knowing he was just yards from the safety of his home.

  “What’re you thinking, Captain? What’s on your mind?” Officer Dale Richards asked, entering the tented area with a handful of equipment.

  “Thought I heard something,” he offered, taking another sip from his cup. “Thought there was a remote possibility this thing could be over before the sun comes back up.”

  Officer Richards stood for a moment and gave a puzzled look toward the edge of trees. He moved his eyes across them and tried to pick up anything that Captain Peter Saunders might have heard.

  He frowned, then added, “Not likely Peter,” as he set down the heavy equipment.

  The Captain turned an agreeing eye before he turned to the trees and considered the circumstance of the young boy. He thought about what Kyle was facing. He thought about what Kyle was wearing; summer sleeves and shorts. He thought about the cold front playing war with what might be the last of the summer’s humidity. He turned to the puddling around the perimeter of the tent and thought about the steady rain.

  The Captain drank down the rest of his coffee. “Few days, we could be seeing some real weather – a hurricane,” he grumbled looking at his empty cup. “I think the boy is in trouble. I think with nearly eight hours already gone, we may have only eighteen to thirty six more before we are doing a body recovery,” he finished glumly.

  “We can’t project … or speculate,” Dale Richards answered back with quick words. “Not yet anyway.”

  The Captain considered this, raising his eye to Dale. “I’m praying we have more time,” he countered as he moved his attention back to the table in front of him.

  The Captain threw the remaining drops of coffee from his cup to the lawn before picking up his thermos. Urgency weighed on his shoulders. But then again, in cases such as this, urgency was expected. Maybe it was the weather or the threat of the hurricane. Or maybe it was the real possibility of his having to give terrible news to a woman who had a lifetime’s share of it already. This last thought pinched at his back. It needled between his shoulders, but he shrugged it off.

  This wasn’t the Captain’s first missing persons find or die effort he was invited to run. There were more than half a dozen between his first and his last. The first two were publicized successes. The best known was his finding little Ginny Roberts. That case put his mug in the national spotlight. A bonafide hero. The remaining searches all ended somewhere on the second and third pages of the newspaper. He found the folks he was looking for. He always found them. But the measure of a successful find can be judged in terms of the living and the dead. These folks were dead. He could still see the images of their bodies. He could still smell their remains. He could still feel the dread as he spoke the words their loved ones didn’t want to hear.

  The Captain held his thermos in his hand staring at the map in front of him. He thought fondly of young Ginny Roberts and grimly of the others. “Don’t take it wrong, but I’ll say it again. I think we’ve got some challenges if we don’t find Kyle by this time tomorrow. Otherwise, we’ll be in recovery mode,” he concluded.

  When Officer Richards said nothing, the Captain looked up, a frown across his eyes, “you asked me what I was thinking, didn’t you?” he questioned sharply as he poured more coffee.

  Officer Richards offered a solemn look, to which the Captain answered back, “you asked me what I was thinking, and I told you,” he said without emotion.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Come over to the map so I can show you what we have,” the Captain finished and directed his eyes to the table in front of him.

  “May I see?” a thin voice asked from the tent’s entrance. Both men turned to see Sara coming into view. The Captain watched as she walked almost in silhouette against a light from her trailer. He watched her step in his direction. Thin and attractive, in a respectful kind of way, he told himself. The Captain didn’t know how much she heard of their conversation. He didn’t know if she heard his concern in finding her boy alive. What was said – was said, he thought and dismissed the regret. He had to.

  “Yes ma’am, of course,” he invited as she stood next to him and waived a hand across the map on the table. The fresh smell of coffee surrounded them as the three moved closer to one another along the table where the efforts of the last hours sat waiting.

  “I have some fresh coffee on. I don’t have enough for everyone since I can only make about eight cups at a time,” Sara disclosed, looking to the Captain’s thermos.

  “Thank you, ma’am. We appreciate the offer. I think we have someone coming in later with enough to accommodate everyone.”

  “This is a map of the Croatan National Forest, and this ‘X’ here is where we are standing,” the Captain said pointing his finger to the table.

  “Our first step is to determine the immediate search area. If your boy entered from here, and with this type of terrain, is able to walk an average of a quarter a mile an hour, then he could be as far as here,” the Captain said moving his finger to another mark on the map. As the Captain spoke the rain quickened. The thumping on the canvas over their heads grew loud. And although the three were under a heavy tent, the raw cold of the breeze carried through them.

  “It’s a calculation of the search area, right?” Sara questioned. The Captain raised an eyebrow and nodded before she continued. “So you’ve been able to figure out how far Kyle could have walked into the woods – in that direction,” she proclaimed.

  “Correct. It helps us narrow the focus of the search … sooner, rather than later,” Officer Richards replied. He moved a small clock from one side of the table to the other. The wind tried to push the corner of the map.

  “And as you can see, as the timeline grows we have a broader search area. But we are still able to retain focus on specifically where to search. That is, where to send our people, instead of just sending them in any direction.”

  Captain Saunders watched as Kyle’s mother took a small step closer to the table. He watched as she took her finger and followed the circles around the areas on the map at eight hours, and then again at sixteen hours, and again at twenty four hours. He wondered if she knew why there were no more circles after thirty six hours, and he begged in his mind that she not ask. He saw her eyes blink away the tears forming.

  “What is in there?” she almost whispered. The question cut the Captain’s attention from the map. He looked at her eyes and wanted to wipe the tears from them. So much pain, he thought, too much pain for one person. He wanted to tell her he was only two for too many in this sick game. He wanted to tell her he didn’t think he was the right person to do this. Not again. Captain Saunders dropped his eyes back to the map and considered saying nothing at all. He even considered resigning the details of running the search effort over to his First Officer. He considered getting back in his truck and leaving the scene of what he thought would be the eventual sadness and tragedy of finding the body of her twelve year old boy.

  The Captain looked back to Sara when he felt her hand on his arm. The warm touch was a welcome feeling in the cold. He forgot about his track record and the smell of the dead bodies. He forgot about the dread he rehearsed in his head when thinking through the words he would tell the families.

  Sara studied the face of the Captain. She lifted her chin to meet his eyes and to ask him what her son was going to be up against. She wanted to know what the Captain knew. All of it. Leave no detail untouched, she thought as she placed her hand on his arm and asked the questions. She listened to what he and Officer Richards had to say about the woods. They told her about the types of trees and the types of animals that lived there. They told her what kinds of berries he could eat and which ones would still be available for him. And if he couldn’t find any berries, they told her what else he could scavenge. She listened as they talked about some of the hiking trails Kyle might find and hopefully follow out. The hope was that he’d find a trail, and then wal
k it to where it would end, always at one of the roads that ran through from one end of the Forest to the other. And they also told her about some of the creeks whose waters were tidal-fed, causing the creeks to disappear for half of every day. For the next hour, Sara listened intently to all the details the two offered about the Croatan National Forest. Looking at the clock on the table, she watched the minute hand sweep around its face, brushing over the tick marks and counting the time that passed. The span of minutes grew from ten to twenty and more and she looked back at the map on the table and imagined the search areas growing that much larger.

  17

  Jacob sat at his desk. A blank stare on his face remained empty, save for the colors from the weather monitors around him. Each played images of the hurricane as he fought the fog that wrestled with his eyes. Each showed him a different map with different perspectives of the same storm. For the moment, he settled his eyes on just one monitor. He ran the tips of his fingers over the glass. A small static charge sounded as he felt the buzz of the screen’s energy play on his skin. The monitor showed him the cycling clouds he could no longer feel. Jacob watched. “Why can’t I see the storm,” he mumbled as he tapped his finger on the glass.

  Hurricane Dani was traveling east to west and now skirting the edges of the Caribbean. The forecast tracks had it landing near Bermuda. Or, it might continue turning west and end up on their doorstep. He sighed with an unfamiliar concern weighing on him.

  He tapped the glass again – he didn’t like being at the mercy of the technology. He didn’t like being the same as everyone else. What an awful thing, he thought, and pushed his finger hard against the screen. Jacob turned and looked around the room at everyone. “What a terrible thing to be so blind,” he mumbled and then glanced back at the monitors before dropping his eyes in an absent stare.