by Ryan Hill
“A Yankee, huh?”
“Sure. Whatever the license says.” Franklin’s fake license included a home address in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t sure of the actual name of his birthplace, since it’d changed names so much over time. Maybe Switzerland or Austria? He couldn’t remember.
Man, he thought. That’s depressing.
The cop gave Franklin back his ID and registration. He tried to open the Mustang’s door. Locked.
“Step out of the car.”
Odd. Cops didn’t usually try to open the door like that. Something didn’t feel right. Franklin hadn’t smoked weed in a while, so it couldn’t be a suspicious smell.
“What’s the problem?”
The cop jutted his chin out. “I don’t like your face. I don’t like Yankees. I think you might have a record of indecent exposure. Pick one. They all give me probable cause. Out of the car.”
Franklin reached for his jacket, hoping to grab the Blade of Hugues de Payens underneath it. He figured he’d get tased, or worse, if John Q. Law saw the weapon.
“Don’t do that.” The cop laid a hand on his service weapon. “Show me your hands and come out slowly.”
Franklin closed his eyes for a moment. He had a healthy respect for police officers. Every day on the job their lives were on the line, even if some of them got a perverse pleasure out of clubbing someone over the head without getting in trouble. That respect was the only thing keeping the cop’s neck from being snapped. Franklin got out of the car, holding his hands up.
The cop pushed Franklin up against the car. He laid his hands on the roof while enduring a rather thorough pat down. He also noticed a hint of scotch on the patrolman’s breath.
Shame, Shame! What would your mother think?
The patrolman spit on the Mustang’s hood. “Hiding anything in the car I should know about?”
Franklin stared at the saliva, imagining a million different ways to kill the cop. Time was ticking, and Franklin’s destination seemed farther and farther away.
The cop poked Franklin in the back. “You deaf?”
“Oh, you know. An engine, seats, radio, the usual.”
“How ‘bout I see for myself, Yankee boy?”
“Just make it fast. I’m running late.”
“Can’t have that, can we?” The patrolman grabbed Franklin’s hand and pushed it into his back. “Why don’t you have a seat in my cruiser while I take a look?”
“I don’t think so.” Franklin laughed. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew his rights were somehow being violated. Great. Nothing like a dirty cop getting in the way.
“What are you hiding in there that you don’t want me to find? Drugs? That why you wanted your jacket so bad?” The patrolman slapped handcuffs on Franklin and then threw him into the back of his cruiser.
“I run cold.”
“I don’t give a God damn.”
The lawman slammed the door on Franklin. He watched the officer walk around the Mustang, peeking inside with his flashlight. The cop opened the door and got in, going straight for the jacket. Franklin knew it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next.
The highway patrolman found the Blade of Hugues de Payens. He pulled it out of the sheath, pressing his finger against the tip, testing the sharpness. It pierced the patrolman’s skin. He jerked his finger back, sucking at the wound. Franklin laughed to himself.
That’s what you get.
Franklin worried the cop would confiscate the knife. Under no circumstances could that happen. He didn’t break half the bones in his body down in the Copper Canyon only to watch a cop steal his prize. No way.
Franklin pulled on his thumb as hard as he could, snapping it out of joint. He winced at the sharp pain. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he broke that thumb to get out of a jam it still stung. The cop walked to the cruiser, blade in hand. Franklin slid the cuffs off. He fumbled around, trying to push his thumb back into place. The grating pain of bone on bones made him grunt, as if setting the thumb hurt more than the actual breaking. The officer sat down in the front seat, dangling the blade in front of Franklin.
“Fancy weapon you got here.” The patrolman gave Franklin an up-close look at the knife’s handiwork. “Sharp too.”
“It’s from the Middle Ages.” Franklin kept his hands out of sight. “I’m a collector.”
“She’s a beaut.” The patrolman held up a bag full of marijuana. “This, on the other hand, is a little bit of a problem. Marijuana may be legal on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon, but it still ain’t legal here.”
Typical. Something was definitely off about the cop, and it wasn’t just the liquor breath.
“Do you really think that’ll stick?” Franklin asked.
“Probably not. But by the time that gets sorted out, the Awakening will have happened. By then, it won’t matter one bit how good a lawyer you got.”
And there it was. Franklin wondered how many more cops were on Mr. Lovell’s payroll. Most cops were too intimidated by El Cid to pull Franklin over, and the ones who did only wanted a closer look at the car.
“Whatever Mr. Lovell is offering you, it’s not enough,” Franklin said.
“I’ll be the judge of that, city boy.”
The cop turned away from Franklin and picked up the CB radio. In one swift motion, Franklin punched through the steel grate separating them and then broke the radio and the patrolman’s hand. The cop’s bones crumpled like paper, as he cried ouch over and over. Franklin let go of the lawman, who held his broken hand close to his chest.
“Damn it,” the cop muttered. “That was my quick draw hand.”
The passenger doors didn’t have handles that opened from the inside.
“You want to let me out, or do I have to do this the old-fashioned way?” Franklin asked.
“I ain’t doin’ shit for you.”
“Have it your way.” Franklin smashed the window opposite the highway and opened the door from the outside. He walked around the car, stopping at the cop, who was still a sobbing mess. Franklin took the Blade of Hugues de Payens back. He smashed the car’s computer and camera with the knife’s heel. Some of the patrolman’s tears landed on his arm.
“Get yourself together and go see a doctor. While you’re at it, get used to masturbating with your other hand for a while.”
“Don’t talk to me,” the policeman spat. “Get the hell out of here before I run over your head so much it pops like a zit.”
“That’s not very nice.” Franklin glanced down at the blade. He stuck the tip in the cop’s cheek and flicked it, leaving a small gash on his face. “You’re lucky I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
The cop’s cheek bled as he shouted every insult known to man at Franklin, who walked to El Cid. He’d hoped that cut would’ve cut the man down a peg or two, but the filth coming out of his mouth said otherwise. Oh, well. Franklin didn’t have time to teach the patrolman the finer points of etiquette.
Six shots rang out, like a muffler popping over the sound of passing cars. Four tore into his back, one whizzed by his ear, and the last hit the Mustang’s trunk. Being shot hurt, but Franklin didn’t care. Those wounds would heal soon enough. Seeing El Cid take a bullet, on the other hand… that punctured Franklin’s soul. His baby didn’t deserve something like that.
Franklin ran a finger around the car’s bullet hole. Bits of red paint flaked off. Those flakes felt like El Cid herself was bleeding. Why hadn’t he disarmed the cop? Stupid oversight. Time crunch or not, Franklin knew better than that. He scowled at the cop, whose eyes went back and forth from the gun to Franklin.
“How?” The patrolman’s hand shook, making the smoke from the gun’s barrel rise in a zig-zag fashion.
With three long strides, Franklin was at the cop, fingers wrapped around his throat. All he had to do was squeeze, and that neck would snap like a piece of celery.
“Never mess with another man’s car. Especially a classic.” Franklin’s grip tightened. “Asshole.”
“You son of a bitch,” the officer said in between coughs.
Franklin smirked. He admired the cop for having the guts to mouth off. Franklin picked up the gun and broke it into pieces, tossing them in the woods. “See a doctor about that hand.”
Inside El Cid, Franklin turned the engine on and checked the dashboard’s clock. He merged the car onto the highway, cursing the fates. He’d fallen too far behind to prevent step one of the Awakening.
CHAPTER THREE
To Be or Not to Be
Mr. Lovell waited by a Chrysler outside of City Hall. Even in a Podunk town like Mooresville, City Hall was a three-story mockery of a building that doubled as a courthouse. He wondered if Mayor Benchley was putting off their meeting.
So what if he is? That fat pig knows we can find him.
It was the part of the Awakening Mr. Lovell hated. The glad-handing. The promise making. Speaking with a coward like Benchley, who had no vision beyond his own personal fortune, bored Mr. Lovell. In the old days, people waited for him to arrive, not the other way around. Times had changed, and for the worse.
Don’t be so glum. Their cowardice will make their deaths so much more rewarding.
“Easy for you to say,” Mr. Lovell said out loud. “You don’t have to speak with them.”
I experience everything you do, my friend. Ever since you took me in.
“Then you know I hate it. We could destroy this place with the flick of a finger.”
In this day and age, we need the citizens’ help more than ever.
“Agreed, master,” Mr. Lovell said.
The longer we keep the Awakening a secret from the world, the more easily we will crush them. Besides, this ruse won’t go on for much longer. Percy and his Rastafarian friend are on the way with my body parts, and once they’re reunited with my head in the Awakening, you’ll never have to do this again.
Mayor Benchley emerged from City Hall. A football player in his earlier years, he went down the steps one at a time, holding a rail to support his bad knees. Mr. Lovell laughed at the irony. A leader needed to be strong, yet Mooresville elected a broken man to a position of power.
“I remember when the leader of men was whomever swung the biggest sword,” Mr. Lovell said.
Now, it’s whomever pushes the biggest button. Oh, what fun we are going to have once I have my body back.
“So long as Franklin doesn’t get in the way.”
He came close in the Copper Mountain, but he’s never been—
“Apologies for making you wait,” Mayor Benchley interrupted. “But everything is set up for the evacuation.”
See? These cretins can be useful. Say something nice to the man.
“Excellent. You and the others have done a masterful job,” Mr. Lovell said.
“There will be a few stragglers who want to ride out the storm, but I’m sure they won’t be any problem for you.” Mayor Benchley laughed.
Mr. Lovell didn’t react. He waited for Benchley’s laughter to die out into an awkward silence. “No, they won’t be a problem. Our… goblins will make chum out of them.”
Laugh, Mr. Lovell. Let’s not scare the mayor too much.
Mr. Lovell forced out a soft laugh. Benchley wasn’t sure if he should join in. Mr. Lovell lightly smacked Benchley on the shoulder. The mayor’s sour face broke into a grin.
“You’re a slickster, sir,” Benchley said. “I like it.”
“Then you’ll love Trenton Maroney.”
Yes, he will. They all will. Can’t wait to meet them in person.
Trenton laughed. Most of the time, his head went unnoticed in Mr. Lovell’s stomach. Something about laughter always tickled Trenton’s host body. He never could figure out why.
Bailey had no idea where to go. His home, the place that should be safest, was now the most dangerous. He thought about spending the night on the beach. But what if somebody spotted him, or the tide carried him away because he slept in the wrong spot? Sleeping outside, period, didn’t appeal to him. Parking his car in a field and spending the night seemed viable, but he wasn’t sure. Anxiety crept into his hand. He clenched it into a fist and released, trying to keep the anxiety at bay. Making a fist didn’t do much for the conversion disorder, but it made Bailey feel like he was doing something about the anxiety, and that did help. He needed to make a decision. The shot of vodka at Marshall’s helped a little, but it’d worn off a while ago. He normally had some Xanax in the glove compartment, but it ran out last week and he forgot to get it refilled.
He needed to talk things out with someone, help untangle the mess of thoughts in his head. One person was best at that, but there was a catch. Alexis was Tim’s twin, and if he’d spoken to her first, Bailey would be up shit creek. Without realizing it, he’d driven to Alexis’s house, parking around the corner to be safe. The house was only a couple blocks from the beach, and as Bailey got out of the car, he stood still for a moment, listening to the waves crash in the distance. They were like a faint whisper in the air, giving him a sense of peace. He took a deep breath, taking the salty air into his lungs, and walked to her house. It was the only safe place that came to mind, aside from those places that had the yellow Safe Place signs, but those were more for at-risk youth in the criminal sense. Not the scary monster kind of way.
Despite it being nine o’clock, Bailey knew Alexis would be home. She didn’t like to party, preferring to stay in rather than go out. She used to party, back when doctors diagnosed her with leukemia a couple of years ago. The odds of her surviving were really good, but the idea of death flipped a switch in her head. Alexis inhaled weed like it was oxygen and slept with a number of guys before starting chemotherapy, which made it impossible to do anything but throw up. She did stick with the marijuana at the time, something her parents were none too pleased about when they found out. Once the cancer went into remission, it was like the switch turned back off, and she returned to being a typical high school girl, like the whole sex and drugs thing was merely a phase.
Those days, a typical Friday night for Alexis involved watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies, catching up on episodes of Supernatural, or reading a book. Her status as a fan girl, and her post-party animal tendency to devour amazing but ridiculous stories, made Bailey think she’d be the only one who could possibly believe his story. Who knew? Maybe she’d take pity and help him.
In the back of his mind, Marshall teased Bailey for going to Alexis, instead of trying to handle things on his own. Dude, you are so crushing on Alexis. You know this is Tim’s sister, right? You’re so lame.
The voice was in Bailey’s head, but he still answered it verbally. “You try dealing with that monster on your own.”
Bailey checked to see if the light in her room was on. He wanted to avoid her parents, but with her room on the second floor, unless he learned how to parkour up to her window in the next few minutes, that wasn’t happening. On top of that, Bailey didn’t see how appearing at her window could come across as anything but stalkerish, or vampire-like. Alexis would ask how he got up there and then force him to touch a crucifix before even thinking about inviting him in. Bailey laughed to himself. After everything else that’d happened, getting mistaken for a vampire and staked in the heart would be the icing on the cake.
He pulled out his phone and called. It felt too important to put in a text message.
“Hey,” she said. “Already tired of boys’ night?”
“You could say that.” He leaned against a streetlamp. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m kind of outside your house.”
“Kind of? That could mean anything. Maybe you’re down at the beach or a mile away. I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to be more specif
ic.”
A smile escaped his lips. Her perky voice put him at ease. “Okay, fine. I am outside your house. Not at the beach, not in Florida, but literally in plain view of your place of residence. Can I please come in? It’s important.”
“If you’re bailing out on date night with the boys, it must be pretty important.”
“It is.”
“Better be. I’m in the middle of watching Prisoner of Azkaban, and I don’t take kindly to people getting between me and Mr. Potter.”
A car passed by, freaking Bailey out. Had they already found him? “If you’re not satisfied, you can kick me as hard as you can. Just please let me in.”
“Who am I to say no to a boy begging to see me? I’ll be down in a minute.”
Bailey rushed onto the porch, away from the streetlights that made him easier to spot. He sat in a rocking chair on her deck, rolling back and forth in the dark, until Alexis appeared. She peeked her head around the door, looking secretive.
“Is it safe?”
“Is what safe?”
“Never mind. It’s from some movie Dad made me watch with him.”
Bailey followed Alexis inside. Her brown hair hung halfway between her shoulders and her ears. It used to be longer, but after losing it all in chemo, she preferred the low-maintenance of shorter hair. Bailey always marveled at how comfortable Alexis seemed in her own skin, like she’d skipped the awkward phase everyone else suffered through. She wore white shorts that showed off her mannequin-like legs. They used to be toned from years of playing soccer, but the whole cancer thing kept her from being active. Her oversized Blackbeard T-shirt helped hide her thin arms, the byproduct of leukemia and playing a sport that had no use for them.
Her parents sat on the couch, watching one of those news shows on cable that featured two talking heads babbling about their own political agenda. Bailey tensed, but they didn’t make any moves. His fear lessened. He didn’t remember seeing them at the party either. Maybe this was a safe place.