The Walls of Orion

by T. D. Fox

  Feeling a little off balance at his sudden aloofness, she pulled out her own phone. She should be saving her battery, but what else was there to do? If she didn’t distract herself, she’d be itching to break the silence and probably end up feeling foolish. She rolled the conversation back over in her head, looking for any way she might have offended him. Nothing jumped out at her. Come to think of it, the only reason he’d interacted with her in the first place was to bandage her mangled hand. Now that he’d made sure she wasn’t going to bleed out on the floor, he’d gone back to ignoring her like he had all week.

  Why? What had changed? Ever since that morning in the alleyway, he had been creating distance. No longer did he waltz into the café and break all social rules to start up a conversation with her behind the counter. He didn’t stay until closing anymore, and didn’t meet her eyes unless she spoke to him first. She couldn’t understand it. Originally, his attention had been startling, uncomfortable even. But lately she’d found herself... missing it.

  She thumbed through her phone for something to do, and found several messages from Dina. Her friend wanted to know where she was, if she was okay. Courtney shot her a quick text.

  The phone buzzed in her hand. At first she thought it was Dina replying, but it kept trilling and an unwelcome picture filled the screen.

  If I ignore it he’ll just call again.

  She steadied her breathing and lifted the phone to her ear. “Dad?”

  “Hey, kiddo. Just calling to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where are you? Are you at work? Did you get snowed in?”

  “Yeah, I’m snowed in. But I’m fine.”

  “Is anyone there with you?”

  Courtney looked at W. “No.”

  “You’re at the café, right? Hang on, I’ll come get you.”

  “You’ll never make it through the streets, Dad. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you there by yourself. People do crazy things when the city shuts down like this. Mikey said he heard looters down the block.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think anyone’s going to loot a coffee shop. There’s less than one-fifty in the cash register.”

  “I’ve got chains on the Volkswagen, I can—”

  “Show Mikey how to use the wood stove, and the two of you can make a boys’ night of it. Roast something you find in the fridge. I’ve got to go.”

  “Courtney, I—”

  She hung up. Planting her face in her hands, she rubbed at the skin around her eyes. For a long moment, she kept them there, pressed to the backs of her eyelids. Little green fireworks blossomed in her vision.

  It was so silent in the empty café, she really could pretend she was alone. Maybe that would be easier. She’d curl up on this semi-cushioned bench and sleep until the storm blew itself out.

  A glass-rattling wail shook the storefront and she jumped. It took her several seconds to realize it was just the wind. She dropped her hands from her eyes and stared into the darkness outside.

  “Scared?”

  W’s soft voice almost made her jump again. She looked up to see him watching her over the edge of his files.

  “No,” she said in a voice she doubted would convince anybody.

  He returned his gaze to his papers, and she squirmed in the silence. It felt even more uncomfortable now that he’d broken it.

  “I hate windy nights,” she confessed.

  “You sure picked the wrong state to live in.”

  “Well, it’s not like I could ever leave. Quarantine happened when I was eleven.”

  W made a noncommittal noise, and she found herself studying the lines of his face. Where had he been that awful day? No doubt he was old enough to remember the wind, the screams, the streets running slick with rain and blood. It was hard to tell from his features exactly how old he was. The sharp, angular edges looked harsher in the slanted light, the faintest lines deepened in shadow. He couldn’t be much older than she. But there was a darkness behind his eyes, a certain lack of light that made him look far older. They held a worldliness; those were eyes that had seen many, many things. And yet, his boyish grin would appear out of nowhere, throwing her off again. His whole appearance was a contradiction.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Windy nights. What is it about them that’s so... hateful?”

  She shifted in her seat, fingers itching for something to fidget with. She started picking at the edge of her bandage again. “They just bring back bad memories, I guess.”

  Deliberately, W set down his papers and folded his fingers. He rested his chin on the backs of his knuckles. “Yeah?”

  She hesitated. Part of her was delighted to have his attention again, while another part was inexplicably terrified. But a third part of herself, one she’d thought she buried long ago, ached to unburden the truth to another human being.

  “You remember the week before Quarantine, right?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “All those storms,” she said. “The wind and the thunder. I was eleven, so I tried to be big and tough and brave. But I could never sleep without crawling into bed with my Mom.”

  W said nothing. Those gray eyes watched her, curious.

  “The Changers were all over the news back then. I could hear them in the streets—at least, what I thought was them. This was before that organization formed, the one that started sweeping them all off to some secret lab or whatever. Back when it was all so new and scary. I could never tell if it was wind or someone screaming outside in the dark.”

  The corner of W’s mouth twisted. “The good old days. Now no one bats an eye.”

  She nodded. “Half the city doesn’t believe it’s really happening.” Picking at her bandage, Courtney dropped her gaze from his, trying to collect her breath. “The night before Quarantine began, the wind was louder than it had ever been. There were screams in it. Real ones, not my imagination. I remember climbing out of bed and running down the hall to knock on my Mom’s door. Nobody opened it for a long time. When my Dad finally did, he looked at me like he didn’t know who I was. He had a bottle in his hand. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like that. He told me to go back to bed. Then he shut the door in my face.”

  Her voice shook. W watched her without expression.

  “I curled up alone in my room, put my hands over my ears, cried for my Mom. I heard noises out in the street that give me nightmares to this day. I called for her till I was hoarse. But she never came. Actually, I never saw her again. The next night, they imposed Quarantine, and anybody who’d left the city was stuck on the Outside for good.”

  W whistled slowly, and lowered his hands. “That’s some tale.”

  “Yeah.” She forced herself to stop picking at her bandage. It was coming undone. “Anyway, I hate windy nights.”

  Her phone vibrated on the table, drawing both of their eyes to the screen. She swiped it to voicemail.

  “Still stings, I see,” W noted. Courtney flushed when she realized he’d seen the caller ID.

  “It’s a lot more than that. He forgot how to be a father after that night. I think it only just got through his thick head how badly he failed with me, so he’s trying to make up for it with my brother. Going overboard on all the Dad stuff. He’s even trying to make it up to me, too, this late in the game.” She heaved a dry laugh, but it fell flat between them. “Would it fit your definition of crazy to admit I hate him for doing now what I always wanted then?” She gripped her phone hard. “Or maybe it’s crazier that as much as I want to hate him, I don’t, even when I’d punch him for thinking he can start over from scratch.”

  “Crazy is as crazy does.” W hummed. “My old man was a piece of work himself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, the worst. I think I’d have preferred it if he’d fancied the drink. As it was, I’ve got nothing to blame his sins on.”

  She wanted to hear more, b
ut she didn’t want to pry. She’d never heard W talk about himself before. Come to think of it, she really didn’t know anything about him. She didn’t even know his real name.

  Something of her curiosity must’ve shown on her face, because his mouth quirked again. “My story’s not nearly so interesting as yours.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “There’s not much to tell. Pops kicked the bucket when I was young. My mama’s still around, I look out for her where she can’t for herself. No siblings.” The quick, light energy behind his voice dimmed, then recovered so swiftly she might’ve imagined the pause. “You got a kid brother, though?”

  “Yeah. Mikey—Michael. Eleven.” Courtney smiled even as she spoke of him. W caught it.

  “Sounds like you’re a good big sister. You look out for him around your Dad, huh?”

  “My Dad’s... better with him. I may not like it, but at the same time I’m glad. Every kid needs a father. I didn’t get one, but Michael just might.”

  “Fathers are overrated.” W reached across the table and picked up his cup of coffee. She was surprised he still had it. It must’ve long gone cold.

  As she watched, he wrinkled his nose, and grabbed the makeshift first aid kit lying by the papers. He tipped out three packets of sugar, ripped them open, and upended them over the drink. Courtney laughed.

  “You keep those in your first aid kit?” She shook her head. “That can’t taste good.”

  He took another sip, nodded his approval, and pushed the cup across the table toward her. “You tell me.”

  She raised an eyebrow, a silent are you serious? When it appeared he was, she picked up the coffee and took a careful sip. It took all her self-control not to spit it right back out.

  “That is diabetes in a cup,” she choked out. He chuckled and took the coffee back. “How do you drink that?”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “Most people want to acquire a taste for sugar-free stuff.”

  “Hey, you mix your drinks, I’ll mix mine.”

  “I do mix your drinks.”

  He grinned. There it went again—the youthful expression transformed his face, making his age impossible to discern. His eyes crinkled up at the corners. This smile was real, unlike many of his other ones.

  “Your mom lives in the city, then?” she asked.

  He licked his lips and looked away. “Yeah.”

  “Do you live with her?”

  “Do I look like a guy who lives with my mom?”

  “I don’t know.” She couldn’t tell if he was offended or not. “You said you take care of her sometimes.”

  “Sometimes. I drop in on occasion. She’s a big girl, but she gets lonely once in a while.”

  Courtney looked at him and tried to imagine a Mama’s boy. It was difficult—really, it was hard to imagine him in any setting but the coffee shop. He didn’t seem like a guy who fit in anywhere.

  “That’s sweet,” she said. “You must care about her very much.”

  W cleared his throat and downed the rest of his coffee. Sliding it away, he leaned back and stretched his hands behind his head.

  “Tell me about you,” he said. “You want to be a nurse, but you hate the sight of blood. You must be an altruist. Helping people gets you out of bed in the morning.”

  She winced. “It used to. Now, I’m just paying the bills.”

  “Paying the bills to go back to school to help people.”

  “Not really.” She hesitated. “Actually, I don’t know if I’m going back. Back then, I thought I could overcome a lot of things. My fear of blood. This... messed-up city. I thought I could make a tiny dent, but I hadn’t even put a scratch in my squeamishness by the time I had to drop out.”

  She expected him to laugh at her. Instead, his pale eyes ticked soberly over her face. “And now?”

  “Now? I’m still squeamish, you saw for yourself.”

  “Have you made a tiny dent in anything?”

  Her spine tightened. “I’m too small to make dents. Most everybody in this city is.” Voice falling, she lowered her eyes too. “I’m not naïve anymore.”

  There came the chuckle she’d expected earlier, oddly timed. “Aren’t you?”

  She frowned, unsure whether to be offended. “How?”

  “Thinking that by living like you’re small, surviving with your head down, things might not get better, but at least they can’t get any worse. Not for you, right?” With every word he spoke, her blood thumped hotter. “You resigned yourself to this hellhole. But did you stop to think you’re resigning the rest of the city too? By telling yourself you’re small?”

  Now she bristled. “I learned how small I am, the hard way. I’m a realist.”

  “No, you’re shell-shocked. Just like the rest of these poor fools.” W softened the edge off his smile. “I doubt Margo thought you were small the other morning, when you gave her the coat off your back.”

  Caught off guard by the gentling of his voice, Courtney fired off, “That was a spur of the moment decision.”

  “Well, tossing that pebble made bigger ripples than you thought.” Those eyes, so light even in shadow, held hers. “You’re only as small as the person you see in the mirror. One day, if you’re wily enough, you might make that person change shape.”

  The wind shook the windowpanes again. Jumping a little, the defensive spark on her tongue evaporated as she glanced again into the darkness. A shiver pulled her legs up to her chest—an awkward feat on the small bench—and she found herself hugging her knees. The heat had started its low leak out of the building. She didn’t know how much time had passed since the lights went out, but she didn’t think she could sit here talking to W the whole night long. Especially if he kept pushing the boundaries of safe conversation topics.

  She was wrong.

  The night wore on. The storm raged as fiercely as it had when the power first went out, and she and W sat in the darkness, laughing and jumping from topic to bizarre topic. She had never had a conversation like this with another normal person. But she enjoyed it. Perhaps she wasn’t normal either.

  They talked politics. W had some interesting views. They talked about the happenings in the world outside, whatever had filtered through the media. W had some interesting views. They talked about the stories in the news. W had some interesting views. He had interesting views about everything, it seemed. Courtney found herself leaning forward with her chin on her hands, mesmerized by the strange ideas that rolled off his tongue, the movement of his hands, the foreign sparkle behind his eyes.

  “The little guy is priceless,” he was saying, referring to the talk of the town: the vigilante who transformed himself into a giant crime fighter, the Orion Giant. His unique Change set him a notch above every other vigilante. He had no beastlike form. He was pure, colossal human. Courtney didn’t know why W called him a little guy. “He’s got the fuzz chasing their tails all over Orion.”

  Courtney shook her head. “A person can’t just take the law into their own hands.”

  “No? The media’s eating it up. They’re calling him a superhero.”

  “Half the newspapers are. The other half are calling him a giant. A monster, a freak of nature.”

  “Yeah,” said W. “And they called Superman a bird and a plane.”

  “A hero doesn’t go around beating up criminals in alleyways and leaving them black and blue for the cops to find.”

  “What does a hero do?”

  “He’d... do the right thing within the boundaries of the law. He’d become a police officer or something.”

  “Because the police do so much good in this town.”

  She couldn’t argue with his sarcasm. “You almost sound like a fan.”

  “What if I am? Could there ever be cause for a good vigilante?”

  “We can’t just decide to be above the law. There’s a right and a wrong, and we don’t get to pick and choose for ourselves—”

  “But say your moral black-and-white
was compromised. What if the police precinct looked a whole lot more gray? Like now. With the Quarantine, the OCPD can’t call in reinforcements. This city hangs in a delicate balance, and they know it won’t take much for control to tip out of their hands into say... the hands of the mob. You remember the Torch, right?”

  “Who doesn’t? He almost blew up City Hall.”

  “Do you remember how they finally caught him?”

  “OCPD cornered him in the abandoned warehouse on Fifth.”

  “Ah, but guess who brought him there?” He waited, as if he wanted her to guess.

  “Who?”

  “Emilio Valentini.”

  “The gangster? No, the police don’t work with the mob.”

  “They do when they have a common interest. And that’s quite often, actually. The Torch was lighting too many fires under too many important chairs—literally. Valentini and the OCPD have an agreement. He turns over a certain number of undesirables, nobody too important to his own industry, but enough to make the police look like they’re cleaning up the city—and the fuzz leave him alone.”

  “That’s not true.”

  W shrugged. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. The point is, if you can’t rely on the Joes and Janes behind the badge, where do you turn for some honest justice?”

  He had a knack for turning her mind in the most uncomfortable directions. “I wouldn’t call beating up muggers in an alley honest justice.”

  “No. But they say he’s moving up the food chain. Learning who the big fish are, going after them one by one. Pissing off sharks like Valentini. Poor kid’s bitten off more than he can chew.”

  “That’s still not honest justice. What happens when someone takes him out? If he were police, he’d have people to back him up, stand up behind him and take his place if need be. Who’s going to stand up for the vigilante’s cause if he fails? He’s not honest. Someone who hides behind a mask must have something to hide. “

  “Sometimes you need a mask to tell the truth.”

  “The truth of what?”

  His pale eyes seemed to burn in the shadows. “That one man can make a difference.”

  The words caught her in the chest. Stuck her there, making it hard to exhale. She felt them needle deep inside to pull up something long buried, an old emaciated thing barely more than dry bones now.