The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  Copyright © 2017 Christopher Salch

  All rights reserved.

  Special thanks to Silvia of Silvia's Reading Corner, Dylan Divine, Chase, and Ethan Cooper for all of their assistance in completing this work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  T- 17 Years - Patron

  The grave was almost finished. Ed preferred digging with good, old-fashioned elbow grease and a shovel to a backhoe any day. He'd never quite gotten the hang of working one and there wasn't enough business at Green Fields Cemetery to warrant such a mechanical monster anyhow. There was something about digging into the earth that made him feel at peace with himself and the world. The rhythmic push-lift-toss that constituted the act of shoveling emptied his mind of all the troubles that plagued him. At least, it would have if someone hadn't been watching him.

  "You can come out," Ed called without looking. "I know you're there, and you're getting on my nerves."

  "I see that your reputation is well deserved," answered the intruder, stepping out from behind a tree. "You noticed me much sooner than I had expected."

  Ed glanced over his shoulder at the stranger's polished white shoes and spotless white suit with disgust. With clothes like that, there was no way the man had ever done a day of honest work in his life.

  "What do you want?" asked Ed.

  "I have a job for you."

  "Don't know what you've heard or been told. All I do is dig graves and fill them."

  "My needs are related to the latter," said the man.

  Ed leaned his shovel against the side of the grave and turned to face the man. Where Ed was standing, the surface of the ground was just short of his shoulders. He had just enough room to put his hands on either side of the hole and climb the rest of the way out. Rich, brown dirt covered him from head to toe.

  The stranger backed away to give Ed's massive frame room. He had to look up to meet the giant man's eyes.

  "My services don't come cheap," said Ed, sizing up his customer.

  "Money is not an issue."

  "I cannot be called off," said Ed. "Once you say yes, I do what I do until the end."

  "Leniency is not an option," responded the stranger.

  Ed held his gaze without blinking. Neither man backed down.

  "One million, half now and half after," stated Ed without breaking eye contact. "I deal in cash, old bills, or gold. Nothing else."

  "That will be difficult, but can be arranged."

  "I need a picture and something the target owned. It has to be recent—within the last few weeks. Scent don't last longer than that."

  "Will a lock of hair do?"

  "Even better."

  "You will have the money and items requested by tomorrow."

  "One more thing," added Ed, dropping back into the grave.

  "Yes?"

  "Don't get in my way," he growled and drove the shovel savagely into the ground.

  "I have a file for you to take a look at Mr. Tekcop," said Paige. She had a way of intoning words that sucked any sense of emotion or life from them. The effect made her sound more robotic than flesh and blood human.

  "Thank you, Paige. What would be my interest in this file?" asked Janus, accepting the proffered folder. It was exceptionally thin in comparison to what he was used to seeing. Only a few scant pages of biographical data and a truncated family history to describe a twenty-year-old woman by the name of Anne Currie.

  "She shows all the classic indicators of being on the verge: paranoia, ridiculed by former peers, reclusive tendencies," stated Paige. "If the progression continues at its current rate, I estimate that she will reach a crisis point within a year."

  "A year? That's not much time! Has anyone else shown an interest in this remarkable young woman?"

  "There are several groups watching her but none have made a move, yet," answered Paige.

  "Recommendation?"

  "Acquisition."

  "Really? You wrote here that she is of little skill and minimal threat," responded Janus incredulously.

  "At present, that is correct. The key phrase being 'at present.' Analysis would indicate that she is developing her abilities and does not fully understand their scope. While there is little immediate danger, she will become a highly valued prize with limited self-defense capabilities. If she is left on her own, less scrupulous entities will attempt to acquire her for their own purposes."

  "I see," said Janus. "Alright, bring her in! I would like to talk with her. Let's see what she can do!"

  "As you wish, sir," said Paige, curtsying. Janus didn't notice her faint smirk as she turned to leave.

  "And, Paige?"

  "Yes sir?" she said, pausing in the doorway.

  "Please make sure there is a photo in the file next time. I much prefer to know who I'm talking to before I meet them."

  "Understood sir."

  Paige knocked on the tiny apartment's door and waited for a response. The building where Anne lived was in dire need of repair. Much of the original wallpaper had been torn away, leaving bare wooden slats exposed. Converted gas-light fixtures held weak, incandescent lamps, with about every third bulb burnt out. If not for her present assignment, Paige would have avoided the neighborhood and building altogether.

  A tiny German roach emerged from a crack in the baseboard and scurried toward her foot. Paige glanced down at the minuscule creature with distaste before crushing it under her black, patent-leather pump. Its innards marred the immaculate surface of her shoe.

  Paige frowned, adjusting her matte-black, wire frame glasses as she knelt down. She retrieved a small, grey kerchief from the inside pocket of her slightly darker grey jacket and wiped the offending substance from the shoe. One glance down the hall, looking for a non-existent trash can, deepened her frown even further. She balled the soiled kerchief up in her well manicured hand and stuffed it back inside her jacket. A quick swipe down her charcoal-grey skirt as she stood, and minor readjustment of its knee-length hem, served to quell her annoyance—if only slightly.

  "Hey there, pretty lady!" called a man down the hallway.

  Paige turned toward the voice, looking him up and down as if she was examining a piece of meat, before turning back to the door. She wasn't there to take out the local garbage.

  "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

  Paige ignored him and knocked on the door again—a touch harder this time. She could hear someone moving around inside the apartment, but no one came to the door.

  "You best pay attention when I'ma talking to you, pretty lady. I don't take kindly to bein' ignored," said the man, as he stomped down the hallway toward her.

  Paige knocked a third time—not changing her stance or attitude in the least.

  "I said, I don't take kindly to bein' ignored," the man yelled inches from her ear. He had to lean in low to bring his mouth close enough for his satisfaction.

  With a sigh, she drew out a fresh kerchief and wiped spittle from her face.

  "You are as lacking in intelligence as you are of physical prowess. I have been attempting, apparently unsuccessfully, to indicate that I have no intention of making your acquaintance. Leave me alone," said Paige in even tones.

  The man stood up and stared at her incredulously.

  "You need yo' eyes checked, pretty little lady," he said.

  She raised her arm to knock a fourth time only to have the man engulf her wrist with his enormous hand. Paige sighed again and shook her head.

  "I will warn you once more and only once. Remove your hand, or I will," she said, her voice completely flat—no emotion, no fear, no anger, nothing.

  He didn't get it.

  Paige dropped—bre
aking her wrist free and snapping the man's thumb at the same time. The point of her elbow jammed hard into his groin, causing him to double over around her slight figure. Coiled muscle sent her extended knuckles into the soft hollow under his jaw like an iron bar—standing him straight up and lifting his hulk-like frame several inches off the floor. A silver knife flashed in her hand as she dropped, slitting his clothing perfectly along the centerline of his body without leaving a scratch.

  For just a moment, the man stayed standing, a small trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Then he fell backwards with a thud that shook the walls. Paige glanced around, making sure there was no structural damage to the building. Satisfied, she knocked again.

  "Just a minute!" answered a woman's faint voice. There was more noise from the apartment and then clicks as a copious number of locks were released. The door opened about two inches—catching as the locking-chain pulled taut—just far enough for Paige to catch a glimpse of the occupant's fiery red hair.

  "Hello? What can I do for you?" asked Anne through the crack.

  "My name is Paige Hastings, and I am Janus Tekcop's personal assistant. If you have the time to talk, I have an offer of employment that might interest you," she said.

  "I don't know anyone named Tekcop."

  "Mr. Tekcop does his best to maintain a low profile. Would you mind if I came in?"

  Anne thought for a second and closed the door. A moment later, Paige heard the chain sliding free and Anne opened the door fully. "You'd better be on the up and…"

  Anne's voice choked in her throat when she noticed her neighbor unconscious on the floor. A small matchbox appeared in her hands as if out of nowhere. She had a match out and pressed against the striking surface, which was aimed like a gun at the center of Paige's chest.

  "What did you do to Marco?"

  "Is that his name? I didn't ask. He wouldn't take a hint so I had to resort to a simpler form of communication. His injuries, while not insignificant, are neither life threatening nor, sadly, will he be permanently maimed," stated Paige. "Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have provided a longer lasting impression to remind him not to make unwanted advances on a lady. If he is still here when our business is done, I will inform the local authorities and allow them to deal with him."

  Anne stared at Paige, the matchbox never wavering from its position.

  "You're my kind of girl, Paige," said Anne, smiling. The matchbox disappeared into a pocket, and she stepped to the side of the door. "Come on in, let's talk."

  The apartment was tiny and significantly better kept than the hallway. The wallpaper that covered the rest of the building had been stripped away and replaced with a smooth coat of off-white paint, still in pristine condition. A converted gas-light fixture high on one wall provided most of the room's light. Several floor lamps with large glass globes spread about the room added a bit of supplemental illumination. Instead of threadbare carpet, the hardwood underneath had been cleaned and polished to a reasonable gloss. Overall, it felt strangely warm and cozy in comparison to the decrepit nature of the other parts of the building.

  One lamp in particular caught Paige's eye—the light it gave off was way too bright for anything in a fixture of its size. It didn't seem to have a cord or any visible means of connecting to a wall outlet or external source of power. Even stranger, its base was ringed with a series of outlets where the other lamps in the room were plugged in.

  "Is this an example of your work?" Paige asked indicating her find.

  "That? That's nothing special. I set it up when I moved in to keep the electric bills down. It provides light and heat depending on how I have it tuned," said Anne. "With that thing running, my biggest problem is keeping cool in the winter!"

  "Impressive. What is the power source?"

  "A small reactor—well, I call it a reactor—that I designed. There's enough fuel in that one to keep it going for another two years," said Anne, staring at the device. She cocked her head sideways, frowning.

  "You've verified that?" asked Paige.

  Anne nodded and tapped the single slider along that lamp's supporting shaft. There was a slight shift in the intensity of the light coming from the globe at the top. Anne smiled, watching it for a moment longer before turning her attention back to Paige. "That's better."

  "Quite impressive," said Paige, continuing her survey of the apartment. The living area couldn't have been much larger than ten feet square. Other than a heavy looking wooden wardrobe next to the door, a ragged loveseat, and a well worn coffee table there wasn't much else of interest. Paige sniffed at the air; it smelled clean, almost sterile. "There are no candles here, and you don't appear to smoke What do you use the matches for?"

  "Matches?" asked Anne, confused for a moment. "Oh those! That's what I use to ward off the riffraff."

  "Intriguing. May I ask how they work?"

  "Well, you can ask. I can't really explain it to you," responded Anne. "They shouldn't work the way they do, but… it's something in the way I paint on the phosphorus fuel, I think. I don't quite understand yet myself. I just lucked into it the first time. Would you like a demonstration?"

  "Please."

  She took out the matchbox again, pulled out a match, and held it up for Paige to see. It looked like any regular match except that the phosphorous bulb at the end was a touch larger and sea foam green in color. Nothing remarkable to look at. Anne opened the apartment's one tiny window and stood facing it with the match in hand. There was a good bit of charring around the window frame and a distinct brownish grey smudge on the building across the alley, a good twenty feet out.

  "Stand back a bit," warned Anne.

  Paige took a step back, keeping her face carefully neutral. She'd done her research well enough to have a reasonable idea of what might happen, but there was nothing like practical experience to set the record straight.

  "Alright! Ready to see some fireworks?" Anne asked.

  "Please."

  Anne struck the match. It sparked and let off a tiny, mushroom shaped burst of smoke before sputtering out. Paige peaked one eyebrow, but said nothing as Anne stood frozen with the smoldering match in her outstretched hand carefully pointed outside. A mental ten count later Paige opened her mouth to say something.

  "Not yet," snapped Anne. "Won't be safe until it stops smoldering."

  After several more seconds of nothing, Anne shrugged and tossed the match out the window.

  "Guess it was a dud," she said. A gout of flames shot past the window, igniting the cheap curtains hanging on either side and eclipsing what little view there was. Enough heat poured through the opening to singe Anne's hair six feet away and crack the window's glass.

  "Okay, guess it wasn't a dud," said Anne. She ran over to the window and looked down four stories to the ground. No one was around, but one of the dumpsters in the alleyway was smoldering and would need a fresh coat of paint. "Phew!"

  She turned the box over in her hand, cursed, and showed the scribblings on the bottom to Paige. It read: Forty-five second time delay, why?

  "I was working with different variations of the formula and happened on this mixture," stated Anne. "Still not quite sure what they're good for. The time delay makes them dangerous to use for anything practical. I must have mixed up my defense matches with this set by accident. Sorry about that."

  "Your apology is unnecessary," replied Paige in her distinctly flat manner. "Thank you for the demonstration."

  "You're welcome."

  "My employer would like to offer you a permanent position on his research staff," continued Paige. "There are some conditions that accompany the offer, but Mr. Tekcop is much better equipped to explain them than I am. Shall I set your appointment to speak with him for eight a.m. sharp, tomorrow?"

  "Whoa! I don't know you or this Mr. Tekcop," said Anne. "What makes you think I'm interested?"

  Paige produced a thin slip of paper with a number, several zeros, and a decimal point.

  "I am autho
rized to give you this as a retainer for tomorrow's meeting," she said. "Will it be sufficient to cover your time?"

  Anne stared at the check and looked back at Paige. She noticed Paige's immaculate clothing for the first time, and her eyes widened in surprise.

  "I'll be there!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  T+ 24 Hours - A Tale to Tell

  "Have you come to gloat?" she asked. "Come to watch me wallow in misery?"

  "No, mother," said the man as he walked the perimeter of the room. The old house had seen better days, that was for certain, but the mantle was mostly clean, and all the pictures were level, if dusty. There was still a bit of shattered glass around the window he'd broken on his last visit—not that it was all that important.

  "Why did you have to go and ruin everything? I was almost free, free of this wretched place. You don't understand what it's like—you at least get to see other people in the City. Me? I'm stuck out here, bound to this house like a chained dog, and there's nothing I can do about it. I don't even have a student anymore—your friend saw to that," said the woman. "What are you looking for anyhow?"

  The man sighed and paused in his minute examination of the walls. "Your 'student' attacked him, so don't argue with me about that. As to what I'm doing… I'm looking for the basement door."

  "The what? Oh! You mean the lab door. It's right where it's always been, behind that section of wall over there," said the woman pointing. "I had Candice board it up so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. It doesn't work anyway, without your father… what are you doing now?"

  He dug around inside the duffle bag he'd brought with him, sorting through a collection of tools until finally settling on a fireman's axe. Its leather sheath came away from the blade with ease, and he set the sharp edge against the wall to test the distance.

  "What's it look like I'm doing?" he said. The axe sliced through the drywall with almost no effort, and the man had to catch himself before the blade smashed his knee. "Sheetrock? That's it? I expected at least a few boards."