Fog Bastards 1 Intention

by Bill Robinson

  I push ever so gently on my molecules, wondering if they were happier floating, and head around to the back. Doesn't take a genius to figure out which room is it, only one in the middle third floor with the lights on. The curtains are not exactly high quality. I put myself up against the wall, window high, floating, while I decide how best to position myself to see without being seen.

  Other side. I can stay to the left of the window, and see sideways into the room through a rip in drapery (if you want to call it that), feet floating out in space. That should also be quieter. The right side of the window is cracked open, and there is no screen. Any noise I make would go right in. Everything except my head and hands is covered in black, and even my hair and eyes are mostly black. Should provide decent cover.

  Still, I'm trembling slightly as I start my peeping. What I see makes me shake even more. They are cooking something, and it's not dinner. Masks on their faces, plastic covering much of the apartment, pots, tubing, and empty fast food containers scattered across the room. This is definitely it. These two "gentlemen" are going to have the honor of being my first arrests. OK, not arrests, but what word should I use? Victims? No. Subjects? No. I'll have to think on that.

  I bump the wall and scrape my leather jacket as I pull away and head skyward again. Nerves. I don't think they can hurt me, and still I'm shaking like the proverbial leaf. Makes me think better thoughts of the cops who come to rooms like these with only a little flak jacket on.

  Back to my aerial perch, I float for another hour or so, until the two leave their lab and head back for the pickup. They head west to the 610 and then east on the 60 to a very normal looking residential neighborhood, then two blocks over and into a standard two car garage, attached to a normal looking house. I put the coordinates into my GPS. The light goes on in the front room of the house, then out, then on in a back room, presumably a bedroom, and then back out almost immediately. I assume that means off to bed, so I am off to Anaheim and home.

  Friday means a round trip to Denver. My head is somewhere else, but I manage not to hit any mountains. Spend a quiet evening looking for a new parking lot I can use as a changing spot. Find a couple of likely places, but I'll have to check them from the ground as well.

  Saturday morning means a comfortable breakfast with the cat watching SportsCenter. The Angels are, of course, so far out of it that it's not even painful to watch anymore. I briefly entertain the notion of going out for the team, but dismiss it on the grounds that I'd just get walked every time at bat, and there's no one to hit me home.

  I check that my binoculars are where I left them, and head to the local big box retailer to buy a camera. It's fifteen hundred bucks for what I want. Fifteen hundred bucks for a decent camera with a telephoto lens, which is ridiculous, but what can I do? They try to sell me an expensive case to go with it, but I grab a solid black backpack big enough to hold all my crap. I'm going to ask Fog Dude to reimburse me. After all, he and the other fog bastards decided not to give me super eyes. I don't know if they have money in Fog Land, but they must have something I could use.

  Spend an enjoyable evening with Jen, dinner, dancing at a new club in Irvine, back to my house for chandelier swinging. In the game of throes, though, I have a brief flash of insight, something about not having been at her house in months, then I forget that and slip back into slipping in to her. We curl up together as usual, Halloween nearby with a fresh ball I just gave her.

  Sunday is the normal hang out then visit the parents. Jen comments on my fidgeting, which I can't really explain to her. "I was floating outside a meth lab, and I want to get back?" Lots of uncertainty in my life, but I am certain that my big secret needs to stay that way for a while at least. We do it on the couch watching some stupid dancing show, don't remember the action (on the show that is), but the music works great for other pursuits. Just wish those stupid judges would talk less, or time it better. Halloween wakes us up just before the alarm, and we get ready to go our separate ways.

  Ms. Mankat is waiting for me at dispatch, hands me my folder without saying a word. It makes me ask, "Problems?"

  "No." That's a lie, and I don't need the light to tell me. Normally I wouldn't care, but she must be nice if my dad is trying so hard to keep her away from me. Then I have an insight.

  "Matt's a jerk," comes spilling out of my mouth before I can look around to see if he's within earshot.

  She smiles at me, laughs a little, and motions me on my way. Turns out I'm working with a new captain I barely know, so the question about where in Matt's plan Ms. Mankat applied the thrust reversers will go unanswered. I fidget all the way to the islands, fidget through a sloppy round of golf, fidget through dinner, fly all the way to French Frigate Shoals in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off the fidgets, then fidget all the way home.

  No Jen at dispatch, no text either, but that's ok with me. I'm home, change clothes, into Starbuck and racing to Anaheim at warp speed (actually the correct metaphor should be "using my faster than light drive"). I park, change my face, revel in the spreading power, get leather, and hit the molecule thrusters toward my favorite meth lab. In addition to my phone and GPS, I have a coil of rope I keep in the house for camping.

  Now it hits me that I have no plan. How to get in? How to get out? How to not be seen getting in and out? How hard can I hit the guys to not kill them, but incapacitate? What to say to the police to get them out? The light has its answer, which appears to be go for it, who cares about that other stuff. Trust the light. That's what I was told. Trust the light.

  I'm two hundred feet up, low clouds and occasional light rain blocking the moon. It's as dark as it ever is in the City of Angels. The pickup is there, so my two whatevers must be here. Add to the list of questions what to call them. Dirtbags? Perps? Snacks? I gently settle down outside the third floor window and peep in. The two bad guys are there, working away. The window is partially open, on the other side. I float that way, reach under the curtain, and with an extended finger on the edge of the pane, gently push it wider. No screen, I stop when it's open far enough for me to enter if I go shoulder toward the ground.

  The light is gleeful. The light is a spring ready to uncoil, the tension there palpable inside me. I'm a jar of olives in a 7.0 earthquake shaking toward the edge of the shelf. The only thing about me ready to uncoil is my stomach.

  I turn my body so my head is toward the window, my feet suspended in the air, my body twisted 90 degrees from it's normal flying position. I usually fly with my arms at my side, but now I put them in front of me, self defense pose, even though nothing in there is likely to be painful or dangerous.

  My feet attach themselves to a bunch of molecules. I close my eyes and push. Too hard. I feel the curtains in my hands, not parting but tearing, then I feel wall board. I'm through the window into the room, but so hard I've punched through the far wall into the bathroom. I spin back into the kitchen through the bathroom door, catch the short guy's head with my left fist, spin slightly rightward and up, using the other hand on his taller friend's head, trusting to the light to get the force right.

  Probably a second and a half. Two rednecks falling to the floor, out cold. Breathing. I relax a little. Curtains actually just touching down on the floor after being ripped from their rods. Dust everywhere, also headed for the floor. A ragged hole in the not very well constructed wall, everything that was in the bathroom now on the floor there as well. My black leather is white, covered in the dust from the gypsum wall board. I can see myself in the mirror of the bathroom through the hole, and though my face is white, my hair is untouched. It's a fucking joke. My hair is Teflon.

  The light snaps my ass back to attention. Takes me two seconds to hog tie both men. One piece of rope tied around the hands of each, then down through their belts, to their legs, and tied off on their feet. Should hold them. I grab my cel phone, dial 9-1-1. The dispatcher answers. I tell her shooting in progress, and give her the address. Easier than the truth.

  I go unlock the front
door, four sturdy locks meant to keep people out, but I am not people. The police will get right in. Then it's out the window, gain some altitude, and decide what to do now. The light wants me to stay. I don't know what the two dudes saw. I don't know who might believe what. I want to get my dumbass out of there and take a shower. I do one quick check of the courtyard. No one moving. Either they heard nothing, or more likely, don't want to get involved. Two biker looking guys in the parking lot exiting a nice silver SUV, but they could not have heard a thing.

  Molecules sacrifice their whatever it is they sacrifice for me, and I am rolling back toward Anaheim. I push a little harder and climb into the clouds, letting the water and my speed clean some of the crap off of me. Then descend below radar coverage and finally, down into my favorite alley.

  By the time I change clothes, there is a lot of gypsum dust on my bag, and there's still a lot on me, which ends up putting a lot into Starbuck. Tomorrow, I will have to go to the self- service car wash to clean out the evidence. Can't have some CSI tech match the gypsum or some minuscule fiber from the crime scene to me.

  I want to celebrate. Clean and quick. In and out. Done and doner. It's 2 a.m., and other than a quick flight to Vegas, or a booty call to Jen, I can't figure out any good way to party. I go home and play catch with Halloween for half an hour, followed by standing on my balcony until about three, staring at the ocean.

  Then I realize I really totally completely am a dumbass. I have a police scanner. I didn't take it with me. I could have gone out into the darkness and listened. Fuck me. I go get it, knowing that it's useless in the land of the Long Beach PD to try and listen to the LAPD. Batteries installed, I'm on the balcony listening to police calls until the sun comes up.

  Chapter 8

  The sun is warm on my face, and I stand there to enjoy it. He will never have this satisfaction. Unless maybe he flies to the actual sun. I wander back in the house to a whining Halloween, make both of us breakfast, grab my e reader and turn on the TV.

  Instead of SportsCenter, I change channels to the morning LA news. Surely the capture of two meth chemists will warrant at least a mention. Instead, it's a commercial for some new body spray. I hit the icon for the Times on my pad, and damn near drop it.

  "Two Drug Dealers Murdered." It screams at me in 72 point type. "Mafia Style Hit." Smaller type, but equally disturbing. The news is back on, but they are doing traffic and weather, so I read.

  Police were called to the scene of a drug shooting. Two men were found dead on the floor, tied up, and shot once each through the head. Evidence found at the scene leads police to believe that someone, either their partners or competitors, tied up, shot and robbed the operators of the illegal drug lab.

  Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

  The TV has reached the half hour, and cycles back to their top story. Fuck me. It's me, or not me, but me. There is an LAPD spokesperson in front of a hotel I recognize, standing three feet from a vintage blue Ford pickup truck, explaining that the room was trashed, the men on the floor, shot after being knocked out, robbed, equipment gone, drugs gone, no suspects.

  Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

  Didn't kill them, but did. The truth is I don't know exactly what happened, which is as close to knowing I'm responsible as you can get. Did I stake the place out to determine if it was just those two guys? No. Did I check out their houses, find their names, research one fucking thing of all the fucking things I could have done? No.

  I do know who it was, but not because I did something right. It had to be the two I watched walking in. Partners or competitors? No idea. All I did was get two people killed (yes, bad people, but people). No drugs off the street, no meth lab eliminated. Fuck me.

  I almost don't wait until dark. This time, though, the light actually holds me back. I run two circuits down the beach. Come back home. Go back out. Walk another circuit, then run it again. I really am the dumbest dumbass on earth. Superdumbass. Jen texts that she'll be late at work again, puts us off until tomorrow. Standard reply goes out. Search the Internet for the dead men and their address. Come up empty, other than they seem to be renting.

  I'm driving around Anaheim by eight. Up and down Harbor, along Garden Grove, up Brookhurst, down Katella past the hotel, up Haster to Ball, over to Brookhurst, down to Garden Grove, no pattern, just rectangles for two hours. Finally, I conclude it's late enough, even though Disneyland is just emptying out and it's probably the worst time to be airborne.

  I grab the leather out of my bag, and realize I didn't clean it. And the jacket is ripped. Big flap of leather torn loose, probably from crashing through the wall. I decide to go in my stretchy underwear tops and bottoms and leather pants. The change is unlike anything I've experienced before. No glee, no joy, no spreading warmth. Its anger incarnate. Hatred, anger, and sheer raw power coursing through every inch of my body. Fire burns inside, and stays there, hardly diminishing as I toss the bag onto the roof of the Chinese restaurant, and sacrifice molecules to my stupidity.

  There are no police there when I arrive, their work done. I wonder if they are looking for the new bad guys, or just waiting for a break. Guys like those will certainly do something bad again. I hover outside the window of the apartment, no curtains to block my view this time. The front door is closed, but there was yellow tape visible on it as I came in.

  It is still covered in white, with footprints everywhere and a brown stain that is probably blood. It's on my hands too, you just can't see it. Some of the footprints are big and broad, likely police with their shoes covered and the rest have strong treads. I was wearing socks, so those belong to the killers.

  Nothing for a normal person to find, but I am neither normal nor a person. I close my eyes, listen to myself breathe, and push molecules, trusting like I've never trusted before. Ten minutes later I stop, and open my eyes to find that I'm floating 200 feet above a collection of single story homes, older than me by a lot, holes in some of the roofs, no landscaping in the yards, but lots of cars on blocks rusting in the backyards. One house is screaming at me. I know this place.

  I land in the back, no yellow tape over any of the doors. The police have not been here yet. Likely that the driver's licenses don't mark the spot, and it will take them some time to figure it out. Sitting down in an unpadded black metal chair on the patio, I take the scanner and headphones out of my backpack, sit back, and settle in, hoping my anger will abate. It doesn't. I wait until about three in the morning, no visitors and nothing interesting on the police frequencies. I decide to go in.

  I force the back door, which is a real steel door, not sliding glass. Someone was unusually worried about home security. I float through the house, lights off, making sure I'm alone. It's two small bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Crappy furniture, probably second hand, dirty hardwood floors, peeling formerly white paint, and a noxious smell that's probably the by-product of their other occupation. I find cash. I find guns. I find equipment for turning powder into pills. I find boxes full of what has to be drugs.

  I stop in the kitchen, and take a closer look for brewing equipment, but find none. They kept their work at the "office," I guess. I cannot let the anger go, I cannot carry it home with me, I search the kitchen for help. Matches, long wooden fireplace matches with bright red tops are in the drawer, then in my hand. I turn on the gas, and throw a match at it. I drop two more on the floor and fly for the door. Fire follows me out. In five minutes the entire house is ablaze. Wish I had brought marshmallows. Wish I had the power to make it burn quicker.

  Sirens are coming. I head into the sky, higher than normal, worried that the fire will illuminate me. This time, I'm staying. Maybe the bad guys will come to watch too, but I can't remember their faces, so I'd have to ID their vehicle. Dumbass. No camera, no investigation, no more.

  The fire is making popping noises and flirting with different colors by the time the trucks arrive, along with half the neighborhood. The residents seem happy, whether because it looks cool, or eliminates a co
mpetitor, I can't tell. The firemen watch, let the fire burn down before they start to water it. I assume that's because of all the potential toxins in the flames, they certainly must have suspicions about what it is that's burning.

  It's a smoldering mass of blackened wood, wall board, and belongings when I decide it's time to go. There's little or no chance I'll catch the bad guys, little or no chance I actually wanted to, or instead of burning, I'd have staked the place out. I trusted the light, and it kept me from doing with my hands what others did last night with a gun, it directed me to the empty house, not to the men responsible, and let me take my anger out on a building. That does not mean that I am satisfied, not nearly so.

  I turn and burn for the coast, reaching the ocean about Malibu high, then hit the afterburners. Supersonic, faster I suspect that I have gone before, I flash across the surface of the ocean raising a rooster tail of spray behind me, maybe 100 feet high. Someone is going to see it, but I don't care if everyone in LA does. A long ways out over the ocean, I loop and head for land, a picture flashing in my brain.

  I get back to Anaheim about three thirty, home a little after four. GPS is cooked, melted literally by the heat I generated. Felt cool to me, but the yellow plastic transformed into a long thin tube and blew away. My phone was long gone before that, probably at the bottom of the ocean. My luck, though, it will wash to shore with the 9-1-1 call still there, and my finger prints all over it. The next few hours I spend leaning over the rail of my balcony, knowing that the fall wouldn't kill me, wondering if there is any way I can justify what I have done, and if my next step will be enough to cleanse.