Grim Judgment

by Jennifer Reinfried

  I used one of my big toes, which I could finally feel again, to inch the faucet on, letting a bit of hot water splash into the tub. I wondered where my mother was. Her shifts rarely went past midnight unless the diner was packed, which was rare on a weeknight such as this. Sometimes she’d get home around one in the morning, but not much later. I felt a twinge of worry flick through my mind.

  My focus drifted, recalling the odd and slightly terrifying events of the evening. The back of my head rested against the hard ceramic tub. As I continued thinking about my mother, my eyes slid out of focus until my surroundings were nothing but a big creamy blur once more.

  The back of my head slipped from the edge of the bathtub. I slid downward, nearly submerging my nose in the now very high water level. The shock of the movement snapped me out of my trance, and I hastily turned off the faucet, splashing water onto the cheap vinyl floor.

  I almost did it again. I thought. Or had I? My entire life I’d zoned out before, blurry vision and all, and I’d never all of a sudden popped into someone else’s body. Great, now I’m going to be paranoid. Forever. I gripped the sides of the tub, intent on getting out of the water before I shriveled up beyond recognition, then hesitated.

  What if I can control it?

  I sank back down until my body came to rest on the ceramic once more. I hadn’t been able to snap out of the girl’s body earlier, but that didn’t necessarily mean I couldn’t, did it? I’d been freaking out, not knowing what was happening to me. What if I could focus, like I did to jump into her, and pull myself out and back inside myself?

  “Right,” I said out loud, my voice an uneasy addition to the quiet bathroom. “Sure, I have superpowers.” I stood. Beads of water cascaded down my skin, eager to join back with the bath. I pushed the idea aside and toweled myself off. Let’s go make a cape and a mask while we’re at it.

  In the end, though, I convinced myself that it couldn’t hurt to at least try it again. What was the worst that could happen?

  I scurried to my room and shut the door. As I pulled fresh underwear and sweats on, I glanced at the desk by my bed, where the alarm clock told me it was now going on two in the morning. The twinge of worry for my mother built on itself until it was a full-fledged weight in the back of my throat. I didn’t have a car yet, and the diner was too far for me to walk. I didn’t want to bother anyone in the middle of the night if she was just stuck at work, so I told myself I’d stay up. Then I’d try the transfer again.

  My sheets were cool as I slipped between them. I plucked my copy of The Great Gatsby from its place on my nightstand. I didn’t feel that tired, even after soaking in the tub for nearly forty minutes. I opened the book to the page I’d dog-eared the night before and stared at the small print, but my mind kept drifting to my mom. Just a late night, I thought. The print of the book’s page had blurred into a black and white smudge in front of me.

  Screw it. Let’s do this.

  I focused all of my attention on my mother. Sometimes on her days off we’d play some records and sing along, or I’d strum on the guitar and she’d read. Well, pretend to read, anyway. Once in awhile I’d glance at her and she’d be staring at a book, but her eyes would be still, dark hair tucked behind one ear. I thought about how much she’d suffered when Dad had died, struck by a drunk driver on his way home from the grocery store. It had been three in the afternoon.

  My eyes were so unfocused they began to ache. My lids began to droop, and my heart picked up from its steady pace. It’s working, I thought, giddy. No way. No freaking way. I grinned, and my sight suddenly aligned. I was staring at my book. Frowning, I did a quick assessment. The paperback was smooth in my own hand, the weight of the comforter brought warmth to my own legs. I hadn’t moved from my bed. Irritated and slightly embarrassed, I drew a quick breath in, held it, then let it whistle out past my lips. I sat for a moment, contemplating.

  Fuck it. Nothing better to do. I held the book up once more and concentrated. The words blurred slowly. My lids lowered until my eyes were only half open. I focused on my breathing, on my heartbeat. My vision became worse and worse until my head swam. Instead of wondering if it was working this time, I thought only of my mother.

  “Hey, you,” a voice said out of nowhere.

  I let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yell - no, it wasn’t a scream, shut up - and dropped the book.

  “Whoa, sorry.” My mother stood in the doorway of my room, giving me an amused look. “Book’s that good, huh?”

  “Mom,” I said, exasperated. “Knock!”

  “Pretty sure that would have scared you just the same, Bruce.” She snickered and backed into the hallway, shutting the door behind me. “Night,” I heard her call as she moved on to her own room.

  I sat with my mouth open, trying to calm my heart, which was currently slamming hard into my chest like a mallet against a bass drum. Eventually, I was able to regain control of myself and wiggled lower underneath the covers. My eyes were suddenly leaden from the extraordinary events of the day, the hot bath, and the concentration I’d used in the attempts to transfer myself again. The familiar noises of my mother getting ready for bed soothed me, and I drifted. I could try again tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  NOW

  2016

  Grant’s hands shook as he attempted to sip the hot coffee someone had brought him. The chaotic scene of the rooftop had simmered and was now secure, although the area was crawling with CSI personnel.

  “Damn.” He leaned against his vehicle and clutched at his jacket, pulling it close against the chill of the early morning hours. As the head of the Crisis Intervention Team, he was now forced to stand and watch instead of investigate the bodies they had found in the apartments surrounding Isaac’s.

  Alex killed the neighbors to eliminate witnesses. All just to get to Emma. Psychotic prick. Grant was used to death, saw it often between his job as a cop and working for Vance, but even he got the shivers from Alex’s rampage. All the murders...the girl Emma had been trying to infiltrate, the dog, the neighbors. Grant shook his head. Pointless. And a shit ton of paperwork, no doubt.

  Grant took another sip of his coffee and grimaced, both at the heat of the liquid and the memory of Alex’s destroyed face. Got what he deserved, at least. Glancing around again, keeping his eyes peeled for Emma. Where the fuck did she go? I should question her, figure out what happened up there.

  Once again, his mind flashed him an image of Alex’s body. The man’s face had been destroyed, his body shot and mangled. Grant rolled his shoulders and stretched. I’m sure answers will come soon. He watched as the bodies of Isaac’s dead neighbors were loaded into an unmarked van, shrouded in black bags.

  A shuffling noise sounded behind him. Grant yelped and dropped his styrofoam cup. Hot coffee splashed over his dress shoes and splattered his slacks as he whirled, ready to face demonic faces in a swirling mist, but it was just a tall, well-dressed blonde woman approaching.

  Grant rolled his eyes as he took in the large microphone in her hand. “And just how did you get past the tape?”

  “Sir, what exactly happened here?” The reporter’s camerawoman was close behind her, the light of the device glaring in Grant’s eyes.

  “No comment.”

  “Please, people are scared.”

  “No comment. Make your way back to the sidewalk and stay there.”

  “Can you just tell me what happened to the man who fell?”

  Grant paused. An idea formed in his mind. “It was Grim,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  “Excuse me? Did you say it was Grim?” She threw the microphone in his face.

  Grant cleared his throat and stood, addressing the camera directly, a plan in mind. “Yes. We think it was Grim. We’re still trying to piece together the events of the night, but don’t have any answers yet. Now please, I have work to do.” He walked away from the woman, ignoring her protests. His fingers tightened on his coat as he made his way toward a waiting ambulance. The EMT, wh
o wore a bored look on his young face, looked up.

  “I need to make a call.” Without waiting for a reply, Grant hopped inside the vehicle and shut both doors. He sat on a small, uncomfortable bench and pulled out his phone.

  Vance answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s Grant.”

  “I know. Caller ID is a marvelous invention. Tell me how things are at the scene.”

  “Fine. CSI is doing their stuff inside. Bodies are being loaded, including Nate’s. Media’s here.”

  “When you called earlier, you told me Alex was killed by some sort of mist. I have seen the videos but it does not tell me what happened to him.”

  “Believe me, I have no idea, and I was there after it happened. Sir, not to change the subject, but I had an idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “We should pin this on Grim.”

  Vance paused. “Now that is an idea.”

  “I can say I arrived at the roof to see it happen. Alex is responsible for Cassie’s death, so it goes with Grim’s morals, killing criminals and murderers and whatnot. I could come up with how we told him to hand Alex over to the authorities but Grim refused and threw him over the roof. It removes Emma and Isaac from being involved, too. Whaddaya think?”

  “I think you have solved some of our problems, Grant,” Vance said. “Not only does it put Grim in the eyes of the public instead of anyone else, but also makes them question his abilities. Perhaps this is what is needed to tear him down.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Grant, what exactly did you see up there?”

  The cop quieted for a moment, and he glanced out the small windows of the ambulance’s doors. “Something that will stay with me for a long time.”

  The Russian sighed. “How about we elaborate, hmm?”

  “Alex was already gone when I got up there.” Grant shifted on the bench. “Emma was by Isaac, who was hurt bad. There was a black-haired man on the ground some yards away on the other side of the roof. He was by Grim, whose mask was off, but he faced the other way. I didn’t see who he was.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “I’d instructed officers to eliminate the two men while I got Emma and Isaac to safety, but Emma freaked. Something knocked back my team. Some force.”

  “Force?”

  “It was hectic. I didn’t quite see what happened, but to me, it seemed like nothing hit them. They just...flew backward. And that man, he was rising up, his eyes were all white. He was surrounded by...fuck, I don’t know, ghosts.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ghosts. I know how it sounds, but I saw them with my own eyes.”

  “Continue.”

  “Emma told me to get the hell out of there. What I was witnessing told me to run, too, so I hauled her and the kid downstairs. I had no idea that guy would be able to take out two squads on his own.”

  “Understandable,” Vance said softly. “They are all dead then?”

  “The cops? No, most survived. I was only gone minutes, sir. Enough to get Emma and Isaac to the ground and get medical attention for the kid, then I went back up. When I got there, the suspects were gone. Vanished. My teams had secured the roof. A couple had been killed, thrown over the side, but for the most part, they were just up there all confused.”

  “So you are telling me the people who attacked my people got away.”

  “Yes, but ours are all right, for the most part.”

  “Oh, what joyous news.” Sarcasm seeped through the Russian’s accent.

  Grant swallowed. “Yes, sir. I got Isaac to an ambulance. Looked like he’d been stabbed and beat the hell up.”

  “Where did you send him?”

  “To Wallace.”

  A pause. “Thank you, Grant.”

  “Of course. I know what he means to you, sir. Besides, Emma informed me if I didn’t take care of him, she’d murder me. I kind of had no choice but to send him to our best.”

  “And where is Emma?”

  “...that I don’t know, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Grant felt a twinge of nervousness. “She was with Isaac for some time, but once he was secure, she disappeared.”

  “I see.”

  Grant opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. If I can’t find her...if she split... “Sir, I...that was stupid of me.”

  “It really fucking was.”

  Grant didn’t say anything.

  After a moment, Vance spoke again, this time in harsh tones. “Find those who saw her last and interrogate them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A sudden pounding sounded on the doors of the ambulance, and Grant jumped, fearing for his life. For a moment he swore he saw one of the faces of the ghosts, eyeless, its mouth impossibly wide, and he slunk back against the wall of the truck. The doors opened and he stared at the EMT who had let him in, an annoyed look on his face.

  I’m going to have nightmares for a long time, Grant thought as a dark swirling mist slowly left his mind.

  “Are you still there?” Vance asked, voice curt.

  Grant exited the emergency vehicle on trembling legs. “I am, sir.”

  “Give your statement. Make sure you frame Grim, but do not be obvious about fearing these new powers of his. Tell them the vigilante killed a criminal instead of turning him over to the authorities. Then I want you to check in on Isaac, make sure he arrived to Wallace. And find Emma.”

  “Sir, the paperwork alone on this incident will—”

  “Will be something you also have to figure out. Do not fail me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vance terminated the call.

  Grant breathed in deeply. Why does he always get to hang up first?

  —-

  “No! No!” Jaxon’s heart leapt and he surged forward, but Aaron gripped his arms and stopped him from interfering. “Let me go!” Spittle flew from his lips. “Let me fucking go!”

  “He’ll be fine,” a female voice said to his left. “They’re going to save him.”

  Jaxon glared at a young woman with light brown skin who had appeared while he raged in Aaron’s grip.

  She looked at him with sad grey eyes, then pointed at Shawn. “Watch. Look.”

  His dying brother shuddered.

  Hot tears coursed out of Jaxon’s eyes and dripped from his chin as Duncan bent to administer air into Shawn’s lungs. His brother’s body convulsed once more, then Shawn gasped a sudden breath on his own.

  Duncan’s shoulders slumped in relief. He hung his head over Shawn for a split second, then continued his progress. They had successfully cleaned the hole in Shawn’s torso where the bullet had passed through and out the other side. Now, the doctor, Sarah, was currently working on stripping off the lower half of the Grim outfit, careful of the bullet wound in Shawn’s leg. In a fit of manic hilarity, Jaxon found himself grateful his brother always wore boxer briefs underneath the outfit. He turned his gaze on the girl to his left. She smiled at him, patted his shoulder, then turned and exited the room.

  “That’s Naomi.” Aaron released his grip. “I can tell you more, but not here. We’re just distractions. We need to let them work.” He stepped toward the door. “Come on. We’ll be right in the next room.”

  Whether it was from shock or the exhaustion that swarmed over him, Jaxon nodded and let the man lead him from the room. He threw one last glance over his shoulder to see Shawn, still limp and unmoving, under the deft hands of strangers. Then the door was closed, shutting out the sounds of the machines and Duncan’s mumblings.

  “Here, have a seat.”

  Jaxon looked around and saw they were in a small sitting room lined with chairs on either side. He slumped into the nearest one. “What is this place?”

  “A safe house. There’s a few scattered throughout the country that we can trust.” Aaron sat in a chair across from Jaxon.

  “Safe house? I don’t und
erstand.”

  Aaron chuckled. “Well, first things first. Nice to officially meet you, Jax. You know, now that we’re away from the chaos on the roof.” He extended a hand, which Jaxon eyed, then shook, ignoring the dried blood that still covered his own skin.

  “Why are you helping us?” Jaxon stared at the man. “How did you help us?”

  “This might be a lot to take in, man. I’ll do my best.”

  Jaxon frowned and rested his forearms on his knees as Aaron began.

  “Shawn is...special. Something you already know. He’s stronger than everyone else, harder to hurt, quicker to heal, able to move faster and jump further, and so on.”

  “Why?”

  Aaron hesitated. “Duncan was supposed to be the one to do this.” He ran a hand through his blond hair. “To put it simply, he was a part of a scientific study in which the military altered DNA from certain donors to create superior men and women.”

  “Holy shit.” Jaxon breathed. He felt an odd lightness in his chest. “What?”

  “Yeah. So, uh, about seventeen years ago, there was this...accident in the lab one night. And it was just that: an accident. Many people died.” Aaron’s eyes glazed slightly and he touched a finger to the scar on his face. “A few of us survived, got out.”

  “Wait...us? I’m...?”

  “Yeah, one of the Synths. Short for Synthetics. It’s what we’re called.” Aaron fixed his gaze on Jaxon’s. “You’re one of them.”

  A silence enveloped them.

  “We’re experiments,” Aaron said softly. “Bred for war.”

  “The wraiths...”

  “Yeah. That’s part of your gift. The other is telekinesis. You already know mine and Mari’s. There are more, though.”

  “Duncan?”

  Aaron laughed. “No, not Duncan. He’s one of three scientists that got out. The one that helped us kids to safety. We’ve been living with him ever since. He’s the only true father we’ve known.”

  Jaxon felt his face scrunch. Seventeen years ago? I was what, eleven? Did I block it out? “I’m still confused about this lab stuff.”