I was convincing myself with each passing moment that what happened in that truck was not a true confession. Because he did not step on to holy ground, it was my duty to go to the police with the information I learned. I put my coffee down and left Jericho’s room with my next stop entrenched in my mind.
I didn’t stop until I pulled in front of the police station. Standing at the top of the stairs in front of the building was Grimes’s replacement, Chief Brad Woods. A taller man with hawk eyes and a steel jaw, it was plain to see why the people of Pacific Station immediately put their trust in him after the days of Harvey Grimes. I opened the door to my Cadillac and stepped out. Then, something about the night’s sky caused me to stop my crusade.
Whether it was just a peculiar cloud formation or a genuine sign from the Lord above, a cross formed. Behind it came a single stroke of lightning, almost as if telling me what I was about to do would be an offense to my chosen path. I placed my hand on the still warm hood of my car and made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father.”
I stayed there for a few moments before getting back in. My hands were trembling, knowing that I was in a no win situation. As I started the ignition, I knew my nerve had left and keeping this secret would become my ultimate test of faith. God had a plan for me, yet breaking my bond to my flock wasn’t going to be in the plan. I put the car in drive and kept going until I reached my church.
“Kim,” I whispered. “It isn’t too late to fight off the Devil.”
In my mind, I imagined where ever he was; he was telling me it was too late. I prayed it wasn’t.
Issue #19 –
A Cold Homecoming
I was home. No more Indian Point, no more desert. My trip had been a total failure, The Fatal Five were dead and so were my chances of breaking Jericho out of prison. This was far from a one super job and it was just me once again.
I was renting a small apartment on Surfside under the name Jackie Siefert. My connection to Jericho would’ve put me under intense scrutiny, so it was just easier this way. I unlocked the door and embraced my modest home. At least there wasn’t any sand here.
The next few days, I fell into a lull. With no other plans on how to break him out, I began concentrating on surviving until I could. I took a waitress job at a new bar that opened up, Waveside Wings. Most nights I wanted to kill the patrons that came in, but I bit my lip and smiled. Each night I came home, I began honing my skills, pushing my own limits and embracing the lingering pieces of Jericho that resided inside of me.
It didn’t take long for talk of the Desert Diamond heist and the killings of the supers Sandstorm and Dust Devil to dissolve. Supers die all the time and they just became statistics. And in a place like Pacific Station, no one really cared about the outside world, anyways.
My one curiosity was what happened to the Desert Diamond. It was never found, so I assumed it was blown up when Dust Devil suicide bombed us. Still, I found it awfully hard to believe a diamond would be destroyed by something like C4, given how hard a material they were.
That really didn’t mean much to me though; I had a much bigger problem. I’d grown complacent again. Weeks turned into months, and then years. Before I knew it, it was the third anniversary of Liberation Day. All this time had passed and still I hadn’t found a viable solution to penetrate Black Lagoon’s walls. Depression began to set in, a depression that could only be cured one way…
I turned on the TV one morning after showering off from another terrible stint at Waveside Wings. “Last night, the serial killer known as Detonate has struck again. For the sixth time in two weeks, a cell phone bomb has gone off while police investigated the murder of thirty-five year old Gilbert Flores.”
I smiled once again at my handiwork. The only reason it went away was when the new police chief’s mug appeared and began yapping. “Folks, I cannot stress enough – we consider Detonate to be extremely dangerous and all efforts to find her are being made. PSPD is working alongside The Morning Lynx to bring this deranged lunatic in.”
Maybe I should’ve been appalled they called me a lunatic, but I took it was a badge of honor. Just the previous night, a fool by the name of Brian Torres barely escaped due to a fluke. Still, Gilbert was a most satisfying hit. Hearing the large man scream for mercy as I pinpointed tiny explosions along his body was like hearing children singing Christmas carols.
My number one goal was still to bring Jericho home, but until such time that could be accomplished, causing this city and its citizens pain would just have to do. In fact, I was ever so much looking forward to my next victim. Pulling an old business card from a comic book store that was a front for a super terrorist cell, “It’ll be a pleasure to meet you, Kim Krummel…”
Issue #20 –
Long Lost Memory
I saw the black truck that was registered to Kim Krummel. I knew the man had to be close, so I got out of my car and started to make my way across the street to find my target. I hadn’t even taken two steps when someone called out my real name. “Heather, is that you?”
I was about to kill the person on sight, but when I turned around with a cell phone ready to be thrown, “Zed? Is that really you?”
The leader of The Fatal Five was standing right there before me, looking no worse for wear. “It’s a damn miracle, but yes, I’m alive.”
“How?”
“When that little bitch blew herself up, right before I died, the Desert Diamond merged with me for some reason. It turned my skin as hard as a diamond. That’s how I survived.”
Considering he didn’t ask me how I survived, or even mention his other brothers, I got the feeling this wasn’t a social call. “Congratulations on surviving,” I added a smirk with it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have-”
“You have no more business tonight except with me.” His gruff tone caught me by surprise. “My boss knows who you are and what you can do. If you help us with a job, he’ll help you get Jericho out of prison.”
I normally enjoyed people who were blunt and to the point; not this time. “The last time I helped you with a job, we both nearly died.”
“Oh we could very well end up dead again, but this is your best chance at freeing your boyfriend.” I didn’t say anything, only kept looking on. “Our job is simple. In two weeks, presidential candidates Ronald Victory and Angela Morales will be in town for their final debate.” I saw where this was going and it started to excite me. “Stick with me and the team I work for. It’s going to be a real riot.”
**Father Reigart**
The attack stopped. We’d all been evacuated from the room while the power of Jericho had been unleashed. Nothing in the room from the looks of it had survived. Then it stopped. Jericho’s body fell back on to the bed, unmoving, looking lifeless.
Dr. Sanders pulled me aside. “Father, I’m going to check and see if he’s dead. If he is or is dying…”
“Say no more, doctor.” I was prepared to do my part. “Jericho would’ve wanted me to give him his last rites.”
Sanders nodded to a nurse who opened the door. He rushed in quickly and checked on the patient. After a few moments, he called out, “He’s alive. He isn’t reacting to any stimulus, but he is breathing.”
I went in to survey the massive amounts of damage. “Mother of God, he could’ve brought this whole wing down.”
“The new warden didn’t believe me when I said just how powerful Jericho Staley is.” Sanders was holding what remained of the charts from Jericho’s bed. “Nothing reported gave me any clue something like this would’ve happened. It was like a spontaneous combustion of power.”
There were heavy footsteps outside. The warden we just spoke of, Brandon Porterhouse, entered the room. “What in blue hell is going on up here, Dr. Sanders?!” The man was practically shouting.
“As I just told Father Reigart, I think the patient had a spontaneous release of power. Going forward, if we don’t find a way to syphon off smaller releases, I fear a lot worse can happen.”
Porterhouse tossed his hands upward in disgust. “This sounds like more of your yapping looking for funding. Sanders, I see nothing here that suggests we are in any more trouble right now than we were before this little incident happened.”
Two of the nurses from outside the room made annoyed clicks with their tongues. It was common knowledge that Warden Porterhouse was disliked by many of the staff. I hoped he would see my reason. “Warden, Staley nearly took down the entire hospital wing in a matter of moments. I think Dr. Sanders may be on to something.”
A meaty finger was jabbed into my face. “Listen here Reigart, you’re only here as the prison priest due to a favor I owe the mayor. Your words don’t mean jack shit to me, got it?”
There would be no more speaking to the man. He turned on his heel and left. We were all dumbfounded, not knowing what to say until we heard a voice behind us. “Why’s everyone yelling?”
It couldn’t be… There was a mad rush to his bedside and Dr. Sanders and his team did their best to hook him up to whatever machines were still functioning. I joined them, not believing my eyes that Jericho had actually spoken. “Jericho, I can’t believe you’re awake! After all this time, too.”
He looked at me confused. “What do you mean all this time?”
Sanders grabbed his arm to check his blood pressure. “You’ve been in a coma for a little over three years. You’re in Black Lagoon Penitentiary.”
“I’m in jail? Why?”
Something was off. The way he asked that question, he should’ve known why he was in jail. Jericho always knew what he was doing was very much against the law. “Jericho, what do you remember about your life before waking up?”
“I don’t remember anything, just black.” Then he asked the one question that confirmed it all for Dr. Sanders and I. “And why do you keep calling me Jericho?”
Chapter 1 –
Friday Morning; Black Lagoon Penitentiary
**Father Reigart**
It was uncomfortable sitting in Warden Brandon Porterhouse’s office. The man only had one goal in mind; to screw over as many people as he could. Part of me wondered if he was on Jericho’s list – well before the incident, that is. Nowadays…
“Dr. Sanders,” the man started off politely enough, “for the past three months we’ve let the prisoner stay in the medical wing on your recommendations.” By prisoner, he meant Jericho. “I see no reason why that should be allowed to continue.”
Sanders was an honest man, if not a bit on the beaten side. I imagined working for Porterhouse wore on a person. “Warden, Staley has no recollection of who he is. Putting him in gen pop is something I can’t sign off on.”
“Does he still have his powers or does he not?”
Porterhouse knew the answer to this question. Ever since that single outburst upon waking up, Jericho showed no signs of being The Negative Man, both in skill or personality. For the love of everything good in the world, he showed no signs of malevolence at all. The man was sick and needed to stay. My time of being a quiet spectator was coming to an end, quickly.
Sanders had his charts in his hands. “What you’re asking me to do is release a man with amnesia, a man who up until a month ago couldn’t even walk, into the hardest prison on the west coast.” Sanders tossed his charts on the desk in disgust. “Do I know who this man is and what he’s done? Yes, I do. But you forget, Warden, I am a doctor first and that patient is my responsibility.”
Porterhouse started laughing. “That’s all fine and well, Sanders. I’m glad you take your job seriously but so do I.” He walked over to his desk and picked up the transfer papers. “I’m signing off on Staley’s release from your care and moving him to the general population this afternoon. That’s the end of this conversation.”
No it wasn’t. “You arrogant, depraved man,” I said with a bit more hostility than I imagined I could produce. “One day you will rue this decision and I am afraid that no one will be there to help you.”
Porterhouse just glared at me. “Is this the part where you tell me you hope God has mercy on my soul? Well, Father, in this prison, I’m God, and my mercy is the only one that counts.”
**Jericho**
Nurse Kristie was smiling at me as she helped me sit up in the bed. “Jericho, I swear you can do this on your own, if you wanted that is.”
“You’re on to my game.”
I still had no idea why I was in this place. Father Reigart, the foremost priest of the city tried his best to explain. Apparently I had committed some pretty bad crimes and in the chaos of my last spree, took a bad hit and lost my memory. The craziest part? I’d been in a coma for three years.
I just didn’t remember any of it. There was more to the story I felt, but the Father assured me he told me everything I needed to know. He’s a man of God, right? I took him at his word. So, here I lay, letting the incredibly cute nurse help me up, even though she was completely right.
Each morning was more of the same. Blood tests followed up by rehab and then even more tests. I once asked Dr. Sanders what all the tests were for and he offered some half assed answer. It was something about making sure I was still just a man and nothing more. I replied back with a simple, ‘what else would I be?’ to which he responded, ‘A weapon.’
It was about an hour after Nurse Kristie had helped me get into a sitting position and turn on the television that Dr. Sanders entered my room for his morning rounds. Only this time he looked angry. “Against my better wishes,” he started, “you have been discharged from my care.”
“Where am I going? To another hospital?”
He threw his hands in the air. “Warden Dumbass is sending you to gen pop this afternoon. I’m sorry, Jericho.”
General population – I was in a bit of shock. “I know I did some really bad stuff, but will I be okay leaving?”
“That’s the million dollar question. Good luck, you’re going to need it.
****
A platoon of six guards were escorting me from the hospital wing through the prison to my final destination, Cell Block A Twenty Two or, as they called it, The Seventh Circle. Father Reigart had early on brought me a copy of Dante’s Inferno to read so the reference wasn’t lost on me. The Seventh Circle of Hell represented violence. It didn’t take a smart man to figure out that this is where they sent the most violent and hostile prisoners.
The lead guard unlocked the door, which had a triple pin lock, plus a palm scanner for good measure. Once all the bells and whistles were dealt with, the large steel door opened. Inside were groups of prisoners, dressed like I was in a grey jump suit with our identification number sewn in over the chest pocket. Mine was NM3765893.
I was quickly pushed inside and instructed to put my hands through the slit in the door. I did so and the lead guard took off the handcuffs before closing the slit. There was no turning back, not that I had a choice in the matter. I faced the rest of the room once I was free of my restraints. Each of the prisoners inside looked at me, some with great amounts of fear and others with something akin to reverence. Just who was I before?
A shorter, Hispanic man approached me. “We heard you were coming, but we all just thought that was a rumor.” The closer he got, the more his features stuck out. There were a number of homemade tattoos along his body, including a blood red tear drop under his right eye. On both wrists were silver cuffs with black lines running down each center. “But as I live and breathe, you’re right here in front of me.”
“Do I know you?” I tried to be polite. He scared me just a tad.
“Of course you don’t know me, it’s not like any regular old ese can request a meeting with you. I’m Fernando, but most of these dirt bags refer to me as Frosty.”
That was a weird nickname. “Frosty? How did you get that name?”
“I killed an asshole that was dumb enough to encroach on my territory with an ice pick.” Oh, that put it in perspective. “But that’s nothing, nothing compared to some of the shit you pulled. I was a fan of your
work back in the day.”
I’m glad someone around here knew what I’d done. I was about to ask him to give me the rundown, but a nagging feeling started eating at the back of my mind. Something warned me to shut up and keep my head down. Let them think I was whoever they wanted me to be. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan.”
Frosty showed me into the cell block and pointed out the ring of rooms around the top. “Up there be the best rooms. Unfortunately they’re all taken, unless you wish to do your thing…”
He sounded like he was eagerly awaiting me to do whatever it was I did. Trying to sound convincing, “I learned a lot and making enemies the first day isn’t a good business practice.”
Whatever I said had an impact on the men. A lot of them nodded their heads in agreement over the words business practice. I was really missing a lot. So with that decided, Frosty walked me to the back, the smaller, less spacious cells. “There’s an opening with Old Rich. Yo, Old Rich! Wake your ass up!”
A man that was probably only in his fifties with salt and pepper hair climbed out of the bunk and into the main hallway. “Frosty, piss off.”
“Old Rich is a bit of a bastard. Smack him around if you need to.”
The hardened prisoner took his eyes off Frosty and acknowledged me. “This my new roommate? Fine.”
“Getting soft, old man,” Frosty instigated him. “I expected a bit more of a fight over this.”
Old Rich didn’t seem to want to deal with Frosty anymore. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Frosty.” He reached out and grabbed me by the collar and pulled me away. “I got it from here.”
Frosty put his hands up and backed away. “I didn’t know you were so touchy, hombre. Calm the hell down.”
The Negative Man_Legends Can Die Page 5