by Jobe, David
Lanton nodded and lifted his coffee, "I am prepared for the long haul."
"I won't be long,” she promised, offering him another smile before she left.
"How you can be such a great detective and so utterly clueless is a great mystery to me." Lanton turned to see Chris looking at him with his one good eye, a weak smile on what remained of his working face. "It's good to see you, old friend."
"Look, Chris, I am so sorry."
Chris waved his hand as it to bat away the words. "You don't owe me an apology. I ran away from the world and hid. I tried to run away for good and failed."
"I am sorry anyway."
"Forgiven,” Again the weak smile. "So, you going to ask the nurse out?"
"You mean Nurse Millie?"
"The dark haired one throwing you googly-eyes a minute ago."
Lanton frowned, unsure, "You think she is in to me?"
"How have you ever solved a crime in your life with that level of cluelessness?" Chris laughed.
"I guess I have blinders on when it comes to women," Lanton admitted.
"Apparently. You should go chase her down."
"I only chase criminals."
"And yet, the way I hear it, you catch both with equal regularity." Chris smiled, then groaned, "I really did a number on myself, didn't I?"
"Yeah, ya kinda did, my friend. But I am here to help. We will get you back in shape in no time."
Chris smiled at him, a tear in his good eye. "Thank you, Lanton."
"Don't mention it."
"I see he is awake,” Nurse Millie walked back in the room, holding a few things that Lanton assumed was for Chris. "Good. This one here has been by your side the whole time, fearful that you would wake up alone."
"It's not nice to tell my secrets,” Lanton said with a smile.
Nurse Millie smiled down at him as she slipped past his chair to start working on the tubes attached to Chris's arms. So close to him, her backside was near his face, looking rather appealing in the tight black pants that she wore.
Lanton caught himself staring and stopped, turning to look at his friend instead. Chris, on the other hand, was watching Lanton with a shit eating smirk. When he saw Lanton look his way, he shook his head with a chuckle.
"Lanton. Has there been anything happen with a shooting at a bus, school or government?" Chris's eyes began to carry a haunted look. "Either around here or nearby?"
"Not that I am aware of, but I will check on it for you. Why?" Lanton made a mental note to check that out when he went out and had a better signal on his phone. Inside the hospital, his data signal was less than usable.
"Nothing,” Chris said, the lie apparent by the haunted look in his eye.
Lanton decided not to press. He went to open his mouth to say something, but his phone began to play the theme song to Game of Thrones. That meant a call from his department. Lanton quickly excused himself, and took the call in the hallway.
“Lanton."
The voice of Sherry, their dispatcher started talking, "I know you asked for a day off, but with the funerals, we don't have anyone to cover this."
"That's alright, Sherry. I managed to accomplish what I set out to do early. What's going on?"
"We have a superhero murder we need you to go cover."
"I don't believe I heard you right."
"No, you did. Let me give you the address." She did, and he wrote it down on a piece of paper that a nurse at the station near him handed him.
"Got it. I am not far from there now. Be there in about twenty minutes."
"Sorry to do this to you,” sherry apologized.
"Don't be. I was being self-indulgent. The others are doing the right thing. I will head that way now."
"You're a good man, Lanton. Tell Chris I said hi."
Lanton smiled at his phone. He guessed he should have figured that a team full of top notch detectives would have been able to decipher what he was doing. "Will do, Sherry." He hung up and returned to Chris's room.
“I have to leave. There has been a murder downtown."
"Involving a bus?" Chris asked.
"No, I don't think a bus, but I am not sure. I will come back and let you know though. You just focus on healing." He turned to Nurse Millie while rifling through his pockets. Finding what he needed, he handed a card to her, "Keep this, and call me if you need anything or he needs anything."
She took the card with no hesitation and placed it in her breast pocket. There she patted it as if to indicate it was safe and sound. The way she patted it made him notice the shape of those breasts. It was a nice shape.
“Anything?"
He smiled at her, feeling awkward as he did. "Anything." He turned and left, feeling rushed to make the crime scene.
As he left, heard Chris say "You know you are going to have to spell it out for him, right?"
To which he heard Nurse Millie reply, "Where's the fun in that?"
Then he was at the elevators, on his way for his first superhero murder scene.
Chapter Fourteen
Brian tapped the screen to his smart phone, annoyed that it kept pausing his video after only what felt like a couple seconds. Granted, he had watched this particular video so often that he could recite every line from the voice over with the same inflection as the man narrating. It was a video mesh of all the videos that had captured the events of the night that had everyone buzzing. Who was the large man who appeared to be able to fly, and had some sort of shield. The internet was on fire with speculation as to who this person might be or who the unknown sniper was, for now the police had leaked that they had found damage to the truck, but had yet to determine the caliber of the bullet being used. There were no bullets found at the crime scene. Of course, some people began to believe it was rail gun technology, and that the flying man was part of some sort of government experiment, being tested in the field. This particular video was labeled “They Are Among Us!” and had taken a different approach to what was going on with the recent battle. Whoever had made this, TruthIsHere9000 by handle, was of the opinion that we as a species we were beginning to mutate, and that what we were seeing were genetic mutations of the original line. It felt X-Men to Brian, and he wasn't sure that it was that way at all. One man flying and having a force field was more technology than mutation. The creature that the media had labeled as "The Dirt Demon" was a different story. Though what videos there were of the thing, it looked a lot like cartoon version of the Thing from the Fantastic Four. Or maybe even like bad Claymation with an excellent frame-rate. However, all this talk of superheroes got Brian back to thinking about the whole idea of superheroes. If he ever discovered that he had super powers, how would he handle it? Would he use it for personal gain or would he be like the movies and comics showed and run out into the streets in tight-fitting clothing, doing battle with nefarious types. Six foot with a medium build, he was athletic enough to pull off the outfits, but not self-sure enough to even consider it. Besides, wouldn't jeans and combat boots be better? What were the chances that a real superhero battle would require a great deal of flexibility and yet still be okay with the limited protection tights provided? He suspected that it wouldn't. Then there came the discovery of having powers in the first place. How do you discover you can fly? How did the fat guy figure out he could fly? Did he trip and fall off a building one day and that was how he discovered that he could slip the bonds of gravity at will? That is not something you discover playing Xbox all weekend.
Suppose he discovered that he was super strong, which seemed to be the standard go-to for most superheroes. What good would that do for him? As he stood in the long bank line, trying to get his shitty service provider to ship him the next bit of information that would allow the clip to continue, he wondered if he would ever have the guts to do what the flying man had done. To say screw it and jump into the fray. Brian knew it wasn’t that easy.
It wasn’t like on television where the super power was just enough to make the battles hard, but winnable. Fo
r instance, super strength was all great, but he was fairly sure it couldn’t stop a bullet. How does that play into the whole superhero racket? Does he throw on a Kevlar vest and hope that whoever the super villain is, they are dumb enough to never fire headshots? As an avid gamer, he knew that people today knew to aim for the head.
Last thing he wanted was to square off with his first criminal and go down like a sack of potatoes, only to have a world of gamers comment on the story of his death with the inevitable “Boom! Headshot!” But the flip side was that he would have to do something. His parents had raised him right to know that if you have the ability to help, you should. Perhaps if he was strong, he could apply his strength to some non-threatening job. Maybe he could use it to lift cars off of people or hold up walls while firefighters battled the flames and crumbling buildings. Well, that last one sounded just as dangerous as fighting armed thugs.
Then there was the question of how people would react. Already the television news channels were discussing how the government tried to get that school teacher with the fireballs classified as a terrorist, and everyone knew it was so they could scoop her up and take her to a lab somewhere. All of them wanted to discover that awesome power she wielded, perhaps even be cliché and build an army of literal flame throwers.
Then you had to think about the costumes. Image is everything, despite what Sprite commercials would tell you. Granted, Brian had the build of a good superhero, playing football through the first half of high school had helped with that. His costume would have to accent the fact that he was muscular and tone. It couldn't be colorful though. None of those reds and blues like Superman and Spiderman. Maybe more like Spiderman when he wore the black suit. That was pretty sweet. Plus, he would have to wear something that showed off his nice hair. He had gotten a lot of compliments over his unkempt but nice brown hair. Maybe he would just wear a mask over his eyes. Brian ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the couple of days’ worth of stubble. He would have to be more proactive about his shaving habits, that was for sure. Sure, Wolverine could pull off the weird facial hair, but Brian just couldn't.
“Nobody move!” the demand crashed Brian’s thoughts and brought him back to the real world. He looked toward the door and there, dressed in black with a black ski mask stood a man holding what looked like an assault rifle. Brian had played a couple of the Call of Duty games, but had never been hardcore enough to study the various types of weapons offered there. I bet that's an AK-47, he thought to himself, not because any trait of the gun stood out to him, but because he remembered a quote from a movie that those were the easiest types of guns to get and modify, so criminals loved to use them. It continued to amaze him, the nuggets of information one gathered from random sources.
People were screaming, and the armed man did not like it in the slightest. “Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed at them, and because he had a huge gun, everyone did as they were told.
It was clear that the gunman was nervous, his gaze never resting on one place or person. Brian found himself wondering if the gunman had an accomplice. Did anyone rob banks alone anymore? That did not sound like an intelligent move.
“Everybody down on the floor!” he ordered, gesturing with the large barrel of the gun.
Everybody began to kneel down, knowing that any sudden moves might cost them their lives. One thing the gunman had forgotten that banks often had security guards, and this one was crafty enough to slip behind the gunman, his own service pistol aimed with shaking hands. His gun gave a loud bark and the gunman lurched forward but did not drop. He spun on his heels and it was then that Brian could see the gunman had at least been smart enough to wear a Kevlar vest himself.
The rifle fired without mercy and at least three bullets found their mark, shredding the security guards chest wide open. Glass shattered behind him as blood sprayed everything. Beyond the glass lay the busy traffic of a main street. It did not look as if any of the others shots had found anything of not beyond the street, but it was clear that any one of them could have killed an innocent bystander. This man endangered people with that violent spray of bullets.
Brian found that he was moving, having been slow to drop like the rest. He couldn’t remember having the thought to do something or even the thought that perhaps it was necessary. Perhaps it was the lone security guard that had tried to save these people and had paid with his life. Perhaps it was the callous nature in which the gunman had risked the lives of the people in the street. He could not say what motivated him, but he was sure that the yell that erupted from his throat was sheer rage. He bound across the room with frantic speed, hoping to catch the gunman before he could turn that barrel back toward him. Though the gap was somewhat considerable, the gunman was slow to turn, perhaps himself shocked by his actions against the security guard. Whatever the reason, Brian was there before the barrel was, and having had his fist raised the entire time, he once again remembered another movie quote from some obscure film.
“Don’t punch them, punch through them.” He did just that, throwing his fist forward as hard as he could, still rushing forward so that all of his momentum came in behind the punch. He hadn’t thought about where he planned to hit, and something inside him felt that it didn’t matter. His fist slammed hard into the gunman’s chest and Brian could feel the Kevlar take the brunt of it, but he could also hear bones snapping underneath that protective covering. Then, he was shocked to find that the gunman was lifted off his feet and thrown like a broken ragdoll through the shattered window.
It all happened in slow motion to him, the hit, and then the gunman flew out into the street. There, he slammed like a wrecking ball into a car that was driving by, unaware of the events unfolding in the bank. The gunman’s body t-boned the car, slamming into the driver side door with such velocity that it rocked the car off two of its tires and in turn crumpled the driver side door inward. He had seen the woman who was driving, bobbing to the sound of some song on the radio. Now, she tried to scream, but it as well as her life was cut short. Brian would later find out that the crank handle for the window had pierced her chest, killing her, but not before it had inflicted horrible amounts of pain.
Brian stood there, fist still outstretched, watching as the car rocked back onto all four tires and the damage done was revealed to him. Nothing any of his hundreds of horror movies could have prepared him to witness. Blood pooled everywhere, all over the windshield and even now dripping down from the car onto the pavement. The news would later report that the impact of the body had broken both axles and that while the engine was still running, the dead woman’s foot planted on the gas, but the wheels weren’t getting the message. There was just the loud roar of the engine as it seemed to wail at the loss of its owner.
Besides the roar of the engine, and the close by gurgling of the dying guards final breaths, the world seemed to stop, and no one else moved or even breathed. Brian faced with the obvious fact that he had just killed two people crumpled to his knees. This wasn’t in the comics. This wasn’t in the movies. It struck him. How many movies had he seen where the heroes and villains fought through the streets, crushing cars as they leapt from one to the other in high-octane stunts, while the cars they had jumped from crumpled and slammed into each other? Or when the rays of some awesome gun missed and punched a hole through a skyscraper. Superhero movies were littered with deaths of the innocent, the not so super people who just happened to get in the way of two titans trying to kill each other. He found he didn’t want to be a superhero anymore. He wasn’t even sure he hadn’t just crossed that line to super villain.
The world started to have sound again as someone started screaming. He couldn’t even tell if it was a woman or a man or a multitude of them. He stay where he was, knelt on that glass-strewn marble floor, head down and tears rolled down his cheeks. He could feel some of them standing around him, perhaps reaching out to him, but fearful of touching him or maybe even startling him. Worried that his reaction might just as lethal for them.
Someone screamed for an ambulance, and for someone to call 911. He knew it wasn’t necessary as he could already hear the sirens. Someone of authority had already heard the call. Someone whose job it was to sort out who were the villains and who were the heroes. He willed them to hurry, to bring with them the decisive judgment of what he had become.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder, calm and reassuring as someone knelt down beside him. His long, brown hair covered his face, so he could only see blue slacks, but he was thankful for the voice. “You saved people,” the blue slacked man told him, squeezing his shoulder to emphasize the point. “No, matter what they say, you are a hero,” he told Brian. Brian wasn’t sure he would ever believe that again, but he was thankful. He wasn’t thankful for the words, but he understood the intent. Someone had looked beyond the fear of touching this freak and had found the compassion to reassure him.
The man never said his name, but he must have knelt beside Brian for twenty minutes as he sobbed. The police arrived, and everyone began to tell what they had seen. Brian didn’t listen; for fear that he would hear them refer to him as some sort of monster. During the whole process, a voice reassured him, telling him that he had done the right thing. He didn’t believe it, but it didn’t stop him from listening.
Then another hand touched his shoulder. “I am sorry son, but we have to take you in,” a police officer told him.
“I understand,” Brian said struggling to rise. Through all the chaos, his legs had fallen asleep.
“It’s only protocol, son. Nothing personal,” the police officer said, trying to be kind to Brian.
Brian raised his head now, looking around finally, at the carnage he had played a large part in creating. Whoever the blue slacked man was, he had gone, maybe himself pulled aside for questioning. He did not know. The police officer in front of him wore a uniform, and Brian could see that his nametag read Kims. Then Brian noticed the outrageous mustache Officer Kims sported. It was so thick and bushy it reminded him of those skits where they used to mock porn movies. The thing was like a large caterpillar had started making love to the officer’s face, and before Brian could think about it, he told the officer as much.