Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  One last brute to kill before she got to the man in charge. As she stormed toward the big one, he laughed, a deep laugh from the belly. Rage was the only emotion coursing through her veins. Sasha would be a free woman tonight no matter what. She cared for the girl, but for the moment, she set aside her softening attitude toward her friend.

  “Put away the knife,” Miguel said, his voice carrying a thick accent.

  “When I’m done killing him,” she said.

  Before she managed a swing with the blade, the back of a hand struck her across the face. The force of the punch spun her, sending her to the ground in a heap. She struggled to suck in air as her body tried to assess the damage. She gripped the knife tight, ready to swipe at the man’s legs when she heard a click.

  “Move and I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “Bet you won’t.” She spit blood onto the floor.

  “She’s fucking crazy,” said the brute.

  She had been hit harder. She had been abused longer. She had survived. She would survive. She got to her knees to see the behemoth of a man holding a gun, the muzzle pointed at her face.

  She laughed.

  “Skits, I always thought you were crazy bitch,” said Miguel.

  “Happy to make your acquaintance.”

  The brute’s eyebrow rose. He glanced at his boss. Miguel gave a slight nod. The hammer pulled back on the firearm, a slow, deliberate motion, a fear tactic.

  “You’re not getting Sasha.”

  Miguel motioned with his hand for the brute to wait, then stepped closer, being sure to stay just outside her arms’ reach. “I don’t know who Sasha is, sweet child. You’re the one I’m concerned with. Nobody gets out.”

  She wondered if she could lunge from her knees and push the gun aside. What if she went for the brute’s legs? She ran scenarios through her head as Miguel rattled on about owning her. She ignored his lecture and focused on the gun in his companion’s hand.

  The small man maintained his grip on the gun pointing at her head. The barrel was a hole descending into blackness. The decorative engraving along the side led to the trigger where the large man’s finger rested, perfectly still, like he had done this a thousand times. Held within the palm of his hand, a magazine housed a dozen bullets, each one destined to kill. Inside the copper jackets, a small amount of gunpowder rested behind a lead pellet. The next bullet, in the tiniest letters, contained her name etched along the surface.

  The gun exploded.

  “What the fuck,” yelled Miguel.

  As the brute reeled backward, nothing but a bloody stump remained of his arm. He clutched his disfigured hand, cradling it, screaming all the while. Skits smiled at his struggle. He’d suffer before she killed him.

  “How did you...” Miguel sputtered.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  Miguel reached behind his back, most likely going for a gun tucked away in his pants. She stalked toward him, each step more determined than the last. He swung his arm out wide, a glint of steel shimmering as he cocked the hammer on the weapon. She didn’t hesitate as she swiped the blade across his neck. The edge of the knife dug into the skin, sinking deep as it tore at the meaty parts of his throat.

  He never fired the gun. He attempted to stem the blood flow from the wound, using his hand like a giant band-aid. The red flowed freely. She reached out and took the gun from him, his paralyzed body unable to stop her as his remaining blood pumped onto his designer shirt. Miguel fell to the ground and blank eyes stared at the ceiling. Dead.

  She returned to the brute with a missing hand, his screams still going strong. She pulled the trigger. The first bullet ricocheted off the pavement near his head. The man attempted to crawl away from her, using just one arm.

  “Sasha, please—“ he cried.

  She squeezed the trigger over and over until it just clicked. Never a fan of guns, she was caught off guard when the last two bullets struck the man in the head, removing a portion of his skull.

  The sirens couldn’t be far away. Her adrenaline high started to fade. She staggered back down the hallway, looking for Sasha. Skits leaned against the doorway where she left the girl. The mattress appeared untouched, with no signs of the girl.

  “Sasha,” she yelled. Skits worked her way from room to room, unable to find any evidence that Sasha made it to safety. She put her back to the wall and slid down until she slumped on the floor.

  “I did it Sasha,” she mumbled to herself, “I stopped them.”

  Skits strained to keep her eyes open as two officers stormed the hallway. The first one inspected the doors, checking for thugs, while the other rested his fingers on her throat. “We’ve got a pulse,” he said.

  “Jesus,” the officer at the door said. “She diced them up pretty bad.”

  “Look at her,” his partner said. “Looks like they’ve been beating on her for years.”

  “A working girl?”

  “You think?” he replied with sarcasm.

  Behind the two men, she caught a glimpse of Sasha, the young girl smiling before she mouthed, “Thank you.”

  One of the officers got down on his knees, holding Skits’s hand. “You’re okay honey, they can’t hurt you anymore.”

  No, she thought, they can’t.

  Dwayne

  February 13, 1992

  My Dearest Dwayne,

  Where do I begin, child? I am truly sorry for the heartache caused by the departure of Michael. Without a doubt, he loved you even more than you can fathom. It was evident in every smile, every laugh, every argument. Despite my ability to see the future unfold, I cannot say what it holds for you, but I can see a man carrying the burden of guilt.

  I know you have replayed the events of that day over and over again in your head. It shall not offer much condolence, but there was not a future in which your beloved survived. Had I been able to protect the man who gave yours reason to beat, I would. Unfortunately, in each variation of our destinies, his ended the same.

  Your story does not end here.

  Stop falling victim to your self-loathing. You have a talent to lead the lost and soon you will be called upon to do just that. The lightning you wield with your hands pales in comparison to the storm brewing in your heart. Those who stand in your way will not persevere once you move forward. There will be one in particular that you need to lead. He will remind you of yourself at a young age, arrogant and rebellious. Have patience.

  On May 17th, 2032 at 3:30PM, you will have your chance to liberate this young man. Go to the Facility.

  As the Nighthawks gather, continue to protect them. Your futures will be a struggle to illuminate a darkness that will fall on future days.

  With Regards,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  July 1, 2028

  Hours had passed since the letter touched his fingertips. The Angel of the Outlands sought him out with a single message. As the winged being landed, her robes were tattered and frayed and at the same time she was the most majestic sight he had ever seen. He dreaded the hand of God hunting to eradicate him, but instead of smiting him, she only held a sheet of crumpled paper.

  Skits.

  He parked the car, leaning his head back, letting the leather of his jacket stick to his back. His fingers tingled as his cells produced more electrical charge than he could handle. It wouldn’t be long before he needed to ground himself or his powers would take control. It had been hours since the Angel helped him get through a security checkpoint in the fence leading to New York. From there, he jumpstarted the car and made it into the city.

  Bellevue Hospital had been relocated, renovated, and transformed into a pillar of modern medicine, but just a few blocks down the road, the original institution remained. He stepped out of the car, admiring the urban decay. He examined the yard through the thin cast-iron bars. As sunlight peeked above the horizon, it chased away the shadows lurking in the courtyard. The faint rays of twilight revealed the blacked out windows. He could almost hear the screams of the cr
azy who still inhabited the broken structure. He wondered if the sun would be able to chase away the chill settling along his skin.

  He removed his jacket, leaving himself bare-chested. He reached into a duffle bag in the back of the car and pulled out a knife which he tucked into his boot. He slipped the brass knuckles into his back pocket. Then he grabbed the metal bat, the tape stripped from the handle. He resisted the urge to thrust electricity into the weapon.

  He had not seen his sister in sixteen years, since the Nostradamus Effect changed his body. He’d fled home, scared of what he might be capable of, worried he would become a threat to his parents and Skits. He didn’t see her again until their parents’ burial, a tragedy wrought by a drunk driver. She was only ten, and for the briefest moment he considered whisking her away, stealing her from the foster system and letting her live with him. He scurried away at the funeral when he lost control and the cell phone in his hand burst into tiny shards of glass.

  After that, he had no idea what became of her. Time before the Nostradamus Effect grew distant, as if it were another life. He stopped looking back.

  Outside the hospital, he turned his gaze upward to whatever heaven existed in this fucked up world. “Sorry, Michael,” he whispered.

  He stalked across the street, over the sidewalk, and to a disintegrating metal gate. With a swing of the bat, the barrier shot open. The courtyard showed no signs the hospital maintained it. Leaves littered the ground, fallen from trees near death. The path was lined with small benches where the patients once sat to admire the flowers while they absorbed warmth from the sun. Now, no amount of sunlight could change the dreary grounds to anything but a cemetery for the forgotten.

  He had spent the better part of a decade with the man of his dreams. They met after Michael drove his car into a ditch to avoid a deer. Dwayne fought to hide his lust the moment the tow truck dropped off the damaged car at his garage. Michael was planning to move to the area and hoping to find an apartment to rent. He looked like a brute, the type of man you’d expect to have a motorcycle gang membership. Dwayne hid his smile when he found out the man was the new vet in town. Michael took the initiative, asking if Dwayne would show him around. Michael stopped hunting for a place to live and within the month they were arguing over who got what closet.

  The paint on the door to the psychiatric hospital didn’t show the same disrepair as the garden. He pushed against it with a grunt and found it held in place despite his best efforts. He inspected the door, looking for a handle. Discovering a small electric keypad off to the side, he sensed the building might not be the failing structure it appeared to be. With his hand hovering over the device, a jolt of electricity pushed out of his palm, crackling as it hit the lock. The door eased open as the hydraulic locks hissed, granting him entry into the hospital.

  A gun brushed against his cheek, held there by a security guard in full body armor. The man had been waiting for him, his finger hovering just above the trigger. A bulletproof vest hugged the man’s chest, giving him the appearance of a police officer in riot gear. Dwayne wondered how many guards were in the facility. The man inhaled, preparing to give a warning, or a threat, Dwayne didn’t care which.

  He jabbed the bat forward, and as it made contact with the guard’s torso, electricity arced from the metal, knocking the man backward. The smell of burnt ozone and charred flesh filled the small lobby. Before the man responded, Dwayne swung the bat. His high school baseball coach would be proud. The club connected with the guard’s helmet, slamming him to the ground. His body stilled.

  Dwayne gripped the weapon tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the body. He froze once he realized his opponent’s chest stopped moving. He came to find his sister and nothing was going to stop him, but this was unexpected. He knew there was a possibility he’d have to kill, but he didn’t think it’d happen to the first person he encountered. Only two blows and the man lay dead at his feet. He hoped Michael couldn’t see him as he turned to the gate blocking his way. His gut told him this wouldn’t be the only guy he would kill today.

  The interior of the lobby appeared more like a grand entrance to a mansion. He imagined that with fresh paint and decorative art pieces, the place would return to its glory days. Chips peeled from the walls and the floor boards were filled with so many scuffs it seemed if it wouldn’t be long before the Board of Health came to shut them down.

  Sixteen years ago, electricity poured out of his hands for the first time. It started a small fire in his house. Back then, there were no labels for what happened to him. He knew his life was over and that he would be dangerous to anybody nearby. He hated moving out but had to shortly afterward, fearful that at any moment jolts would burst from his palms and electrocute his two-year-old sister. The bittersweet farewell made him hopeful for the future, but in the end he still abandoned his family.

  Now, he pushed at the metal door leading from the lobby into the hospital. The lock prevented him from entering, reminding him he was an intruder. If somebody caught him on the security cameras, law enforcement was most likely on their way. A nurse in a white uniform stared at him in disbelief. He eyed the lock, hoping she’d surrender and just open the doors.

  He pressed his hand against the door, ignoring her wide-eyed stare. A surge jumped between his fingers and the door. It creaked as it opened.

  He walked to the small station she stood behind, convinced she wouldn’t be any threat. “I’m looking for my sister.”

  “You’re one of them, a Child of Nostradamus.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  “I want my sister, ma’am.”

  Fear radiated off of the woman to the point it was palpable. Her eyes locked with his, the skin along her neck showing goosebumps. She tripped backward at his step in her direction. Her jaw closed for a moment as she gulped, trying to regain some semblance of composure. She pointed down the hall. “Only two wings are open. Women are in C-Wing.”

  The Angel had warned him. Her words had less to do with breaking his sister out of the mental institute and more to do with him finding salvation. Her voice echoed in his mind, a sagely tenor reminding him to not lose himself in his grief. “You are more than the sum of your powers.” She had been the first caring person he encountered after Michael’s death. Her tattered robes and flowing blonde hair had been angelic on their own, but he felt insignificant in her presence as her wings shot out.

  As his begged for forgiveness, her eyes tore through his bravado and touched the overflowing well of pain. Her gentle blue eyes held compassion, only giving him a simple warning. She had not spoken since then, letting the silence between them be the starting place of their friendship.

  He snapped to and realized he had no idea where he was in the massive structure. Narrow halls sectioned off by pressure-sealed doors left the hospital appearing like a compartmentalized rat maze. As he pushed through the next door, he stumbled into a room the size of a basketball court. There were broken couches with ripped pillows pressed against one wall while wheelchairs littered the room.

  “Stop,” yelled a man from a doorway on the far side. Beside him, another man shifted into a defensive stance.

  He didn’t. He continued walking toward the two orderlies blocking the exit. Both men were intimidating in their stark white uniforms. Dwayne wondered if they thought he was a lost patient. Here was a man with no shirt, carrying a baseball bat, and terrorizing the staff of a psych ward. This might be normal for these two men.

  He tried jabbing the metal baton into the first orderly’s gut. The large man moved quickly, snatching the weapon. Dwayne didn’t know if electricity had stopped flowing through the metal or he had a high tolerance to pain. He tore it away and tossed it across the room.

  “Who let you out of your room?”

  The man swung, his fist landing a solid blow on Dwayne’s cheek. Dwayne spun about, landing on the floor. He had sorely underestimated the strength of the man. Dwayne hoped the orderly had a be
tter bedside manner with the rest of the patients.

  “I don’t want any problems,” Dwayne said.

  He reached back into his rear pocket and grabbed the brass knuckles. He got up to one knee as the orderly approached. Before he touched him, Dwayne swung upward, the brass connecting with the man’s jaw. The surge of electricity and the ferocity of the blow launched the man several feet into the air.

  He crumpled to the floor. The other nurse rushed Dwayne, his arms out wide as if he intended to grab him in a bearhug. Dwayne feigned with his right fist and then punched with his left. His cells pushed electricity through his hand and into the metal, and as it hit the man’s chest, it seized his heart, contracting his muscles. The man fell to the floor in a heap. Dwayne listened for his breath, knowing the chance of survival was slim. He only noticed a slight pang of guilt.

  His final words to Michael were less than loving. “I don’t fucking care what you think.” The fight was the same as every other. Dwayne was content being a mechanic in a town in the middle of nowhere. Michael encouraged him to look for other Children. The man of his dreams welcomed him as a grease monkey. However, he demanded Dwayne acknowledge that he belonged to the most dangerous species on the planet. Michael accepted him even when he couldn’t do it himself.

  He wanted Dwayne to escape Pennsylvania and find more of his kind. Dwayne used his abilities in isolation, trying not to let Michael see when he needed to expel built-up energy. But even Michael noticed it happened more frequently. Dwayne refused to accept the idea of living anywhere but his hometown and he couldn’t change his routine on a whim to scour the globe for others like him. No, their fight had been epic. Dwayne wished his last words were reminding the man how much he loved him, instead of “I don’t fucking care.”