Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  The man on the floor didn’t move. Dwayne gave him a swift kick into the stomach, letting out pent-up rage. The corpse didn’t respond. Winded, Dwayne eyed the door they had come through. He couldn’t be far from his sister now. Somewhere on the other side of those swinging doors, the last thread to a past he thought long forgotten awaited.

  “Duhwayne.” Her first words. Her pigtails had ribbons hanging from them and a their mother forced her to wear a purple dress. The moment they ignored her, she’d have the straps off and be running through the house naked again. His name had been the first thing out of her mouth, and each time he thought about her pudgy face saying it, the knot in his stomach tightened.

  Shadows appeared in the doorway the orderlies had used. Dwayne ducked low and scurried toward the approaching reinforcements. He crouched between it and a water cooler plugged into the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He gripped the metal in his hand, the weapon braced firmly in his palm. He licked his lips in anticipation.

  As they came in, he threw a punch, but the guard swatted his fist away with a baton, growling in Dwayne’s face. He spun the stick in his hand and brought it across Dwayne’s jaw, sending him to the ground. The orderly laughed.

  “Don’t have many people try to break in.”

  He was military, made obvious by the way he moved. The guard earlier had been a rookie, perhaps new to the gig, but this man, he was a lifer. He walked around Dwayne, staying just out of reach. His eyes darted about, looking for weapons on Dwayne. He hadn’t witnessed Dwayne’s abilities; he had no idea just how dangerous he was.

  His head turned for a moment, checking on the orderlies lying on the floor. Dwayne kicked out and his foot landed square in the center of the cooler. The five gallon jug at the top teetered, sloshing water across the floorboards. It hit the ground and rolled away from the two men.

  “What do you want?”

  Dwayne felt no pity. “I want you dead.”

  “Get in line, boy.”

  Dwayne shivered as the refrigerated water worked its way along his back, soaking through his jeans. He let go of the knuckles, letting them fall into the spreading puddle with a clank. The man’s black bulletproof vest made him appear wider than he was, adding to the overall mass. His girth made even more intimidating, but Dwayne had seen things more terrifying than a human with a piece of wood in his hand.

  Michael’s murder.

  Dwayne left Michael’s office to step out back. He walked between the white building housing the humans and several fenced-in areas housing animals. The dogs sniffed the air, excited to see him, hoping he brought treats. He kneeled on the ground, forcing the electricity out of his body. Michael’s asshole of an assistant witnessed the entire thing and phoned the Corps, telling them there was a Child of Nostradamus. They showed up within forty five minutes. It wasn’t the men in their signature tactile gear that terrified him, it was the machine.

  The news said the robots helped troops in the field, reducing soldier casualties. What the government forgot to mention was that they were primarily used on home soil to hunt down domestic terrorists. The machine had a gun mounted to its forearm. It spun as it came to life.

  They had been in the middle of the fight, but Michael didn’t flinch when he hurled himself in front of Dwayne. The bullet meant for him lodged itself in Michael’s lung. A primal screen escaped his lips. Lightning surged from Dwayne’s chest, burning away his t-shirt in a single bolt of primal energy. It crushed the metal of the synthetic and tossed it through the wall, leaving an expensive pile of scrap metal. He didn’t have time to plan; he ducked out the back and drove away in the pickup, skidding out of the parking lot.

  The armored orderly’s boot squeaked as he stepped into the water. He brought his arm down, the baton speeding toward Dwayne’s face. Dwayne relaxed his muscles, opening the floodgates that kept his abilities in check. Electricity sped along the surface of the water, touching the man’s boot, and with a bit of exertion, Dwayne managed to make the sparks jump to his leg. He pushed harder until the power coursed through the man’s muscles, burning him from the inside.

  Dwayne didn’t stop until the stench of burned flesh turned sickly. The man survived the shock, his heart somehow managed to keep beating. However, the skin on his legs turned crunchy, blackened, while his face changed to a bright pinkish color. Dwayne imagined the pain the man would feel for the rest of his short life. He spun over and got to his feet. He placed his wet hands on either side of the man’s skull and let the power pass between his hands. Dwayne tossed him backward as one of his eyes exploded in its socket, spurting vitreous fluids.

  Before the body crumbled to the ground, Dwayne moved toward the door and worked his way down a long hallway and to another metal door. The door had been left unlocked. He entered the wing housing the female patients. The security monitors behind the nurse’s station let him know whoever was supposed to keep guard had fled. He didn’t want to kill them, but nothing was going to stop him from getting to his sister.

  Except a machine.

  The hall stretched nearly sixty feet. The walls were bare except for small lights that kept the space just bright enough to give away the depressing hospital decor. The human-shaped robot stepped from a turn in the hallway, pausing to process the scene. The news said that each robot was manned by a human in a control facility somewhere. Somebody now calculated the threat assessment of a wet, half-naked man.

  He reached out, grabbing the bulb in the sconce on the wall. The decoration looked as if it should be a wax candle flickering in the night, an old touch yet to be updated by the hospital. He crushed the glass, ignoring the stinging in his hand. Power jumped from the socket into his palm. He breathed in, letting the raw electricity fill his body. As he siphoned electricity, the bulbs began to explode all along the walls.

  The lights on the synthetic and the light glowing from his charged body illuminated the hallway. He heard the snap of locks as each of the doors opened. He wondered who might come out of the rooms and what their mental state might be.

  The robot sprinted forward, its metal toes scraping along the tile. Dwayne couldn’t tell if the machine had armed its weapons or if it planned to engage in close quarters. At last the red lights approached near enough that he was able to purge his body of the recently acquired electricity from the socket. A clap sounded through the hospital as a bright flash of light shot out from his body.

  The machine reached out for him, its slender metallic fingers ready to dig into his shoulders. He thrust out both palms, tensing the muscles in his torso. Lightning leapt from his knuckles and sank into the metal of the synthetic. He pushed harder, the cracking getting louder as the brightness increased. He grunted, feeling his hands starting to burn as the machine fell backward, taking several steps away from him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hissed.

  He thought of the knife in his boot. Would the metal even be able to penetrate the machine’s hide? He hoped the charge from the lightning in his body would be enough to shut down the machine. There was no plan B.

  He was certain the operator was being fed instructions. Would the machine be ordered to take him in, or to terminate him so they could dissect his body later? His panting became grunting as he dug his nails into his palms. He hated the animated object and the person controlling it. He prepared to charge the machine, determined to go out swinging. Perhaps it was the same operator who killed Michael. It would only be fitting that the man kill him too. The resolve started to leave his body. Would Michael greet him in the afterlife, or would he be condemned to hell for the deeds carried out tonight?

  The machine pulled back its arm and a small box popped out of its wrist. He knew it was about to fire the killing blow. He reached out, hoping for one last jolt of electricity, but the sythetic knocked his arm to the side, pinning it to the wall. He pushed back, trying to pull himself free, but hydraulic limbs held him in place. Only seconds remained before a single bullet pierced his skull and left him ready for vivisect
ion.

  The hallway flickered to life. For a moment he wondered if his body was reacting to fear, if perhaps the illumination came from his abilities. The glow grew brighter behind the machine. He didn’t hear anybody moving. Whoever approached remained silent. The light got bright enough that it cast an eerie blue hue throughout the hallway. With the glow came an uncanny amount of heat, to the point where sweat already dripped from his forehead.

  The machine turned, the operator deciding the source of the light was curious enough to warrant attention. Two feet beyond the machine, the blue blaze seared through the skull of the synthetic. Where the light broke through, the metal seemed to melt away until there was a massive gap in the head. The hydraulic grip relaxed and Dwayne stepped back, putting distance between him and the owner of the torch.

  With a grunt, whoever stood behind the machine pushed it to the side. A woman in the remains of a straightjacket. A blue glow radiated about the girl’s arms while she huffed and puffed from the exertion. Where the liquid fire touched her skin, the material of her clothes caught ablaze, falling away in small flames. He was shocked to see the woman’s hands produced the torch. Her face looked haggard, her eyes sunken into the skull and her focus seeming to go in and out. Squinting, Dwayne he recognized the ghoulish woman.

  “What took so long, bro?”

  Conthan

  February 13, 1992

  Mr. Cowan,

  As you ponder the situation laid out in front of you, it is clear that things will never be the same. Before you are many decisions, but alas, beyond this point I cannot see nor predict your future. You are an element that seems to defy the strands of probability. I fear that before you lies a path that will test the fortitude of your soul. I wish I could give you more than a simple direction. I have done everything in my power to see you safe to this point. I wish I could tell you that somewhere on the other side of the darkness will be you, standing triumphant. However, I cannot. For that, I am sorry. What I can do is start you on your hero’s journey.

  Go to Sarah.

  With Regards,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  March 3, 2031

  “At least I’m not the biggest dick in the room.”

  Conthan sipped champagne from the plastic flute, savoring the disgustingly sweet liquid. He wondered if there was etiquette for spitting it out? Did you spit back into the glass? Do you spit it into the nearest fake plant? Do you tell your host their taste in wine is as bad as their choices in art?

  The six-foot long canvas hanging on the wall wasn’t intimidating on its own. The artist, one of his professors, used the eighteen square feet to create an ink drawing of an extremely rigid penis. Conthan sighed, shaking his head as his brain refused to appreciate the art. The line work appeared absentmindedly sloppy. The composition came across lackluster and elementary at best. Even the actual member seemed an unattractive choice.

  Muscles tensed along his back as a young woman stood shoulder to shoulder with him while she admired the fifth-grade level drawing. From the corner of his eye he inspected the woman. Her black denim vest had almost as many spikes as her collar. She had been in his first art appreciation course, but he hadn’t seen her since then. If he remembered correctly, she had been somewhat difficult for the professor to manage.

  “I need to ask.” She ignored his wandering gaze. “Do you feel threatened by a six-foot-tall member, or is it just when it’s attached to a man?” Her tone had a flat quality to it that left him unsure if she was joking or making an observation.

  When in doubt, sarcasm was his preferred method of communication. “Attached. However, I’m fearful of the giant dick who forced his students to come to a homoerotic coming out party loosely masqueraded as an art exhibit.”

  A slight clearing of the throat.

  “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?”

  The woman had a faint laugh as she walked away, leaving him to fend for himself. He didn’t need the class to pass, but playing it wrong could wound his GPA. He turned around to the professor. Amongst all the phallic symbols, his sweater elicited a chuckle. “Seriously, a turtleneck?”

  The professor had a moment of self-consciousness, touching the fabric around his neck. “Mr. Cowan, I’m starting to receive the impression that you don’t appreciate art. When invited to an art opening, I believe there’s a certain amount of decorum you’re expected to show.” The man wrinkled his nose. “Something I fear you’ll never acquire.”

  Conthan had been willing to swallow his pride, at first. However, the scholarly man wanted to partake in a battle of wits. “I appreciate your invitation to a gallery opening. I’m just curious, is the address wrong? Because I’ve yet to witness anything that isn’t derivative of a first year art student attempting to garner a gasp and shock from the patrons.”

  The professor gasped.

  “Exactly! You understand it. I mean, while I enjoy eying the impressive desires of an artist suffering from penis envy, I feel I could capture the same aesthetic from watching an adult film. Porn. I’m talking about porn. And at least with that, I hear a jaunty soundtrack.”

  “How dare you...”

  “Waste my time by requiring students to attend your less than”—Conthan checked the man’s pelvis—“adequate display?”

  The professor scoffed and stormed off. Conthan gave a slight snicker. He’d expected it would take more to offend the artist so badly. “Apparently artists are a sensitive people.”

  Wandering through the crowd, he realized he had been right. The majority of the attendees were students from the professor’s classes, and a few colleagues most likely attending out of professional obligation. Standing near the small portable bar, the woman from before sipped her cocktail. In their class together, she had sported huge spikes of hair, now traded in for a half-shaved head and long waves down the other side. Despite her more feminine appearance, she still had an air of “don’t fuck with me” surrounding her.

  He moved through the sea of people to reach the bar. He ordered a beer and swigged the cheap beverage, taking up space next to the woman. “I’m going to be failing his class.”

  “You’re a hack, of course you’re going to fail it.”

  He wanted to spit back profanities, but he didn’t know anything about the girl to insult. Did he mock her hair? Her need to be different? He had a suspicion he had entered into a silent battle with a formidable opponent. When in doubt, drink.

  “Conthan Cowan—for the first time ever, the legendary smartass is at a loss for words.” She sipped from her plastic cup. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Now he remembered. “Gretchen Steiner, don’t you have a building on campus named after you? Nah, can’t be, that’d mean you were riding your parents’ coattails through college.”

  Her eyes rolled back hard enough he swore he heard them. “You’re a bigger asshole than I took you for.”

  “I hate to disappoint.”

  “Why are you bothering me?”

  “Among tall he people in this room, you’re the one I dislike the most.”

  “I see you’ve got a way with charming the ladies.”

  “Want me to applaud your rack?”

  She held out her hand. “Discuss my rack and I’ll stab you.” She eyed her hand, widening her fingers. “Shake it, asshole.”

  “Oh.” He took it and gave it a light shake. “I have so few friends, I forgot how this cordial thing works.”

  “I wouldn’t call us friends.”

  “Of course I’m going to be friends with the only person more insufferable than me.”

  They sipped their drinks in silence while inspecting yet another painting by the professor. Conthan tried to feign interest, but between the coercion to attend the show, the bad beer, and the lack of talent, he couldn’t tolerate his disappointment any longer.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Is this going to be a pathetic attempt for me to drop my pants?”

  “I think you’re safe. Let’s go
see some real artwork.”

  “Last time somebody said that to me, we woke up the next morning covered in bite marks and reeking of cheap tequila.”

  His eyes widened at the comment. “You’re really trying to piss off daddy, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Outside the gallery, Conthan hailed a cab and they packed into the back seat. For a moment they sat in awkward silence. “Don’t try anything weird,” she said.

  “What kind of men do you hang out with? I’m starting to think you might be the crazy one in this car.”

  They only rode a few blocks before the cab pulled up to the curb. Conthan pressed his thumb on the computer screen mounted behind the driver seat, paying the young cabbie. The keys jingled as he fussed with the lock on a steel reinforced door. They weren’t in the most dangerous area of New York City, but it wouldn’t be a shock to be held up at gun point.

  “Where are we?”

  “I share a studio with a group of senior citizens.” He chuckled. “We were supposed to see a show tonight—let’s see some real talent.” He motioned for her to enter the door. He gave a slight laugh at the confusion on her face. They only knew one another in loosest of terms, and here she was climbing out of a cab, entering a dark building with him.

  “We will so not be in a good place if you try to kill me,” she said.

  “Somehow I think I’m the one who should be scared.”

  “True.”

  He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and made a sweeping motion with his arm, grandstanding the studio. He smiled at her disbelief. For the last year, he shared the only affordable space he could find. At first it was awkward being the youngest man in the space by forty years, but after a while, he grew to love the seniors.

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  With the exposed brick and questionable drywall of a gutted old building, the room was a bit smaller than a basketball court. Along the edges, stations held paint, canvases, and various sculptures. Some of the paintings were done, drying until they could be on display in the senior center; others waited, half finished.