by Jeremy Flagg
“Who the hell are these people?”
“You know how all old folks’ homes have those crappy painting classes? They say it keeps their minds sharp or some shit. Well, when you have a senior citizen home filled with retired artists, you find this. To be honest, it is a little intimidating at times.”
Gretchen leaned in to examine the closest canvas. “I can see why. His brush strokes are so…” Her face hovered inches from the canvas as she inspected the craters created by the creator’s brush. “Angry.”
“Yeah, Dante, he has some issues to work out. I think he’s still angry his wife left him for a man half his age.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Dante claims she’ll never get the attention in bed she did with him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I work with a bunch of perverted old people. Don’t even get me started on how Maryanne likes to use her breasts as brushes.” Conthan laughed at the wide-eyed expression on Gretchen’s face. “They’re not your stereotypical old folks. Well, except for their need for dinner promptly at five. Thankfully it leaves me the entire evening to accomplish work.”
She moved to the next canvas, where a shadow of a figure wrapped itself around a small child. Mumbling to herself, she backed away from the painting. She pointed to the corner. “This woman’s work is interesting. Her transition from seamless brushwork to the use of a thicker medium to show the consuming nature of this”—Gretchen took in the artist’s work—“shadowy thing, is absolutely breathtaking.”
“Gloria. She hears voices. She says when she was younger, she met a girl consumed with darkness. Everything she works on tries to explain what she witnessed.”
“It must be difficult, so much talent, and yet your mind is going.”
Conthan shook his head. “I’m not sure. I sometimes think the voices are there.”
Gretchen raised her eyebrow. “You don’t mean she’s a...”
“Ask no questions, tell no lies.”
They admired another painting, a scenic landscape. While Conthan attempted to guess the location of the urban vista, Gretchen wandered off to take in the rest of the works of art. The scene held a certain depth of light, more than Oscar typically applied to his paintings. The faint moon and directional tints of street lamps gave an eerie sense to this particular composition.
He said, “I have to admit, these folks certainly smoke me when it comes to execution. What are the chances I would get this kind of experience shacking up with our classmates?”
“It seems you don’t need much help in the execution department.” Tucked behind a group of unused canvases, Gretchen fished out a piece of work Conthan had hidden from the others. “You don’t want to see that,” he said, quickly dashing toward his classmate.
“Back up before I kick you in the throat.”
He didn’t want to challenge her threat. “How’d you figure out it was mine?”
“You have got to be kidding me. I sat behind you in class. I watched you doodle the same image a thousand times. I thought you were working on a comic book.”
He didn’t respond. The gothic punk princess holding the painting couldn’t be further in appearance from the girl he painted. While Gretchen had a gruff exterior, it only existed due to layers of makeup, tattoos, and piercings. The young woman in his work held a more exotic skin.
“It’s a daring composition. Having her stare at the viewer? I appreciate her confronting the audience. I think there is something affectionate, almost uncomfortable about how you engage with her. Who is she?”
Conthan lowered his eyes, dodging the intimacy of her request. “She’s a Child of Nostradamus, calcified epidermis.”
“How do you know her?”
Conthan pulled the canvas from Gretchen’s hands. This was an awkward moment, too friendly, too early in their relationship.
“I’m sorry,” she said, letting him take the portrait.
“Maybe someday.”
“You should keep going with them. I mean, you connect to her somehow, it’s obvious with the care in your work. Should consider making a show out of it.”
“Who would show work featuring a Child of Nostradamus? You won’t hear somebody on the street using the phrase. The censorship police have wiped them out of existence.”
“I know somebody who would.” When Gretchen grinned, it had a bit of evil lurking just at the edges of her upturned lips. She must have practiced her ability to play coy.
“Who?”
“I need to introduce you to some artists our age.”
“Like I said, it might constantly reek of baby powder and cranberry juice here, but these are some serious artists.”
“I’m not knocking them, but I have some friends I think you would get along with. We have a little artist collaborative. We help each other out.”
“Anything worth seeing?”
“I think you’d be surprised.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Are you hungry? I’m thinking waffles. I mean like, I need a waffle right now.”
“Gretchen, you are piece of work. How come we didn’t start hanging sooner?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I thought you were a pompous asshole.”
“Glad to know you’re a good judge of character.”
He ushered her to the door. After flipping off the lights, he stepped outside and pulled the door closed until the lock clicked. He held out his elbow, eliciting an eye roll from Gretchen. “Don’t lie, I’m the best arm candy around.”
“On a deserted street, you’re not wrong.” She linked arms with him and they walked the two blocks toward the diner. Her grip tightened as they passed the police cruiser. She tried to play it cool, but the subtle clench of her hand spoke volumes. He had to wonder if she had a past with the law, or if she had spent time in the back of a cruiser. He bit back the joke about being handcuffed before, deciding some conversations could wait until they knew each other better.
The small eatery sat between a dry cleaner and a small grocery store, narrow with a counter and stools on the right and small booths on the left. Tino behind the counter gave his usual wave without turning. “Find yourself a seat and I’ll be with you.” He flipped several pancakes, his spatula moving at lightning speed.
“Best waffles in town,” Conthan said.
“You’re talking to the waffle queen.”
They slid into a booth near the back of the diner, away from the few patrons eating dinner. Neither bothered to look at the menu, instead focusing on the man in the dirty apron delivering food. He dropped off the plates at one table and approached them.
“He wants coffee and an order of biscuits and gravy,” Tino said. “What’s the pretty lady after?”
“Waffles, drench ‘em in butter, please. Bacon on the side.”
“She’s a good one, Conthan. You might want to keep this one around.”
Conthan laughed at the smug expression on her face. “Careful, Tino, you’ll go inflating her ego.”
The cook’s eyes darted to an old-school television hanging in the corner of the diner. His attention seemed captivated as he gawked at whatever was happening. Conthan tried looking around Tino but couldn’t make out the picture. He pulled his clear plastic phone from his pocket and pressed a button turn it on. A little symbol appeared and with a few clicks the phone synched to the television.
“Oh damn,” he said.
He slid the device between them and hit another button and a light shone upward. Projected just above the small table, a screen showed a woman with a microphone. The news channel had ticker boxes far too small to be read, but the anchor remained animated as she spoke quickly.
“We’re watching the Paladins as they apprehend their former commander who only weeks ago confessed to being a Child of Nostradamus. We go live to the event unfolding in lower Manhattan.”
A Marine clad in bright red and holding a rifle hardly flinched as a towering Child knocked the weapon from her hand. The camera panned to
the side, showing members of the crowd for comparison. It became apparent the Marine wasn’t that small, but the male Child stood at least eight feet tall. She dodged his first swing, but the second hand caught her around the waist.
“He’s huge,” Conthan gasped.
He raised the Marine above his head. She squirmed, trying to grab his arms and drive the heels of her boots into his face. The giant drove her into the street, shattering pavement until her body went limp. The Child roared as if his humanity had washed away. He grabbed at upturned chunks of the road and started hurling them toward the crowd, knocking several amazed bystanders to the ground. Chaos erupted as people ran screaming.
The sound of gunfire started off camera. Small red dots appeared on the man, followed by bloody holes. He yelled in anger, none of the wounds slowing him. The woman crushed into the pavement reached up, grasping at empty air. She should be broken, her bones pulverized into powder after being slammed so hard. Yet she showed no signs of injury.
“The Child Paladin,” Gretchen mumbled.
The Marine got to her feet and shook her head. The man swung a fist, striking her across the face. It should have sent her soaring through the air, dead from the strike, but the wild blow did nothing to move her. She caught the next fist with both hands, absorbing the impact. Kicking hard, she landed her heel on the man’s knee. The crunch of bone breaking could be heard through the news camera.
The man wailed.
She brought her head back and slammed her forehead into his, sending him staggering until he dropped to his good knee. With him down, they were eye to eye. His screaming stopped as he attempted to suck in another breath. With her fingers locked together, she swung her arms from the side and clubbed him in the jaw. The impact knocked spit mixed with blood from his mouth. He fell and she lorded over him, the heel of her foot firmly planted on his throat.
It took a moment before she realized the cameras were all focused on her. She barked commands, pointing to people in the crowd. Moments later the feed went black.
“We just witnessed a member of the Paladins take down a rogue Child of Nostradamus. We don’t have confirmation yet, but it appears the Paladin apprehending him is a Child herself. We’ll continue reporting as—”
Conthan punched a button on the phone, shutting off the feed. “That’s some pretty freaky shit right there.”
“What do you mean?” Gretchen asked.
Tino managed to break away from the television and return to his place behind the counter. The hissing sound that followed could only be bacon hitting the stove.
“He was a giant, he basically buried her through cement, and she got up from it. You can’t tell me that’s not a certain amount of freaky.”
“This coming from a guy obsessed with drawing a Child?”
“She’s different. I’ve known her since we were kids. Weird to think there are Children out there amongst us. I mean, anybody here could be one.”
“You never know.” She gave him a grin. “I could be one.”
“That would explain some things.”
“What shocks me is there is a Child out there hunting down other Children. Isn’t that some kind of hypocrisy? She’s turned on her own kind.”
“You never know, maybe they’re making her?”
“Or maybe she’s just that big of a bitch.”
Conthan got the impression Gretchen sympathized with the Children. He didn’t say anything, but he felt a certain kinship with her. His best friend growing up had been changed by the Nostradamus Effect, and seldom could he talk about it without worrying somebody would report him. He wondered if Gretchen knew any or if she just aligned herself with all sorts of disenfranchised people.
“Have you ever met a Child before?”
Before she could answer, Tino dropped a couple plates in front of them. Conthan took a deep breath of coffee scent as the owner walked back to his station at the oven. Conthan didn’t realize how hungry he was until the smell of sausage reached his nostrils. Gretchen took her first bite and little moans of joy escaped her lips.
“Best in the city, Tino,” she yelled.
“I know.”
They finished their meal and Conthan took the last swig of his coffee as the clock on the wall sounded. It was only ten o’clock and the streets would begin emptying. There was talk of a citywide curfew going into effect in the future to help curb crime in the evening. He had mixed feelings about the government telling him what he could and couldn’t do. If it offered safety to the residents, it’d be one thing, but it wasn’t like criminals stuck to the graveyard shift.
“Should we call it a night?” he asked.
“Probably, I’m going to look at a studio space tomorrow with my father.”
“Really?”
“His gift to me for finishing school. He doesn’t want me to be a starving artist and since I refuse to give up the arts, it’s his way of making an honest woman out of me.”
“You know some talented artists if you need material.”
“Nobody that talented,” she said with a smirk.
“You make my balls hurt.”
“Not the first guy to say that.”
Conthan walked up to the register and placed his hand on the glass plate. The register chimed and words “paid” flashed across the screen. He waved to Tino as they walked back to the street.
He reached into his pocket, digging for his keys, and dropped them on the ground. As he bent down, he heard the racing footsteps. A shove from behind sent him reeling against a parked car while hands rummaged through his back pockets.
“What the fuck?”
“Get off him, you asshole.” Gretchen tried to pull at the man’s neck.
The man bolted. Gretchen attempted to pursue, but the spiked boots she decided on for the evening prevented her from sprinting after the man. Conthan pushed off the car and raced past her, his feet moving swiftly as he decided his evening wouldn’t end with getting robbed by some asshat.
The man slowed his running as a car blocked his path. He slowed as he slid across the hood, allowing Conthan to close the gap a bit further. The thief paused for a moment as he saw the cop car parked on the road. Conthan sped up. The last time he ran had been in high school gym class. He hated it then. It didn’t get any easier with the extra pounds.
The officer leaning against his car looked up, seemingly uninterested in the pursuit taking place.
“He stole my wallet!” Conthan called. At any moment the officer would strike. The baton would flash and with a well-aimed throw, it’d catch the culprit between the legs. Or perhaps he would draw his gun, a warning shot in the air causing the robber to freeze in his tracks.
Or perhaps the asshole would look back down to his phone and continue clicking away at social media. “You motherfucker,” Conthan shouted as he whisked by. The man only responded by raising his middle finger. When Conthan finished beating the snot out of the thief, the cop was going to get a piece of his mind. Everybody assumed he would go to jail for assaulting an authority figure, might as well make being a criminal worth it.
The thief rounded the corner and ducked into a narrow alley. Conthan tried not to laugh. The alley ran behind his studio space and the giant metal fence at the end would slow down the man. Even if he started climbing, the ten feet of wire mesh led to a row of barbed wire.
As Conthan turned into the alley, the thief stood at the base of the fence, looking up. Conthan rested his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “Should have”—he sucked in air—“planned this a bit better.”
The man in the black hoodie looked back and forth, inspecting the barrier. He ignored Conthan’s critique.
“Dude, give up. Give me my wallet back and we can go about our business.”
“They took everything,” the man said.
“I don’t care what they took, I want my damned wallet.”
“Children. They’re a curse.”
“The Children of Nostradamus? Buddy, you need to get o
ver it.”
The man turned around, Conthan’s wallet still in hand. Conthan let out a whistle at the black and blue along his forehead. Whoever had gotten into a fight with this guy obviously won. The discoloration continued down the side of his face and around the front of his neck.
“Look buddy, you’re having a tough time. You can take the money, but I need my license back.”
“The Children.” The man didn’t stop muttering to himself. His babbling became incoherent as he rattled off about the Children. People tended to blame them for everything, like they were the scapegoats for all the troubles in the world.
“Did a Child do that to you?” Conthan pointed to the bruising.
“The letter said I should apply. It said I would be the perfect candidate for the job. She said I’d be great at my job. I didn’t know Children would show. He killed them.”
Other than the Paladin’s encounter earlier today, there had been nothing on the news about a rampant Children. Conthan didn’t trust the media. They had the power to shape and more so, to corrupt. Carefully selected details could be hidden and the outcome of the future was decided by a power-hungry editor.
“Who killed them?”
“The man with glowing eyes.” As Conthan inched forward, the man stared straight at him. The man’s gaze seemed distant, almost as if he was staring down ghosts. Conthan just wanted his wallet. A few more feet and he could just snatch it and act like this never happened.
The man reached into the pocket of his hoodie, fishing around for something. Conthan froze as the metal of a handgun reflected the street light. His license and a couple bucks were not worth getting shot. He’d suffer through getting a new license to avoid a bullet hole in his chest. “You can keep the wallet, man.”
“You can’t take me. I won’t go!”
The man’s yelling had turned hysterical. Conthan instinctively put up his hands. He studied the alley, but the only cover was leaving the narrow street. Even if the thief didn’t have decent aim, it’d be hard to miss only a few feet away.