by C. C. Ekeke
Greyson was floating on air, surrounded by dirty curling clouds. The clouds parted.
He looked down at a world on fire and gasped. Crumbled ruins of buildings burned like funeral pyres, acres of forest scorched and smoldering…
Greyson! The vision shattered into millions of pieces as a familiar voice shook him from slumber. “Wake up, Grey!”
“Ummmmokay, okay.” Greyson’s eyes fluttered open and adjusted. He lay in bed at their condo. Her silhouette loomed on the side of the bed. Greyson pushed up to his elbows, shaking his groggy head. “Did I sleep through my alarm?” He eyed his alarm clock. “What the hell?” Greyson protested, more angry than groggy. “It’s Saturday and not even two in the morning—”
“Unimportant,” Lauren said, unapologetic. Her hair looked like she’d fought a tornado and lost. “Living room. Now.” She pulled his arm to drag him from bed.
Greyson flopped back onto the bed, covering his face with a pillow. “Can’t it wait?” he groaned.
Lauren ripped his pillow away with undue aggression. “NO.”
Greyson sat upright in surprise. Then he studied Lauren’s face in the gloom. She'd been crying. The TV was on in the common room. Something’s wrong. Greyson grasped Lauren’s shoulders, drowsiness slipping away. “Is it my dad?” He wasn’t sure if Dad’s passing would sadden him.
Lauren wiped away tears, shaking her head. “No.”
Greyson’s relief was short-lived. “My mom?”
Lauren bristled. “Grey—”
“Your mom?”
Lauren slapped Greyson upside the head. “It’s Titan!”
Greyson stared at his panicked lover. His brain filled with various nightmarish scenarios. Had Dad been right? Did Titan go crazy like Paragon had years ago? Greyson rose from bed, pulling Lauren with him. “What happened?” he requested in worried tones.
She shook her messy head of hair, hugging herself. “I don’t know that much. Was storing my new contacts late with NPR on when the news broke.” Fresh tears stained her cheeks. Lauren looked over her shoulder at the living room where the voices originated. “It’s on every network.”
Greyson slipped into caretaker mode. “Okay.” He pulled Lauren into a hug. “Let’s find out more.” Greyson guided Lauren to their spacious common room, its colors muted by shadows and the TV’s pale blue light. The news broadcast featured Titan front and center.
Two reporters spoke in subdued voices while footage rolled live from San Miguel, California. At the bottom of the screen was a news chyron in bold white letters.
Greyson’s brain couldn't accept what his eyes and ears were digesting. He flipped to the local NBC affiliate. Same news. CBS. Same. After flipping through ten channels, reality finally punched Greyson in the jaw. He sank onto his couch. “Oh my God.”
“I know,” Lauren agreed, her voice rough. “Can’t believe it.” She sat beside Greyson, wrapping her arms around him. They watched wall-to-wall coverage as more details emerged.
Greyson placed a hand over his horrified mouth. “Titan,” he whispered. “What happened to you…?”
Chapter 7
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
Rapid-fire expletives jolted Hugo back to the waking world. He first noticed that everywhere hurt. A lot. His face felt like an eighteen-wheeler had run over it repeatedly. Hugo’s jaw screamed anytime he tried opening it. His nose was broken, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. Left eye was swollen shut. The world swam, making his head pound harder and his ears keep ringing. Everything. Hurt.
Hugo then found himself in a car weaving wildly through traffic. The pungent stink of mace and urine made Hugo’s one open eye water.
He recognized the driver and instantly recoiled as far from him as the car allowed.
Brent Longwell was driving and slamming a fist on the steering wheel with each expletive. Blood smeared his white t-shirt. It took Hugo several frightened moments to realize the blood wasn’t Brent’s.
The blond teen turned, his face streaming with tears. Hugo’s thoughts were awash with pain, terror, and confusion. Why was he in Brent’s car? Even worse, where were Baz and his thugs?
Brent rambled on. “I didn’t know why we even came to Liberty Square. I SWEAR!” The lanky, strapping boy was crying. “Baz and DeDamien just told me to keep the car running! But they were taking so long I went into the park. And…I saw what Baz was doing.” Brent sobbed so hard, he was barely coherent.
Yeah, I was there. The painful fog lifted from Hugo’s brain. Memories faded in and out like bad cell reception.
He flinched from jagged images of Baz pummeling him. Fade to black...
Glimpses of TJ, Cody, and DeDamien’s increasing worry skipped through feverish thoughts. They did nothing to stop Baz. Fade to black…
Brent appeared out of the shadows, dragging Baz off Hugo. They argued. Baz maneuvered around Brent, unzipping his pants and relieving himself all over Hugo. His face contorted with cruel glee while his boys looked disgusted. Fade to black…
Hugo had come to on his back, alone in the darkness. His body wracked with agony, blood pooling around his face. He had tried crawling away, each movement fueled by the fear of Baz returning. Fade to black…
Brent returned alone, calling him. Hugo pleaded for mercy, struggling to crawl faster. But Brent’s horror had been genuine. He wanted to help.
Fade to black…
Hugo said nothing for a long while, hugging his pained ribs. That explained the urine smell, he realized. “What’s…” God, speaking was pure agony… “…the pepper smell?”
Brent spared another look at him and cringed. Alarm sounded in his pain-addled brain. Hugo must look worse than he felt. “Pepper mace,” Brent explained. “Used it on Baz and the others when I threw them out in downtown Paso.” He shook his head, fresh tears pooling. “You’re going to a hospital.”
Hugo shook his head. If he went to the hospital like this, Mom had to be pulled from surgery. Like when Dad died…maimed and unrecognizable when San Miguel police found him. After the year of hell she’d been through, Hugo couldn’t do that to her. “No…hospitals.” Hugo pushed blood-soaked locks from his swollen face with trembling fingers. “Drop me at my house.”
Brent gaped at him. “You’re bleeding everywhere. We—!”
“My mom’s a nurse.” Hugo winced. Pain spasmed up his stomach and chest. His face felt like a balloon. Everything swam back and forth. Mom could help after her shift. At least she wouldn’t be driving to another hospital, scared senseless over another relative. “She’ll take care of me. Please.”
Brent stared ahead, looking ready to refuse. Then he sighed. “What’s your address?”
They reached Hugo’s place past 11 PM. The East Paso Robles neighborhood was silent and well-lit.
For Hugo, any movement was torture, from removing his seatbelt to pushing at the door. Brent leaped out, rounding the front to pull open Hugo's door. “Let me help—”
“I’m fine.” Hugo waved him off when exiting the car. Pain knifed both sides of his stomach, causing him to curl up until the torment passed. Pride and shame forced him upright on wobbly legs.
Brent trailed Hugo’s slow limp-walk to the front door. Through his watery right eye, Hugo saw Mom wasn’t home yet. A small blessing. But he’d have to face her later. That soured his brutalized stomach.
After some fumbling with achy fingers, he found his keys and unlocked the door. As he shouldered the door open, Hugo noticed Brent at the foot of the stairs leading to his house.
The blond boy stood silhouetted by the Escalade headlights. His athletic physique was stiff with fear, white shirt slathered with Hugo’s blood.
The sight chilled him. “I won’t shut up about what they did,” he wheezed. “If that’s what you’re hoping.”
Brent shook his head, running bloody hands though his buzz-cut hair. “You shouldn’t. I’m sorry—”
Hugo didn’t need this asshole’s regret. “Go home.” He shuffled inside, slamming the door
.
From the unlit and quiet house, AJ had to be asleep. Thank God. Hugo couldn’t face his brother like this.
Climbing the steps upstairs was an agony. Dizziness threatened to upend his tenuous balance. The next labor was removing his clothes. Hugo couldn’t look in the mirror. He knew the sight would break him further.
The shower was long and scalding, high-water pressure slapping his battered face and chest. It felt good. What didn’t feel good was watching sheets of red bucketing off his body. Too much blood and grime. The tinge of yellow in the water reminded Hugo of Baz’s bathroom break. Shame outweighed the anger. Holding back tears, he scrubbed himself as clean as possible.
He limped out from the shower, aching but clean. His favorite Johnny Bahama shirt lay on the floor, ruined by bloodstains and rips where Baz had pulled and pummeled. Hugo wiped away the steam covering the mirror and looked. He barely recognized the battered face staring back. His left eye was swollen shut for sure. His nose looked more squashed than it felt, lips split and bleeding. Dark bruises covered the length of his swarthy body.
A sob shuddered through Hugo. Then another. He slumped to his knees and wept a long while. Grief-stricken for the father who chose eternal escape over his family. Anger over his own failure to be the man of the house in Dad’s absence. Pity over how powerless he’d been to stop Baz and his crew. Shame over Brie’s latest rejection, proving she didn’t care. His own brother thought he was a loser. Like Brie did. Toxic emotions scorched through him, relentless and crippling. “I’m pathetic,” he whispered between sobs.
Hugo couldn’t bear the pain, didn’t want to.
I want out. Dazed and despairing, he found the two Nyquil bottles in the cabinet under the sink. Opening them, Hugo downed both bottles.
As syrupy liquid flowed down his throat, relief burned through misery for the first time in months.
The medicine worked quickly. He couldn't keep his good eye open while pulling his pajama pants on, then the bedcovers…
Hugo’s last thoughts were relief as he drifted under. At least I won’t make a mess like Dad.
Instead, Hugo awoke to piercing radiance. All body pain was gone. No bruises marred his skin. Even his Johnny Bahama shirt was clean and untorn. He stood whole, untouched. At the end of the tunnel was sparkling warmth. Hugo could taste the peace and bliss radiating out, calling to him. Hugo smiled and walked forward. Freedom…
Until Hugo ran into a wall of costumed muscle. Baffled, he looked up at the yellow T covering the green torso and both arms.
“Titan?” Hugo frowned, more angry than happy to see his idol. “Why are you here?”
Titan studied him through narrowed glowing eyes. “Why are you here?” Disappointment laced his deep, iron tones. “You don’t belong here.”
Hugo opened his mouth to explain. But so much misery weighed on his shoulders. And the swirling glow behind Titan felt so alluring. “I’m done.” Hugo sighed, stepping around him.
The towering superhero sidestepped in concert, blocking him. Titan’s features looked carved of rock. “Not your time, Hugo.”
Hugo glared at him. “Says who?” He was done waiting for life to improve. “Move.” He dashed left to evade the hero.
Titan’s hand was a blur, catching Hugo’s shoulder.
The teen tried shrugging Titan off. But his hand was unyielding like stone. “Let me go!” Hugo demanded, anger soaring. “Let…Go!”
Titan hoisted him off the ground like a small child. The superhero’s smile held such sadness, Hugo momentarily stopped struggling.
“Like I said,” Titan repeated somberly, “it’s not your time.” He drew his arm back and tossed Hugo like a football, away from the radiance.
Hugo howled in anger, sailing back into cold darkness…
…awaking to blinding sunlight and tidal waves of noise.
Hugo squeezed his eyes shut and clamped both hands over his ears. It felt like the dials of all five senses had been cranked way beyond maximum. Bedroom colors were too vivid, too detailed, needles of sunlight lancing his skin. And the sound. Good lord! Cars racing by the house ran over his earlobes and not the streets. Chatter from countless voices at once, many of them sad or sobbing. Heartbeats thundering against his eardrums from everywhere, out of sync and at once. And did everyone have their TVs on? Newscasters all spoke simultaneously, similar reports from several TVs jumbled. Hugo couldn’t hear what anyone said.
Pungent body odor from dirty clothes in his hamper, dusty air, a rust flavor tickling his nostrils and trash made for an undesirable stench.
“What. The. Hell?” he groaned through gritted teeth.
Hugo rolled out of bed, balling up tight to escape the onslaught. No dice. Even touching the carpet felt different. Every rough-textured fiber scraped Hugo’s oversensitive skin. He jerked upright, weirded out by the strange sensation and its brushing noise flood his ears.
“Never drinking Nyquil again!” Hugo shouted over the roar leaking through covered ears.
He had to deal with this hypersensitivity crippling him. He opened his eyes. The visual input punched harder than Baz Martinez. Hugo stumbled back and closed his eyes, trying again slower.
His eyes adjusted to the visuals of his bedroom. Except it was like switching from those old boxy TVs to an 8K flat screen. Everything looked super intense and sharp. The wall of Titan and Vanguard posters. His beat-up backpack and notebooks leaning against the closet and the stack of superhero magazines. Everything appeared crystal clear and in vivid colors. Any wrinkles, tears, scratches, worn cloth along the surfaces of every object in his room. The low whirr of his computer at his desk. And the swaddled sheets on his bed with dark bloodstains. That explains the rusty smell.
Focusing on his bedroom dampened Hugo’s hypersensitivity somewhat. He lowered his hands.
Seeing the blood dislodged memories of last night’s beating. Hugo recoiled, yet felt no body aches. Both eyes opened easily. Like Baz and his boys had never touched him.
“Huh.” After a quick physical assessment, Hugo felt beyond fantastic, like his body was hooked into an energy conduit directly from the earth. Then Hugo looked around. Everything in his room seemed high off the ground, even though he was standing. “Why are things so small?” he asked himself.
A shotgun blast of ringing nearly blew out his eardrums. Hugo’s knees buckled as he slammed his hands over his ears again. It took him a couple seconds to realize that strident noise was his cellphone. Desperate to silence it, he scrambled toward his blood-stained shorts sitting under a book. Hugo grabbed the book and chucked it over his shoulder.
A loud crack startled him. He turned. The book got wedged halfway into the wall beside his closet. Hugo stared. “WHOA.”
Another detonation of cellphone noise wrenched his attention away.
What the hell is happening? he wondered, finally fishing his phone from his pocket, which he tore off in his haste. Was he still dreaming? He stared at the dazzling cellphone screen, bright and clear beyond measure. Simon. He was about to ignore the call before seeing icons for multiple text messages. With cautious fingers, he thumbed the notifications into view. His eyes widened.
Simon had called six times, Brie five times. He saw texts from Simon, Brie, US and international relatives he’d not spoken to in months. Even former friends who’d written him off after Dad’s death. Hugo couldn’t understand everyone’s sudden interest in him with this cellphone ringing so goddamn loud. He answered and pressed the device to his ear. “Simon?”
“HUGO. ARE YOU OKAY?”
Hugo grimaced and jerked away in agony. “Simon, stop yelling!”
“I’M…NOT!” Simon boomed, as if speaking inside Hugo’s skull.
Torrents of sound poured in from everywhere. The Samoan shook his head, barely hearing his own thoughts. “Lower your voice a little,” he pleaded, turning his cell volume way down.
“This better?” Simon asked, softer but still loud. “And what’s with your voice?”
“K
inda,” he admitted, confused by Simon’s complaint. Come to think of it, Hugo’s voice did sound two octaves lower. Probably from the Nyquil. That didn’t explain his amplified senses or miraculous healing. One thing at a time. “Sorry. Rough night.”
“That’s what I’m calling about.” Simon sounded emotional. Totally unlike him. The TV was on in Simon’s house, both his parents speaking somberly about whatever they were watching. Which sounded like the same broadcast playing outside of Hugo’s house. A massive tragedy? A freeway accident or another mass shooting? “I wanted to check in, make sure you were okay.”
Hugo winced. The surround-sound of heartbeats, cars driving by and newscasts thundered on. “Wait,” he stopped, alarmed. “How do you know about last night?”
“Dude, everyone knows about last night!” Simon exclaimed as if he’d asked a dumb question.
The reply landed hard on Hugo’s chest. “Everyone.” So, Baz and his assholes spread the word about what they’d done? Of course they had. Jesus… “Who told you?” he stammered, cheeks hot with shame.
“My mom woke me up three hours ago and told me,” Simon confessed, sounding so pitiful.
“Your mom?” Why Simon’s mom knew about Baz beating him up confused Hugo more.
“Why aren’t you more upset?” Simon barked, annoyed by Hugo’s obtuseness.
Hugo’s brain finally caught up, despite the overflow of auditory information. Simon’s mom had told him something else. “I think we’re discussing two different topics,” Hugo decided, shaking spills of wavy hair. “What did your mom tell you?”
Simon gasped—loudly. “Jesus,” he said with quiet sorrow. “You haven’t heard?”
Now Hugo was the annoyed one. “Heard wha…?” Before he could finish, the tail end of one broadcast broke through the clutter. Rebecca Reyes, veteran news anchor, spoke in grieving tones about last night's tragedy. In fact, newscasts blared into Hugo’s ears from around the block reported the same story using different words. Reyes’s shaky voice floated up from downstairs, giftwrapped in Mom’s sobs and what had to be AJ’s racing heartbeat.