Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  The roof was black asphalt. He spread a dark tarp over himself and laid down to watch. Hopefully less than three days....

  CHAPTER 22 – YOU CAN’T STOP ME

  Rachel followed the shadowy figure through wafting steam that smelled of eucalyptus. The posh white people sauntering past wrapped in fluffy white towels ignored the figure, and her, as if refusing to admit that regular people like her could be there, so out of place.

  Overhead fluorescent lighting flickered and hummed, adding a creepy quality to the drifting white clouds. Some kind of boring New Age music drifted from everywhere and nowhere.

  She had to keep moving. She was running out of time.

  A room, long like a hallway but wider, a long line of toilets on the right. Seats missing, layered with different colors of crust and slime, far, far too disgusting to use. Damn.

  She moved along the line. One of them had to be better. Black cockroaches skittered and crawled in and on and out of them. She shuddered and walked faster. Somewhere else, then.

  As one the cockroaches halted. As one they turned and looked at her. Antennae waved as black eyes regarded her with cold, cruel intent.

  An echoing, almost hissing voice replaced the peaceful, spiritual string music. “Oh, hello, pretty doll. Care to join me for a snack?” The raspy and guttural voice also whined in a way no human voice could.

  Cockroaches swarmed together and on top of each other. More spewed from every toilet like fountains of black. Together they blended into a shadowy, humanoid figure.

  She shot into it, pulling the trigger relentlessly until the slide locked back with a hollow click which echoed and echoed and echoed. The bullets had as much effect as they would have against smoke.

  The echoing sound became a haunting laugh lurking everywhere around her. An unseen hand gripped her heart with icy fingers. Similar fingers ran along her neck and down her spine.

  “You can’t stop me, you know.”

  She turned and jumped from one train car to the next. Clack-clack, clack-clack the wheels went over the rails.

  It was an old-fashioned train, too slow as it rumbled and rattled around a bend. If she got to the engine in time, perhaps she could make the engineer go faster. She had to catch the other train.

  Hickory chairs bracketed white-linened tables along both sides of the elegant dining car. Oil lamp chandeliers cast dancing yellow light on diners in formal wear. Real silver clattered against fine porcelain china. Orchestral chamber music floated in the air like dust caught in a beam of light. Yellow oil flame light.

  Light broke into prismatic beams from crystal wine goblets as clowns seated in pairs and fours looked up from their dinners. The beams played on their white faces as if from spinning disco balls.

  The dining car attendant stepped forward, resplendent in a tailored suit with white silk draped over an arm. “I have to see your ticket, Madame,” the skull head explained. Its skeletal hand extended, a gleaming watch dangling loose on its fleshless wrist.

  Of course, she didn’t have her ticket. She reached down for the badge at her belt, but was only wearing an oversized t-shirt and simple gray panties.

  “No, you don’t understand, I have to get to the engineer. There’s a bullet train up ahead I have to catch. It has a bathroom.”

  “Not if it crashes, Madame.”

  She pushed him aside. She was running out of time.

  “How rude,” a clown said.

  “What more did you expect?” They all laughed. She rushed forward and slid open the door at the front of the train car.

  She entered the locker room, gun drawn. Stale sweat and gym sock odor hit her like hot air from an oven yanked open. Tiled square pillars sported shower heads on all four sides. Water hissed and splashed and dripped. White mildew and dark mold mingled, spattered across the ceiling.

  A pale, slender woman ran her fingers through straight blonde hair under steaming water. She turned, scoffing with the most offended expression Rachel had ever seen. The woman made no attempt to reach for the towel hanging on a nearby hook, but put her hands on narrow hips and took a step forward, out of the steaming spray.

  “Do you mind?” The woman’s crisp London accent seemed out of place, too refined-sounding for the scummy locker room. She raised her arms as if praising Jesus, her head thrown back and her small, pointy breasts, pink from the hot water, jutting forward.

  The other shower heads sprayed steaming water all at once. There was no increase in pressure as if knobs turned. From nothing to full spray in a blink. Where the water hit tiles they hissed and bubbled and dissolved. She jumped back with a yelp.

  “Ahem.”

  She turned to see Director West at his large cherry wood desk. Several of her teachers from the Academy stood in a half circle of white men in identical gray suits, arms crossed in front of their chests. They faced her as a tribunal.

  “I told you she’d end up not being as professional as the men.” Disapproval and disdain dripped in the man’s voice.

  “...speaks well for a black woman.”

  “And that temper....”

  “She looks like she just got out of bed. She can’t stop them. Completely unprepared....”

  The t-shirt she slept in hung on her instead of her normal suit. Why did she come to work like that? There was something urgent, she remembered that. She was running out of time.

  “There was something urgent,” she protested.

  “Maybe you should go pee and then we can talk about your reassignment to a less...demanding position more fit for a...,” West’s voice trailed off, reluctant to say whichever slur he had lined up.

  She pushed through them, past their disapproving scowls and judging stares to the door at the far end of the long, narrow office. Curtains covered the windows along both sides.

  She stepped through to the train’s engine. Wind whipped her hair. She missed the dreadlocks she had worn as a little girl, but those weren't professional enough for a black woman trying to make a career.

  The engineer, an ancient looking, skinny black man in striped overalls and cap, turned from his bank of dials and switches, startled. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He had to speak loud over the rumble and chug-chug-chug-chug of the engine and the clacking of steel wheels on the rails.

  “FBI. I’m in pursuit of that train up ahead. I have to catch it. I’m running out of time.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to go near that. There’s one of those people on that train. You can’t stop them, you know.”

  The bullet train ahead was around a bend, and she could see it now, so fast the lights were a blur. How could she possibly catch it?

  “Maybe if you shovel some more coal,” the engineer suggested, wiping soot from his face with a sleeve. He opened a heavy hatch to a huge chamber of burning coal, orange flames flickering. Yellow eyes blinked at her in the flames, but she blinked and they were gone.

  Messenger, the vigilante in black armor with blue trim, face hidden behind a visor, slammed the black iron hatch shut with a resounding clang. He secured it with a long iron lever.

  “No, I have to put more coal in there. Get out of the way. I have to catch that train before it’s too late. I have to save them.”

  “No,” he scoffed, “you can’t handle this. Maybe you should stick with little-girl stuff.”

  “Why are you in my way?”

  “Well, if you can’t do your job, then we’ll have to do it for you. You can’t stop them; you don’t have what it takes. You aren’t prepared for people like us. You didn’t even put on a bra.” he brushed soot off the blue M on his chest.

  “Nice tits, by the way, Rach,” Thorne said, holding a cigar as he leaned against a railing. “I’ve been meaning to say that. But isn’t your ass kinda small for a black chick? I like those bubble butts.” He gestured the shape with his hands. “Maybe you should suck my cock, and I’ll put in a good word with your boss and you can join the Good Ol’ Boys’ Club.”

  Messenger was gone. Thorne l
eaned over the side to look back the length of the train. “Oh, that’s gonna suck.” He drew his gun, a mammoth hand cannon. Had he always carried that?

  “Guess I better go take care of that. You wouldn’t want West hearing there was even more you can’t take care of.”

  Clowns climbed along the outside of the coal car behind her, sideways like spiders, the wind blowing orange and red hair back from white skull heads of sharp teeth and long fangs. She would have to find another way. She climbed a ladder up, its black iron rungs cold on her bare feet.

  Black smoke billowed overhead as the long, black engine chug-chug-chug-chugged under her.

  A man in a black jacket and flip-flops lounged on an aluminum folding chair. Woven webbing made the seat and back, like when she was a kid.

  “Maybe if you use that lever you can make the train go faster.” He pointed a foot at a big, tall lever, with something like a handbrake to squeeze at the top.

  “I don’t know how to drive a train!”

  “Then I guess there’s nowhere to pee, then.”

  She was running out of time with nothing to do but try. She squeezed the handle and pushed the lever forward. It squealed and grated, grinding gears somewhere below her.

  The door swung open into her apartment. Ah, finally. Her own bathroom at last. She turned corner after corner, past the black cat which purred and bonked its head into her leg. She turned the doorknob and pushed.

  A green-scaled lizard man sat on toilet, swiping away at a smartphone. He burped a bubble which popped to a little cloud of green gas which sank slowly to the floor between his clawed feet. “I’m gonna be a bit. You can’t stop me.” He shoved her back and closed the door.

  She shoved it back open. It was her bathroom, dammit. That guy was going to have to go. She’d show him. She could stop him.

  Through the door she entered her high school locker room. One of the taller girls walked in from the showers, shyly clutching a towel to her chest and stomach. It hung to her knees. Other students pushed through, their arms piled with books. “You’re gonna be late,” one of them warned her. She was running out of time.

  “You gonna piss those boring white underpants?” a tall, skinny blonde—haughty Tina Roberts, an early bloomer popular with the boys—asked. Rachel looked down, at the stupid knee length green skirt from St Florence Catholic High School.

  “I hate this stupid uniform.”

  The girls ran off into the fog, laughing and giggling as the warning bell rang.

  She stepped out, into the hallway. Nurses in old-fashioned nurse caps pushed grotesque, burnt bodies in police uniforms down the hospital corridor. “Soon we’ll be serving the alien overlords,” one nurse said to another. “I know! I’m so excited!”

  They passed by her to reveal a man in blue tights and black cape. Big block letters spelled out EVIL in white on a black t-shirt. Blue lightning bounced from hand to hand as if he might juggle it.

  She drew her weapon. Steven’s face sneered at her. He floated up into the air, the cape billowing behind him even though there was no breeze. She pulled the trigger.

  The bullet hit his chest and stopped dead. He picked it up and looked at it like something he'd never seen before. He licked it.

  “Tasty.” He swallowed it without chewing, popping it back like a pill. His shoulders shook with the burp.

  “You can’t stop me. You can’t stop any of us.” He clapped his hands twice and vanished in a puff of magician’s white smoke.

  The smoke cleared, and she saw doors with pictogram signs for men and women. A hotel bellboy stood in front of women’s room, adjusting the jaunty angle of his silly little cap.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, these are out of order. We’re cleaning them.”

  She was running out of time. “I don’t mind, really.” She pushed past him. The bathroom was dim, a long line of stalls opposite a long steel trough sink dripping brown water.

  She tried stall after stall. Each was latched closed, enormous clown shoes visible under the doors.

  At least, a stall door ajar! She nudged it open with her shoulder going through but stopped short. A man sat on the toilet, with spikes in a line along his chin where a beard might otherwise have been. His eyes, slit like a snake or a cat, glowed a creepy highlighter green.

  “I’m shitting here. You can’t stop me.”

  He grunted and produced a long, loud fart. Toxic, glowing green gas spilled out from between his knees like a heavy fog from dry ice in a drink. It swirled around his feet like hissing, weaving snakes.

  Her bladder woke her from the nightmare. The flannel covers were dry, to her relief, but her bladder issued an urgent demand.

  “What the fuck...?”

  She sat up and swung out of bed, not bothering with slippers.

  The aromatic nightlight in her bathroom was soothing, lavender and jasmine. Bleary eyes stared back at her in mirror as she washed her hands and dried them on the soft brown hand towel.

  Her eyes were filmed and crusty. A body-shaking yawn overtook her. She wasn't sleeping well.

  Images and flashes of scenes from the incident—she hesitated to call it a shootout but then stumbled over the word firefight, far too apt—at the precinct came to her uninvited and replayed themselves over and over out of sequence.

  Three officers had died. The screams of the officer on fire, frantic as she burned to death, echoed in her brain. It would be weeks until things returned to normal at the precinct, and it would never be the same again. Old wood desks would be replaced by new metal or Formica. Gone would be the classic, almost nostalgic atmosphere. Replaced by suppressed fear and grim determination.

  It might never again be Thorne’s favorite part of the precinct.

  “Goddamned freaks.” She rubbed at her face and made her way back to bed.

  CHAPTER 23 - LAMPLIGHTER

  Now that Steven had money he set his purchases on the counter for the guy at the register. Finally he would have better clothes: two pairs of gray cargo pants, a couple t-shirts, a couple denim work shirts, a hooded sweatshirt, and a better coat. Also, a belt and shoes that fit.

  The clerk looked up with a smile that started happy and friendly but lost some of its luster to a frown of dismay he tried to hide. Steven tried to ignore it and just be any other shopper. The clerk was attractive, with a feminine mouth with that classic Cupid’s bow shape in a pink shade that had to be lipstick. A narrow nose anchored the face under dark hair fluffy on top but trimmer-buzz short on the sides. Plucked eyebrows arched over eyes done up with subtle mascara and eyeliner. Steven smiled at him despite the clerk avoiding eye contact as he scanned each item and dropped them into a bag.

  At least it only seemed like the man was judging him for being homeless. He saw no sign of recognition as he watched the man’s face. Maybe he should at least dye his hair to look less like whatever bulletins the police had or might put out.

  Why did he find the man attractive? Was it just an aesthetic sense or did it have anything to do with him not conforming to usual gender norms? Gender-fluid? Gender-queer? He should know which word to use, subtle distinctions he should know, but he couldn't think clearly. A nap would help. It didn’t seem like that long a day so far....

  He snarled beneath his breath at having to focus on keeping one hand closed around the shopping bag handle as he left. He retrieved the rest of his belongings from a nearby rooftop. In relative privacy behind the shopping center he repacked the backpack to get rid of the diapers' box. He did not want to be seen carrying that shameful box.

  Steven had quite a bit of money. A couple thousand dollars in segregated fives, tens, and twenties. That would keep him in diapers and let him find some crappy motel to hole up in while he figured things out.

  Last night was his last night sleeping on a rooftop, he insisted to himself. He had to walk for a while, searching out a motel with just the right level of sleazy. A better hotel would require a credit card. The area was not particularly nice. He passed through one block w
ith three pawn shops, all with bars or grates on their windows.

  “Hey, honey, you wanna buy me a drink?” a black woman with scraggly hair and dirty, frayed and worn clothes asked with a cigarette hanging from her mouth as he passed a bar with tiny, barred windows and a half-lit neon sign proclaiming cheap beer. Another one, huh? He ignored her and kept walking.

  A couple blocks further down, the buildings started not having bars or grates over windows. He passed a twenty-four-hour convenience store, which he noted for later.

  Eventually he found the Lamplighter Motel, a two-story affair with rickety looking metal stairs to the upper level where the flimsy looking railing probably would't prevent a person falling over it. But the glowing sign at the window promised vacancy and weekly rates. It still had to be better than sleeping on a rooftop.

  The door chimed as he walked into the small front office. A spinnable, wire rack of magazines stood in the corner opposite a small reception desk. The man sitting behind the desk was rather overweight, with mutton-chop sideburns and a big mole on his chin. An oversized, green-and-black plaid flannel shirt hung loose with the left sleeve rolled up to the elbow. The man looked up from his smartphone and sighed.

  “Yah?” The clerk looked him up and down, judging but not surprised.

  “I’m looking for a room, and the sign says you have some vacancy.”

  The clerk blanked the phone screen before setting it down with a thump and sliding it off to the side.

  “You want upstairs or down?” The clerk flipped open a register book. Nice and old-fashioned. That suited Steven just fine.

  “Down, thanks.” He deliberately reached his hand into his coat pocket to grab the money in it. He counted out the money a little clumsily, but the clerk either didn't notice or didn't care. He paid for a week and signed Steven Pierce. Pierce sounded familiar. Maybe someone he'd known once.