The Last Reich: The Killing Kind - Ch.7

7.    

Zoom. Zoom. The cars blasted by fast, pulling on Toby’s torn, dirty clothing. Toby was moving toward the distant, flickering lights because he didn’t know what else to do. Fiend had become unsettlingly quiet in Toby’s head. Fiend had been sure that Toby would be able to hear him in his head. Maybe the connection was still there, but Fiend was being quiet, testing him. Fiend brought pain. Fiend brought fear. Toby wasn’t willing to gamble at whether or not Fiend was playing at something. Best that Toby, at least,  try and follow Fiend’s instructions. What if Toby were to lay down somewhere, stretch out and sleep? What if he decided to do that instead of obeying Fiend? Fiend wouldn’t’ kill him. Possibly, Fiend would pull more of the dog in. The dog’s name was Autumn, although she didn’t think of herself as that. She didn’t think of herself as anything. Names were a distinctly human invention. Her mind was so utterly foreign to him. It was like oil and water, sea water where life had been. The oil technically sits on top of the water, but it still manages to kill everything in the water. He couldn’t remember his mother’s name. He could remember her face, if he really tried. If he really tried, he could see curly blonde hair streaked with brown highlights. He could see a pinched nosed and frown lines around her mouth. He couldn’t remember her name or where live before the Slavers had taken him. All that hurt his soul, but he knew that Fined could take more from him, feed more of it to the dog.

Now and now, he walked and every once and a while, a car honked at him, but he didn’t know what the honks meant. Maybe it was just noise. This entire place seemed to be built for and devoted to making noise. There was the whining of black cross-shaped figures in the deep purple sky. There were the puttering and rumbling of steel carriages rushing across long stretches of blacktop. They made zoom-zoom sounds that sounded different when they were going away. Toby didn’t think about it. He was tired. His face and body hurt, although Fiend was taking care of that. Fiend was taking care of him. Fiend was stealing his mind but Fined was stitching his body back together. The slash across his face was gone and only dried blood on unbroken skin. That girl, Macy her name was, she had hit him, hit him hard, but she left with some guy and his face didn’t hurt anymore.

Fiend, where are you? A steel carriage zoomed very close to him and he panicked, falling against the cold, dirty, metal side guard. The carriage beep-beeped at him as it disappeared into the night, its red lights glaring him like some predator’s eyes. Toby bored his teeth at the lights, but they didn’t seem to notice. They just kept on and were gone in seconds. Fiend, where are you? Toby saw the steel carriages running over something and the wheels running over it made a loud crunching sound. Crunch-crunch. Zoom-zoom. Beep-beep. This world was so loud and Toby knew that that had something to do with the dog. The dog was afraid of all that noise. Toby knew what it was, but they shared the same fear. He was afraid because the dog was afraid. Toby had the instinct of trying to straighten his back, raise his head. He wanted to  look big. His fingers kept curling into claws, but his fingernails weren’t big enough, sharp enough to cut anyone. There was a constant whine echoing in his head and the sound was driving him insane. That was the dog, crying at the foreign sounds. The sounds were foreign to him as well, but Toby thought that he wouldn’t make those noises. They weren’t human noises, although Toby wasn’t actually human anymore. Fiend, where are you?

Toby kept on walking, down along the blacktop road and away from the crunch-crunch of the metal that the steel carriage rode over. Toby hated the sound and wanted to be away from it. He started moving faster. Crunch-crunch. Toby moved into a fast walk, puffing hot air from his nose. His claw hands turned into clenched fists and tears were sealing down his cheeks. Toby, not Autumn, was upset. He didn’t like all these noises. He didn’t’ like the fast moving light rushing past him, toward him and away. Toward him and away. He didn’t like it, but Fined wanted him here, wanted him walking this blacktop road. Toby wrapped his arms around his chest, shivering and crying quietly. That girl, Macy was gone. Both parts of him, Toby and Autumn, wanted her to be close, wanted her comfort. Toby didn’t think that that girl, Macy would have given it to him. The dog wanted it anyway, acting like a petulant child. If Toby could speak to that dog, he would have explained that Macy would have no part of him because of what he did. He had spoiled it for the dog. He had wanted him. He wanted to touch her, to taste her lips, to smell her hair. He wanted to lay with her, make love to her, but she wouldn’t have any part of him because of what he did.

He remembered the gun in his hand. He remembered slapping it across her face. He had killed the dog and he was afraid of what might happen when the dog figured that out. He’d cut her and stabbed her and she still didn’t  die, so he shot her in the head. Somehow the dog didn’t remember. Maybe she did, but blocked it away because the two of them were stuck together. He thought that she did know that but she also knew, in a vague way, that she would die if he did. She was the unknown other, unpredictable and therefore dangerous.

There was another carriage and loud unsettling music wafted out of it. The music was a loud boom-boom-boom spilling out of the tinted glass window of the carriage. Toby backed away, staring at a boy wearing a pair of blackened glasses. His hair was black and slicked back and he was smiling at Toby. Toby didn’t like it, but didn’t bear his teeth at the boy. He pulled his blackened glasses to show off his cloudy blue eyes and he studied Toby for a moment.

“Hey, man. You want to make some money?” The boy asked. Toby could smell hot spices that might have been meant to smell good, but were too strong. He also smelt liquor and something sharp and fecal. Toby knew that it was the dog that was really smelling it. Toby started to walk away.

“Hey! Hey! I’m talking to you.” Toby wanted to continue, but the dog stopped him in his tracks. Toby stopped and looked over to the boy in the car.

“Do you want to make some money or not?” The boy asked again, showing his smile again. Words were getting hard for Toby, but he found them anyway.

“What…What ….would I have to…do?” Toby asked, struggling through the words and expecting to fail. He knew what money was and he figured that he would need some if he wanted food. Food was a happy thought for the both of them, Toby and Autumn.

“You got good hands? Can you fight?” The boy asked. Toby remembered launching a knife off his fingertips and he remembered finding the dog’s old owner and slashing the boy’s throat. Toby knew the word that expressed the affirmative, but it came too slow so he just nodded his head.

“Good. Me and my buddies are running a bum fight under the bridge. I’ll pay you forty to fight.” There was an uproar of laughter from inside the car and it peaked the dog’s attention and roiled Toby’s nerves. There were two other boys in the car and none of them sounded sober. The dog gave him the image of running away, but Toby was hungry and he knew the dog was as well.

“Does that sound good?” The boy asked. Again, the word for the affirmative came too slow and Toby just nodded his head.

“Cooper, let him in. He’ll do fine.” The boy called, smiling at Toby. The dog was still sending the running away images. Cooper opened the door and he was pointing something at him.

Gun! Toby had first thought, but if it was a gun, he was holding it wrong and the barrel was  plugged up with a roll piece of glass. There was a blinking, red light to the bottom left of the barrel of the thing that wasn’t a gun. The boy that was Cooper was smiling and staring one eye through what might have been a scope on a gun, although this wasn’t a gun.

“Lights. Camera. Action.” The Cooper boy said and began to laugh. The other boys laughed as well.

“Come on in. Hurry or go to sleep hungry.” The boy with the blackened glasses said. Toby moved forward and sat inside the car beside the Cooper boy.

“What…What…What…would I have to do? Who… would I have to fight?” Toby asked, his hands resting on his knees.

“Just some other bum. Doesn’t matter.” The Cooper boy chuckled and the sharp, fecal smell and the liquor smell were worst with the door closed and him inside. Toby’s hands were shaking softly on his knees. The steel carriage lurched forward off down the blacktop road, the music pounding in his head.

“Tell the people your name.” The Cooper boy commanded, pointing the thing that wasn’t a gun at him.

“Toby.”

“Full name makes it legal.” The Cooper boy said. Toby didn’t understand and the Cooper boy laughed at the look on his face.

“What’s your last name, partner?” The Cooper boy asked. Toby started to say his last name but he couldn’t remember it. Whatever it was, it began with a M. Toby Miles? Toby Mills? Toby Miller? The Cooper boy laughed again and the other two laughed with him.

“Picked up a fucking wet-brain.” The boy operating the steel carriage said. That boy slapped the hand that wasn’t controlling the vehicle against the chest of the boy with the blackened glasses.

“Mickey, give him the bottle. I bet this one would like a drink.” The boy behind the wheel said and Mickey, the boy with the blackened glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a crinkled brown bag that had partially formed around the contents, a small oblong bottle. Mickey reached the bag and bottle back to Toby and smiled.

“Drink up, buddy. You’ll last longer in the ring.” Toby released the bottle from the bag and at first he thought it was glass, but glass didn’t give the way this did. Whatever it was, it was whiskey inside. There was a tag reading: 2.00. Beneath that, there was a label with a drawing of a battered, abused windmill and the legend: Old Mill Whiskey, 60 proof.

Drink up. You’ll last longer in the ring. They wanted him drunk and it wasn’t a horrible idea. Realizing that he didn’t know his own last name had upset him, not as much as not knowing his mother’s name but it upset him still. He unscrewed the cap and downed a quarter of the bottle. The boys found him drinking hilarious, but Toby was beginning not to care.

The trip wasn’t a long one, but Toby had managed to finish the bottle and a can of beer after that and all the while, the boy laughed and laughed and laughed. It was all so damn hilarious. They stopped the carriage in front of a house in a tight row of houses. The house wasn’t quite under the bridge, but in the shadow of it. The support of the bridge was like a stone, elephantine leg whose next step would crush them all. Toby could just barely make out looping scrawls made from red and blue paint jutting up the leg of the support.

Mickey had his hand on Toby’s shoulder and was leading him toward the small metal gate of a salmon colored house with all its lights on. The Cooper boy was following the both of them, saying something that Toby wasn’t paying attention to. The front door of the salmon colored house was open and a boy and girl was kissing feverishly on the front stoop. The boy had his hand down the girl’s jeans and it seemed to Toby, that he was scratching a particularly deep itch.

“Ronny!” Mickey shouted and laughed loudly in Toby’s ear. Ronny, the boy itching the girl’s scratch, parted lips with the girl and then called back to Mickey. Ronny never parted his hand from the girl’s pants. 

“That him? That the fucking punching bag?” Ronny asked, laughing.

“He’s a killer. He’s a murderer. He’ll smash your dude up.” Mickey called back. To demonstrate this, Mickey started to pummel Toby’s back with pulled punches. All the boys found this hilarious. Everything was so hilarious. Mickey, trailed by the Cooper boy and the other boy, guided Toby around the house and into waves of course, ugly music and course, ugly laughter. The lot behind the house wasn’t very big, but at least fifty boys and girls rubbed up against one another and blew hot, smelly air at Toby. Toby felt sick as Mickey moved him through the crowd. They bumped up against Toby and the dog grumbled from underneath the liquor Toby doused her in.

The crowd broke in the center and it was just Toby and an other man. Like Toby, this man was dirty and swaying. The man had watery eyes and crooked nose. His lips were chapped and his arms were corded with stringy muscle. Mickey came around behind him and was fussing with his shirt, trying to lift it. The other man pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. Toby understood and took his shirt off by himself. Mickey and a few other people slapped Toby’s bare back, beckoning him deeper into the makeshift ring. The other man was making fists but he didn’t look like he wanted to fight. Someone deep in the crowd started to chant and the others followed in key. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.

Toby made fists and stepped forward, frowning at all the noise and attention. Toby had the sensation that he would have to fight all of them to get back out. He’d kill them all if he had to. He had made a bad mistake coming here. Forty dollars wasn’t worth being killed. The other man swung at Toby and Toby took the hit to the side of the face. He skittered away and the crowd kicked up a cheer. The man swung again, connecting with Toby’s chin. There was another hit and another and Toby went down. He was on his hands and knees and the man stopped. Somebody, probably Mickey or maybe Cooper, picked him up under the armpits and when he was on his feet, that somebody shoved him forward. Toby made fists again and the man made fists as well.

The man hit him again and while Toby’s head snapped away, Toby swung and smashed his closed fist into the man’s stomach. Toby swung again and again, connecting again and again. The man fell down and Toby fell with him, pummeling him again and again. Blood licked onto his knuckles and up his forearms and the crowd kept cheers, going wild. Toby couldn’t hear them anymore.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

The world was only the pounding in Toby’s head as his lungs groped for air and his knuckles smashing against the man’s skull. Toby didn’t have hackles, but he felt them raising. His  hands were the dog’s jaws and he was clamping down hard. Toby hadn’t realized that the man had stopped fighting back and that the crowd wasn’t cheering anymore. He only stopped because some of the man’s blood spat up into his eyes, stinging him. His hands were covered in blood so he couldn’t quite wipe the blood from his eyes. The world seeped in like a wary animal and Toby realized that a girl was crying. He looked up and he was surrounded by wide, watery eyes and gaping mouths.

All of a sudden, Toby could feel the cold air. Goosebumps were rippled across his bare chest and arms and Toby had to get away. He had to run away now. His shirt, he needed it to hide the blood. He hadn’t realized that there was so much blood. He snatched the filthy, torn thing and then started through the crowd. The boys and girls parted away from him as he made his way to the front of the house, tears welling in his eyes. Why had he done that? He had trouble figuring out his shirt, driving his head into a sleeve as he charged forward. He settled for putting it on backward, knowing that him being so upset was making the operation impossible. Shirt didn’t matter anyway. He had made a bad mistake and he needed to get away before they stopped being stunned and started coming after him. Why had he done that? There was so much blood.

It might have been wishful thinking, but he didn’t think he killed the man. Toby thought that the man was making wet choking sounds, breathing through a mouthful of blood. Breathing through a mouthful of blood, but still breathing. Maybe they weren’t chasing him because they were busy tending to him. Maybe. Toby stole onto the sidewalk and passed all the steel carriages, rubbing his hands on his dirty shirt and on his dirty pants. Toby felt like there was a bag being drawn around him. He had a vague memory that might have been nothing at all. He didn’t know the context, but he remembered seeing a cat going into a sack and the sack being tossed into a river or maybe it was a lake. The water  wasn’t moving fast if it was moving at all. He thought about that because he was thinking about the bad trouble he was in. He was the cat in the bag and the bag was being cinched tight. Where are you, Fiend?

“If you want me to do something, I need you to tell me what to do?” Toby said to the absent Fiend and to the cold night. He surprised himself with the clarity of the thought.

“You can put your hands on your head, son.” A voice said and for a moment, Toby thought that Fiend had finally spoken. He spun around and saw a tall, gaunt man wearing an old, worn out leather jacket and a gun on his hip. He had his hand on the gun and snap that secured the gun had been undone. That had been Toby’s first impressions. The next was the jagged scar stretching up the side of the man’s left cheek. Someone had cut on the man, trying to give him a permanent smile. That somebody had only gotten the one cheek.

“Hands on your head, son.” Toby obeyed. The man pulled a black box from his belt and it made noises. The Slavers had something like that.               

Portrait Of A Dying Man

Down on his back, Lee Thomas was dying. His hand was pressed down on his belly as hot blood trickled between his figertips. Tears rolled away, stealing into the his thicket of curly brown hair. He'd been shot one single time and that was enough to kill him.

Lee Thomas walked home from his late-night cashier's position and up a single flight of steps. He heard one gunshot and he ducked down, breathing harshly. He didn't hear the second blast. The second blast was as loud as the first but Lee Thomas's brain was too occupied with pain. He tumbled down that single flight of stairs and came to rest at the bottom landing. He didn't know who shot him or why. He just knew that a gunshot hurt, a lot.

The pain was bad enough that his body couldn't hold it at first. Lee Thomas thought that he would have exploded like an overfull balloon. He didn't explode. He just blacked out at the bottom of the stairs. There was no reason for anyone to go up or down those stairs, so Lee Thomas laid unconscious for a full four hours. When he awoke, his black, button-up work shirt and black slacks were soaked in about a few pints of cooling, red blood. Urine joined the pool of blood because all the blood terrified Lee Thomas. He felt the kind of terror that only children felt about the monsters under their beds. It was only blood and it screamed until he pissed himself.

He knew vaguely that the red stuff had to stay in. The stuff that was already on the floor was a lost cause. pressed down on the bullet wound and hot pain like being stuck with a glowing hot fireplace poker shot through his body. He kicked out against the wall and screamed. He slapped his hand against the ground. He knew he had to keep the red stuff in, but it hurt so damn bad.

Lee Thomas died alone at the bottom of a stairwell, his eyes bugged half-way out of his head and his mouth lolling open. He didn't know why he died or why he died alone.

No Magic For Luke Peters - Ch. 6

Chapter Six: No Such Thing As A Random Wolf

Perkins had Luke snake the old Ford through the heart of Lowell. Looming building with crumbling brick faces and smashed, boarded-up windows glared down at the two of them and Cesar.  Litter and wispy weeds fluttered from side to side in the early spring wind. They past by rusted metal skeletons high over head and tall, chain-linked fences. All around, there was the fishy, earthy smell of the flowing river and the fainter smell of pollen. Luke and Perkins moved down streets partially paved by asphalt and by old cobblestones. The road was rocky as Luke guided the Ford down a narrow street before he stopped the truck at the end of a one-way street.

“This it?” Luke asked, looking up at a three-story house made from rain-softened wood. The house sat behind a rusted, sagging chain-link fence. Little, dead weeds snaked up from underneath the bare wood porch. The front door was hung ajar, leading up a dark, carpeted stairwell.

“Yeah.” Perkins said, looking out the window. He formed a grimace on his face and then popped the passenger seat door open. Luke did the same, stepping out and moving to the other side to help Perkins. By the time he got around, Perkins was already out and standing, waving Luke away.

“Get the dog.” Perkins said, limping his way toward the dark wood building. Perkins swung open the front gate, causing it to clatter against the fence. Luke followed, with Cesar in his arms. The dog hadn’t protested as much as he had in Luke’s yard. Luke had a suspicion that the dog could have limped on his own. Perkins had somehow split the pain of a cracked rib with the dog. As ridiculous as it sounded, Luke had to keep an open mind. It was a very weird day. Luke followed Perkins up the carpeted steps, leading up toward a hallway bathed in dusty, cold sunlight. The hallway smelt of spices and festering meat.

The hallway continued up to the third floor, but Perkins stopped at a thin wooden door and knocked three times. A wide-eyed teenaged girl wearing a man’s flannel shirt answered the door and peered at the both of them for a  long moment. She had black, feathered hair draping a pair of clear blue eyes. She skirted past Perkins and darted right towards Luke or rather Cesar who was in Luke’s arms. She pressed her face into the dog’s fur as Cesar’s tail wagged. The dog was trying to better greet the girl, but Luke holding him made his attempts more difficult. Luke  struggled to keep a hold on the dog and finally conceded, lowering the dog to the ground while the girl cooed and ran her fingers through the dog’s black and tan fur. Cesar must have overestimated the power of his enthusiasm to prop him up because after a few moments of sitting right side up, he elected to collapse on to his side and pepper her face with kisses from the ground.

“Luke. That’s Sadie.” Perkins said, pointing to the girl pampering the dog on the floor.

“What have you been doing? Why is Cesar hurt? Why are you hurt?” Sadie asked, looking up to the Perkins and Luke.

“I’ll tell you if I can get my dog back. Let’s get this out of the damn hallway.” Perkins said, stepping through the door and leaving Luke to gather up the dog from Sadie’s cuddling. Luke took up the dog and took up Cesar and followed Sadie past the threshold. The apartment inside mostly dark with the exception of an open window filtering in indirect sunlight. Immediately across from the door, there was a saggy, tan couch where a young man with short black hair slept. He had lean muscles and a  sharp jaw. Sadie came over to the young man and slapped him on the stomach. He jerked awake, but didn’t cry out in surprise or pain.

“Get up. We need to put Cesar down.” Sadie said to the young man. He tilted his head in Luke’s direction.

“That’s Luke. Perkins brought him here.” Sadie said. With that, the young  man climbed up off the couch, came over to Luke and scooped Cesar from his arms. He had a mildly miserable look on his face. He gave up his seat to the old dog all the same and elected to remain standing even though there was enough room for him to seat. Sadie had taken up a post at one side of Cesar and there was another clear, vacant spot. Luke turned his head, looking for Perkins. The old man had disappeared into small kitchen illuminated by a flickering bulb. Luke spotted him peering into a room beyond the kitchen and then he turned a corner and was out of sight. Luke had just met him this morning, but Luke felt a hard pang, a need to follow him.

“Come. Sit.” Sadie said to Luke. She had her feet up on the couch underneath Cesar’s resting head. She was playing with his ears. Luke looked to the young man that Sadie had ousted for Cesar. The young man looked back and then moved past Luke, heading into the kitchen and then into the room where Perkins had peered into.

“Come and sit.” Sadie said again. Luke sat on the other side of Cesar and Cesar stretched out his back paws, pressing them up against his outer thigh. Cesar made a happy, little groan and Sadie cooed at the sound.

“Who was he?” Luke asked, tilting his head in the direction the young man had went in.

“Drew. He can’t talk. He was born without a voice.” Sadie said, working her thin fingers through Cesar’s fur and Cesar drove his back paws into Luke’s outer thigh.

“Oh.” Luke said.

“Sheila’s going to help you, isn’t she?” Sadie said to Cesar, scratching a spot in between his ears. She kissed him on that spot and he licked her under her chin and on her cheek.

“Is Sheila your mom?” Luke asked and instantly felt stupid. She called Sheila by her first name. Children seldom did that with their parents. Possibly, Sheila was an older sister or just a mother-hen style friend.

“No. Sheila is…” Sadie started. There was nothing stopping her from finishing the sentence except for her inability to define what Sheila was to her. Sadie smiled and then looked away.

“Sheila takes care of things.” Sadie finally said.

“How do you know Perkins?” Luke asked.

“Perkins is…He’s my…He was… my father.” Sadie said. The smile had evaporated from her face. Luke wanted to know why Perkins wasn’t her father anymore, but didn’t think he should ask.

“I should be in school right now.” Luke said because he didn’t know what to say. The smile reappeared on Sadie’s face and she bit her bottom lip.

“You go to school?” She asked.

“You don’t?” Luke asked.

“Home-schooled. Sheila teaches me and the twins.” Sadie said.

“The twin?” Luke asked.

“Coral and Murphy. They’re somewhere around here. Probably feeding the dogs.” Sadie said.

“Cool.” Luke said. The two of them were silent for a long while with Cesar groaning happily as Sadie scratched the flat plain of his head or rubbed the fur on his meaty shoulder. Luke kept thinking that Sadie would end up hurting the dog, but the dog kept on loving it and loving her.

Cesar fell asleep and fell asleep hard, snoring loudly and kicking his back paw against Luke’s outer thigh. He had closed his eyes to better relish Sadie rubbing a spot behind his ear and then suddenly, he was out like a light and had his tongue slightly sticking out from his mouth. A bead of drool escaped his mouth and rolled onto the bare flesh of Sadie’s foot. Somehow, Sadie found it funny and Luke found it funny because Sadie found it funny. The two of them laughed, rocking back and forward and waking the sleeping dog in the process. Cesar gave another groan, sounding more indignant than happy. Sadie found this more funny and laughed harder. Luke’s eyes stole to Sadie’s lips. He realized that he was looking at her lips; thin, glossy, pink curves that parted slightly. Luke thought about her tongue and then looked away.

Sadie massaged behind Cesar’s ear and Cesar seemed to forgive her for waking him. He closed his eyes and fell under again, snoring and kicking like he had before. She kept massaging that spot behind Cesar’s ear and Luke felt the need to say something, but he didn’t.

 

“ Do you know what’s going on?” Sadie asked.

“With what?” Luke asked.

“With you? With Perkins?” Sadie asked.

“No. Somebody came with a baseball bat. That’s how Perkins and Cesar got hurt. Somebody else might have attempted to kill me last night. Perkins showed up and helped me. I’m really just taking things as they come. It’s the best I can do.”

“Do you know where he’s taking you?” Sadie asked.

“No. I’m guessing not here.” Luke said.

“No. Not here. Think of this as a safe house for a little while. Perkins is taking you back with him to the Exiles. You’re going to be in neutral space.” Sadie said.

“He said that I’d cause more damage if he had let them kill me. He wouldn’t say what that meant.” Luke said.

“That’s Exile business. I wouldn’t know about that.” Sadie said.

“Who are the Exiles?” Luke asked.

“The people who made sure you didn’t die.” Perkins said from over Luke’s shoulder. Luke jumped at Perkins’s dark, harsh voice. Perkins had managed to sour further in the short time since the two of them had parted. His wrinkled, pock-marked face had formed new creases and his eyes had grown dark.

“Bring my dog.” Perkins said. Luke pushed himself up out of the sunken-in couch and lifted the groggy, half-asleep Cesar into his arms. Sadie thinned her lips and  frowned. Luke noticed her lips again, but it scared him now that Perkins was so near.

Luke followed Perkins through the small kitchen and past it. Luke stole a glance through the doorway that Perkins had looked through not long before. The door to the room was only slightly ajar, but Luke could see a man stretched out, sleeping on a twin-sized bed. His bare feet spilled off the end of it and his toenails were sharp, yellowed and ragged. His chest was bare and peppered with curly, black hair. His face was clean, but he had a thick, black beard covering the lower half of his face and long black hair covering the top. Beneath the beard and the hair, the man looked almost exactly the same as Perkins. Luke passed the door and didn’t ask who the man was. Perkins turned a corner and passed another room. This one was empty but for a tall, wooden dresser, a floor scattered with clothing and bunk beds with a red, metal frame. 

There was one more room with a closed door before Perkins had stopped. Perkins stood in an open doorway. The room beyond was lit by cool sunlight filtering in from a window. Luke could see a Queen sized bed bathed in purple silk over Perkins’s shoulder. There was a warm smell of lavender wafting past Perkins as he led them inside. Sitting on the bed, there was a mocha skinned woman with long, slender legs. She was swaddled in a thick cloak made from thick, gray and brown fur. She was a bald woman, but the most striking feature was the size of her. She was nearly seven-feet tall and Luke could see that a lot of it was lined with lean muscles.

“Put the dog on the bed.” Perkins said and Luke deposited Cesar down on the purple silk sheets. The woman looked from Cesar to Luke and curved her lips into a cool, narrowed smile. She had big, brown, almond-shaped eyes and Luke realized, too late, that his jaw had gone unhinged. He closed his mouth and his face reddened.

“Hello, Luke. You have encountered the Random.” The woman said. Luke wasn’t sure if what she had said made sense.

“What?” Luke said.

“What?” Perkins said, adopting a slight edge in his voice. Luke was looking to the woman, but Perkins had turned to see Luke.

“Very recently, you have spoken with an agent of the Random. I know their smell. We are not enemies. There’s no such thing as a random wolf, so neither are we friends.” The woman said coolly.

“What did he say to you?” Perkins asked, nearly growling.

“Nothing. He just told me to keep my eyes open. He asked me if I knew what was happening. I don’t, but I think I should.” Luke said, realizing that he was dangerously close to squaring off with Perkins.

“It is unimportant.” The woman said and her voice was clear and piercing.

“To you.” Perkins said, but his voice was calm.

“Need I remind you, you’ve kept your own secrets. My concern lays with you allowing this boy to live. The Exiles have made you soft, Dale.” The woman said. Perkin’s jaw tensed  and a frown etched onto his face.

“Luke, as you may have assumed, I am Sheila of The Wolves.” The woman said, nodding her head. She extended her hands off from under her cloak and towards Cesar. Her fingernails were black, sharpened tips and for a moment, Luke thought she might have sliced him open. Instead, she caressed his fur and Cesar stretched out across the purple sheets.

“Who are the Exiles?” Luke asked. Sheila had some sort of authority over Perkins, but she didn’t have that over Luke. What was important to Luke was that he’d been thrown into something and was kept in the dark about it. Sheila flicked an eye over to Luke and he stepped back a step.

“ There is a war and there are those who do not fight. They are the Exiles.”

“Why was I singled out?” Luke asked.

“No one knows why. We hardly know who we’re fighting until we’re killing them.” Sheila said, running her long nailed fingers through Cesar’s fur. She flicked her eyes to Luke and smiled thinly.

“Who tried to kill me?” Luke asked.

“The war is largely between two sides. Neither side works in the light, but we assume that one is less evil because the other actively and recklessly slaughters people such as yourself. There is an invisible war, but their bullets and bombshells are all too real.” Sheila said. Luke looked from the statuesque woman to the sprawled out German Shepherd. They were faint, but Luke could see silvery tendrils like very fine, glowing hairs snaking from Sheila’s fingertips into the dog’s fur.

“What…” Luke began, his voice petered off into nothing. More of those faint, slightly opaque hairs appeared in the air, swaying softly as if pulled by a lackluster wind. They were working through the air from Sheila and towards Perkins. Something in the tendrils clung to something inside Perkins and soon there was a silvery, glowing vine linking Perkins and Sheila. The vine pulsed with a faint golden glow and then it was gone as if it was never there.  

“That brings me to the matter of note. You’ve come here for aid. I give it. You may stay under my protection.” Sheila said.

“That’s a comfort. Thank you, Sheila. I’ll make a call out to the Ranch. See if I can’t secure some safe passage.” Perkins said. The iron gray hair on Perkins’s head had darkened a shade and some of them more prominent grooves and wrinkles on his face had faded away.     

Superpowers: A Closer Look

I'm in a superhero kind of mood today. That being said, I've decided to think up some interesting superpowers along with pose some theories about some famed superpwers.

1. Hands Of Death....

One of the most interesting aspects of Superman is the fact that he is basically a god among mortals. super-speed, super-strength, super-lungs, x-ray vision, heat vision. He can basically do anything, but he struggles with taming that power. He doesn't want to subjecate the people of his fictional world, he wants to protect them and live among them. What if a superhero had a supervillain's power? What if a good guy had hands that could kill with a single touch? It'd be an interesting struggle, using a purely destructive power to do good.

2. Intangibility...

I've always wondered if a superhero could twist their powers to match another hero's abilities, none more than with the power to go through walls. To go through a wall, one would assume, you'd have affect one of two things; yourself or the wall. If you're vibrating the atoms in the wall, theoretically, you'd be able to tear it apart if you just continued to vibrate the atoms. If you're vibrating the atoms in yourself, you would need to have some sort fo bio-default setting that you return to or you'd be ripped apart like the wall in the other example. This, theoretically, could be twisted into immortality. If you reset everytime you go through a wall, you'd never grow old, you'd heal instantly or as instantly as going through a wall. An interesting conflict would be someone who gains this power just after getting cancer. They get treatment and everytime they go through a wall, they get sick again.

The Last Reich: The Killing Kind - Ch. 6

6.

There were twelve small beds lined up in two rows and eleven of them were empty. Twelve children crowded on and around a single bed, kneeling on their knees with thin wool blankets shrouded around their shoulders and heads. The children’s eyes were wide in the darkness which was disbursed by quick lightening strikes and the moon shrouded in its blanket of clouds. Outside the stone windows, across the grayish green lawn and beyond the beyond the tall, black, rod iron fence, the world creaked and groaned in the eerie, evil silence of nighttime. Trees creaked and whined with the salvo of heavy rain. Somewhere distant but also close, there was a rabble of wheels atop of uneven cobblestone sounding like broken-throated laughter. The wind was catching the heavy iron gate, forcing it creak and forcing a sign to clang, metal against metal, that read: Low City Home for Orphans and Wayward Youth. Back inside, the eleven children stared up, with their mouths open, at the twelfth who was standing on the bed and telling stories.

The twelfth child was named Alfred and was completely called Elf. The boy had black, prickly hair, a skinny frame and eyes that might have belong to an old man. Elf had gotten the Elf because a younger child had difficulty pronouncing Alfred. The child’s eyes had grown glossy with frustrated tears as he tried to make his words obey him. The best he could do is, “Elf-Head.” He had told the child, whose name was Murphy, that he like the name “Elf-Head” because it reminded him of the king of the elves.

“The King of the elves?” Murphy asked.

“Yeah. The boss of all the elves. The Head of All Elves. You know how he got to be the boss?”

“Elves aren’t real.” Murphy said, apparently old enough to know skepticism.

“They are too. Who do you think slue the dragons?”

“There aren’t any dragons.” Murphy reminded Elf.

“Exactly. They’re all dead and they died before they could gobble everything up. Who do you think did that?”

“The elves?” The child had bitten and Elf began to reel him in, slowly.

“That’s right, the elves and the king of the elves had showed them how. Elves aren’t very big, hardly any taller than you.”

“How’d they kill dragons, then?” 

“Well, all sorts of people tried to slay the dragons. There were really big guys who showed up to kill them and they didn’t. They got the giants from the end of the world to try and they were turned away. They got vampires and wizards and all sort of people and they all failed.”

“Then how did they kill the dragons?” Murphy urged.

“Well, the problem was that they were all too big. None of the people who tried had attacked the dragons from below. The king of elves, before he was actually the king, came forward to kill the dragon and everybody laughed at him. He ignored them and went for the dragon with a sharp stick.”

“A stick?”

“Yeah. A sharp one. You know what he did with that stick?”

“Killed the dragon?”

“You bet he did. He pointed that dragon in his belly, which was really soft. Everyone else was too big and nobody could get at their bellies. Everyone was attacking from above and they were all beaten. The king of the elves killed the dragon and everyone was cheering and applauding and they put the king on their shoulders and they made him king. I really don’t mind being called Elf-head. It makes me feel like a dragon slayer.” Elf had said, smiling down to Murphy. Murphy had smiled back, his tears forgotten. Elf had made the story up on the spot, but Elf heard Murphy retold the story over and again.

   

Now, amongst the eerie night sounds and the rain, Elf was telling the other children about vampires. He had started the tale mostly because Murphy and some of the other children had been harassing him for a new one. He would have rather closed his eyes and slept, but he gave in and beckoned them close. He figured that he’d give them a scary one. Like the one about the elves and the dragons, Elf pulled the story straight out of air, closing his eyes and actually seeing how it was supposed to start. In his mind’s eye, he saw a boy in the woods. The boy had shaggy, black hair and ragged clothes made from burlap. The boy didn’t look exactly like Murphy, but the image put Elf in the mood for a little prophecy. He locked eyes with the small boy, who had curled up at the edge of his bed and gave a crooked, cracked smile.

“Murphy?”

“Yeah, Elf?”

“Do you know about the dark men?”

“No.” Murphy said. Elf’s eyes swayed across the faces of the other children.

“Do any of you know?”

“Do you mean Africans?” A small, ginger haired girl chanced.

“No. I mean bloodsuckers. Night walkers. I’m talking about vampires. They’re out there.” Elf said, pointing out the window and into the stormy darkness. The children peered out the window and at that perfect moment, lightening flared through the night.

“Out beyond the city limits and among the trees, they’re out there, looking back toward us. You know what keeps them from coming over?” He swayed his eyes across the children, their eyes wide and glowing. No one ventured a guess as to why.

“Because the watchmen, of course. They hide in the shadows waiting for the vampires and turn them away. How will do you think they can in this weather, though?” The iron gate whined aloud and the Low city  sign clanged against the gate. Possibly, the sound of someone slipping past the gate and across the grayish green lawn.

“Ever heard of what vampires do to people?” Elf asked. “Drink blood, of course. But they also crush bones and rip up throats. They squeeze all of the blood out of you like water out of a sponge.” Elf made a ringing motion with his hand for the effect. Elf’s eyes had been narrowed and his smile curled up the side of his face.

“Vampires are fast and they’re strong and they love to eat little children like you guys. You guys are little snacks to them.” There was a crash in the hallway and the children breathed in shocked air.

“And if they don’t drain you dry, you become just like them. You can’t go out into the sunlight and the watchmen come after you.” There was another crash and this one was closer. Elf’s face began to crack and curl into a ghoul’s face and he began to issue a fizzy laughter like tar pit bubbling. At the end of the row of beds and beyond the tall wooden doors, there was a fleeting scream. It sounded like Mistress Song, one of their more beloved caretakers. The children had stopped listening to Elf talk about vampires. There were heavy footfalls thudding against the old, hollow wood of the outside hall. The children could hear ragged breathing like some colossal beast. All their eyes shone in the darkness and tears stole down some of the children’s tears. They stopped listening to Elf’s story, even Elf, because the story had become real. Fingers rapped and drummed against the wood of the door leading to the hall.

 The door creaked open on whining, rusted hinges and again, the lightening struck at the perfect moment. The lightening strike threw a man-shaped figure into view, head lowered and arms hanging slack. He stepped forward, making those heavy footfalls. Another lightening strike illuminated his face, porcelain white skin shocked with a goatee of tacky blood. The children screamed, the sound slapping at the walls. Elf did not, his mouth went slack and his face went pale. A number of children scurried toward the door and the man-shaped figure snatched up two of them. The rest filtered around him, only to see the door swing close. There was a man that might have only been a shadow. He stepped into view and slammed the door shut before the children could get out. They battered at the door, screaming and crying. Soon, even that was gone.

No Magic For Luke Peters Ch. 5

Lowell rolled by in washed-out grays and creeping, litter strewn lawns. The houses were marked with swoops of graffiti and narrow alleyways that Luke subconsciously kept an eye on. Luke’s hands shook mildly on the stirring wheel and he worked a fine layer of sweat into the cracked leather that encircled the wheel. His wrist hurt, but he didn’t want to say anything to the old man riding next to him. The day hadn’t been exactly normal, but it had gotten a whole lot more weird since Luke had met Perkins. Now, he was driving down back roads in the old man’s truck; keeping one eye out for the police who would stop him for having a smashed in tail light and keeping the other one open for the young man who Luke had to knock stupid with a frying pan.

Perkins kept quiet in the passenger seat; his head bowed and his hands splayed open in his lap. Luke had the thought that he was driving around with a crazy, old man but that crazy, old man had nearly been killed helping Luke. There was something going on and Luke thought his best chance of figuring it all out was that old man. Perkins was muttering softly to himself and occasionally he’d make a sudden jerk in one direction or the other. Periodically, he would breathe hard and hotly, sounding more like a wolf’s snarl. Luke didn’t know what Perkins was doing but it had something to do with the dog. Perkins would snarl and jerk in his seat and then Cesar would whine and yelp from the backseat. Beads of sweat rolled down Perkins’s temples and Luke thought he saw flashes of something from the corner of his eye.

Luke couldn’t have been sure, but he thought he might have seen the old man’s gun-metal gray eyes turn a fiery yellow. Luke thought he saw the old man’s hands hook into claws. He thought he saw the old man’s jaw jut out, showing little white fangs. Honestly, Luke didn’t know what he saw, but he didn’t quite believe Perkins was a crazy, old man. Cesar’s yelping grew softer in the backseat and after long, the German Shepherd fell asleep on the bench of the old Ford.

When Cesar’s breaths were long and deep, Perkins stopped his muttering, suddenly grasped his side and winced. His breathing grew irregular and he leaned forward, pressing his head up against the dashboard. Luke pulled to the side of the road and stared at the old man.

“Where do you want me to go?” Luke asked after allowing Perkins’s ragged breath to fill the cabin.

“You got a cell phone?” Perkins asked, sounding tired and raw. Luke did have one, which he had left hooked to its charger back at his house.

“No.” Luke said, turning his head back to the road.

“What type of teenager are you? Find a pay phone or a gas station or something. I got to make a call.” Perkins said.

“What did you just do?” Luke asked after another long pause.

“Something stupid. It’s sort of a specialty of mine. Just drive, damn it.” Perkins said and Luke pulled back onto the road.

Luke had experience driving a truck because he had learned on his father’s Chevy, but the Ford was still unwieldy. The wheel would buck and jerk in Luke’s grasp and the it’d shutter and gasp like wound animal seizing before death. Even still, Luke kept it on the road, driving slow down the narrow car-lined streets. Luke had a convenience store in mind. The aptly named On the Run. There’d be a yellow and red pay phone out front. Typically, the receiver would be dangling from its chord rather than properly hung up. The average users of said phone commonly had a temper and on more than one occasion the pay phone had to be replaced due to ripping out the receiver or the entire works and spilling it all out into the parking lot. Luke pulled into the sparsely occupied parking lot of the On The Run and put the truck into park.

There was more graffiti etched in permanent marker to the left of the pay phone and the entrance to the store and the likely other of the graffiti stood to the far right of the door with one hand in his pocket and another holding a cigarette. He was a tall, thin, scarecrow-like man in his thirties or forties, but he wore tight blue jeans and a black hoodie with the hood drawn up over a Boston Red Sox cap. In short, he was dressed to look a few decades year younger than he actually was. The man eyed the truck as it puttered to a stop.

“There’s a phone right there.” Luke said, pointing a finger out the window.

“Yeah and I’m going to need you to go over there and make a call. You might’ve gathered that I’m a little banged up.” Perkins said, sounding annoyed. Perkins opened up the truck’s glove compartment which housed random fast food napkins and pieces of paper. He rooted through the paper until he found a red-inked plastic pen. He then selected a crumpled, yellow napkin and jotted down a phone number.

“Take this. You’ll probably get a girl on the line. Her name’s Sadie. Tell her to tell Sheila that I’m coming and I’ve got somebody with me. Got it?” Perkins said, handing the napkin to Luke.

“Yeah. Tell Sadie to let Sheila know you’re coming and that I’m with you.” Luke said, popping the driver’s side door open.

“Good. You’re not as simple as you look. Hurry on, Pecker-wood.” Perkins said. Luke stepped across the parking lot, digging his hands into his pockets, searching for loose change. He’d failed to clean out his pockets more often than not and that proved fortunate. He found fourteen dollar bills and eight-six cents in change. He deposited two quarters into the pay phone and stole a glance at the man standing to the far right of the door. He’d been staring at Luke, bouncing his heel off the storefront’s wall. Luke punched in the phone number and put the receiver to his ear.

The man in the hoodie flicked the cigarette out into the parking lot and then stepped toward Luke, shoving both his hands into his jean pockets. Luke could see the man had a pencil thin, blonde mustache and had greasy blonde hair creeping out form underneath his baseball cap.

“Yeah?” A girl’s voice said from the other side of the line. She sounded tired and raspy, but also young like she might have been his age or maybe a year younger.

“Sadie?” Luke asked.

“Uh…Yeah.” Sadie said.

“Excuse me, man. You got a dollar?” The man had asked Luke.

“No.” Luke said to the man.

“No what?” Sadie asked Luke.

“Nothing. Let Sheila know that Perkins is coming and I’m coming with him.” Luke said to Sadie.

“How about fifty cents?” Then man asked Luke. The man had yellowed fingertips and he stank of nicotine.

“I don’t” Luke said, lying to the man.

“You don’t what?” Sadie asked, sounding mildly amazed.

“Nothing. Can you tell her that we’re coming?” Luke asked Sadie.

“Yeah. How’s Perkins? How’s Cesar? I haven’t seen that old dog in so long.” Sadie asked.

“Uh…Perkins is…I think he’s hurt. Something happened, but it probably can wait until we get there.” Luke said to Sadie.

“A quarter. You got to have a quarter. I’m just trying to get some money together to get something to eat.” The man said to Luke. Luke decided to ignore the man in favor of the girl on the line.

“Sure. How long until you’re here?” Sadie asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just driving. Perkins will know. I should be going. We’ll get there soon.” Luke hung up the phone.

“Come on. A quarter? Got a quarter.” The man asked.

“I really don’t.” Luke lied, starting back towards the truck.

“I can tell you your future.” The man said.

“No, thank you.” Luke said.

“Luke, it’s something you’ll want to hear.” Luke stopped and turned. His morning was only getting weirder it seemed. This man knew his name.

“How do you know my name?” Luke asked.

“Got your attention.” The man said. He cracked a yellow toothed smile and took his hands out of his pockets, placing them on his narrow hips.

“How do you know my name?” Luke asked again.

“Calm. Calm. I have my ways. You wanna hear the future or not?” The man asked, beginning  to rock on his heels.

“What are you talking about?” Luke asked.

“That Perkins, he told you that you’d cause more damage dead than alive. That sound weird?” The man asked.

“Yeah.”

“Luke, you’re smart. Think about who you’re with and what’s happening around you. You might just survive this.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying that Perkins is a danger to me?” Luke asked.

“That’s some thing for you to decide. The future is nothing, if not uncertain.” The man said.

“Then, why did you offer to tell it to me?” Luke asked.

“Well. The future could’ve been made more certain for somebody with a dollar. Too late now. Keep your eyes open, Luke.” The man smirked and cocked his head. With that, the man swaggered away, turning the corner of the On The Run.

“Luke. How’s your stomach feeling?” The man yelled as he disappeared around a corner and he was gone. Luke touched his stomach, remembering how Perkins had struck him there. Luke considered following him, but something told him that the man wouldn’t be around the corner when Luke turned it. The man would be gone like a puff of smoke. He started towards the truck, spying Perkins leaning his head up against the dashboard. Luke opened the driver’s side door and climbed inside.

“You talk to Sadie or Sheila?” Perkins asked.

“Yeah.” Luke said.

“What took you so long?” Perkins asked.

“You didn’t see the man?” Luke asked.

“What man?” Perkins asked.

“There was…” Luke started. Are you  saying that Perkins is a danger to me? Suddenly, Luke wasn’t sure if he should say anything about the random, greasy man.

 “There was a bum hassling me for change.” Luke said. Luke started up the truck  and moved it back onto the street, rolling on toward the rising sun. 

No Magic For Luke Peters: Ch. 4

Chapter Four: Look At Your Boy Now

There were too many voices swimming around in Bobby Bland’s head. He’d been bashed in the face, both with a wooden cane and a metal frying pan, but neither pain had been as concerning as the lack of vision in his left eye. Bobby didn’t think the vision loss would be permanent or at least he hoped so. He could make out little, white snakes of light rising and sinking into a sea of black. The white snakes grew dull and harder to make out. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The entire left side of his face throbbed. His throat felt like it was swelling shut, trying to choke him alive.  He thought there were tiny, hard-shelled things crawling beneath his skin and that the ground, beneath him, was rolling like a washing machine set on its agitation cycle.

The dark man demanded that he stand, that he pursue the two that had injured him and Bobby was trying, but his body was too heavy. He thought that the hard-shelled things were connected to hooks cemented into the ground. They dug into his skin whenever Bobby tried to pick himself up. He’d get to his knees, a Herculean effort, and then he’d come crashing back down to the dry, cold grass, his muscles protesting and misfiring. It was a small, vague thought like a tiny bird flitting through the forest. He might be dying. He could have some severe internal bleeding from the cane strike or the frying smashing into his skull. There was another fear. The dark man might not let him die. That might imply that Bobby wanted death. In reality, Bobby actually wanted an end to pain.  

That want was illusive because there were voices like little bees stinging away at his mind. There was the dark man who was like a blaring horn in his head, cracking and shattering his skull. Then there was his father. His father was dead. Bobby knew that, but his father was also somewhere close, looming with a pair of closed fists. After his father, there was his mother who wasn’t dead, just long gone. She was a whisper, begging him to stop, to lay down, and to give in to the urge to sleep. There was a fourth voice that was outside his head, but it also hummed like a phantom passing through the foggy, purpled-leafed forest inside his mind.

“Dude…are you okay?” The voice asked over the shuttering pulse pounding away in his head. The things ferreting beneath his skin were slowing, but he couldn’t see any bulges underneath his skin. They weren’t real. Telling himself that they weren’t real helped. The weights slid from his back and the vision in his left eye was clearing. Pinpoints of scummy, red light bled in through the darkness. The pain in his head hadn’t let up and neither had the voices.

Up, Bobby. Get up, Bobby. Now, Bobby. The dark man said. Each one was accompanied by a bolt of pain. The dark man was trying to drive him like a stubborn mule.

“Dude…you’re bleeding a lot.” The phantom voice said to him, somewhere above his head.

Bobby. Baby, stay down. You’re hurt, You could die. Lay down. His mother told him.

That’s right, boy. Stay down. Take a knee like you always have. Your mother left me with you and I can’t stand the sight of you. I tried my best to make you hard, but you’re soft. Stay down, boy. Bobby just heard the voice, but he saw the image that would have accompanied it. He saw his father; sitting in his easy chair, clutching a cold, sweating Coors. His voice wafted over the tuned down sound of football announcer rattling off statistics. The lights were off in the living room while his father told him how weak he was. Bobby’s hands landed on either side of him and Bobby found his feet.

“Dude… No. No. You probably shouldn’t get up. You’re hurt, man.” Bobby was looking down at a skinny, green eyed boy and it took him a small while to place him. Concentrating on who the boy was, detracted from his balance, but he caught the memory and his balance at roughly the same time. He was a little, black-haired skater boy Bobby had sent to pound on the front door of the Peters house. The boy had been happy to help, flashing Bobby a dark smile before disappearing around the side of the house.

The boy doesn’t matter. The dark man whispered in Bobby’s ear.

“Yeah.” Bobby said into the morning air. Bobby was noticing more and more that his face was sopping wet and his lips tasted coppery when he ran his tongue along them.

“What were you trying to do, man?” The skater boy asked, looking up to Bobby with his wide green eyes. Bobby ignored the boy, moving past him and gathering up his baseball bat. The ground was still swaying beneath his feet and Bobby adopted a drunken sailor’s stagger.

Lay down, Bobby. You’ll hurt yourself. Bobby’s mother cooed in his ear, but Bobby shook the sound away like it was an annoying mosquito. Where was she now? His mother was on the other side of the country. She’d left Bobby with his father. How much could she have really cared? Bobby stumbled into the lonesome street, preventing himself from crashing into the middle of the road by catching hold of the tall, knotted gofer wood fence.

“Where are you now?” Bobby said to no one in particular. It had originally been intended for his mother, but he wasn’t thinking of her when he said it. That thought and every other thought was slippery like slimy fish in from the Merrimack. His father had a truck, a rusted out fishing truck. Ultimately, that truck was repossessed, but Bobby’s father had taken him fishing one summer afternoon. Bobby thought of it as fishing, but in reality it was Bobby’s father getting drunk in close proximity to fishing poles. Bobby had looked down into the cloudy brown water and could actually see the shiny scales on fish that his father was making no attempt to catch. Why was he thinking about that now? He was making a connection between his father’s repossessed fishing truck and a rusted Ford pickup parked far down the street. There was an old man and a young man. Both of them were climbing into the cab of the Ford. The young man had a frying pan and was climbing into the driver’s seat. The old man sparked his memory. The old man had a crimson colored cane. Luke and the Old man. The old man’s name didn’t really matter. Neither did Luke’s name. Bobby was supposed to kill them both. He didn’t know exactly why. Bobby started running. 

Somehow, running was easier for Bobby, charging down the uneven, cracked street with the metal bat clenched in his hand. Running, for Bobby, meant falling without ever hitting the ground. He just had to make sure one of his feet was under him. Even still, he would need to steady himself with his hands from time to time. The skater boy was yelling after him, but Bobby barreled forward. Jimmy, the neighborhood terrorist, looked down the street at the bleeding, abused Bobby Bland as he disappeared across the corner.

Possibly, the dark man was propping him up, but it was as likely that Bobby had his father’s imagined words burning in the back of his brain. His vision hadn’t fully come back and he could have been struck by a car and killed without ever knowing exactly why he died. The way he was running , he could have missed Luke and Perkins all together, but he hadn’t. The two of them were climbing into a rusted Ford pickup truck with a back bumper secured on with long strips of black duct tape. The German Shepherd, Cesar had already been loaded into the backseat of the pickup’s cab. The pickup puttered away as Bobby charged forth. He kept running, surging after the flashing tail lights. He managed to bash in the truck’s left tail light  before it disappeared over the horizon.

Sweat pearled back the length of Bobby’s back only to chill in the cool morning air. There was something fundamentally horrible about losing these two men he’d been set to kill. He hadn’t been aware of them prior to that day, but his stomach soured at the sight of the truck’s tail lights speeding away.

“What do I do now?” Bobby said shakily.

What we do is wait, Bobby. The night shall fall and bare its teeth. The dark man told him in a low whisper. Bobby nodded, balling his fists and trying to hold back the roving pain that carved its way through his skull.

 Bobby hadn’t known a few very important things and those things were more similarities between Luke and Bobby. Neither teenager understood the world they were thrown into. Neither teenager understood the men who thrusted them into that world. Neither teenager questioned why they hadn’t run away. Bobby failed to question the attempted murders of an old man he’d never met and a young man he’d only vaguely knew from the crowded hallways of their school because of the pain and the purple leafed forest. Bobby had a measurable reason, but what’s Luke’s problem?