World Wonders
Silas Memoir, no. 1
James Perrone
Dedication
With thanks to my beta readers and editors:
Matthew Sikes, Michael D’Ambrosio, and Anthony Emerson
You all gave me the courage to both finish and put this out there. Thanks.
Standard Legal Stuff
Copyright © 2018 by James Perrone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in a book review.
Prologue
A Late Night Out
Craig Masters simultaneously loved and hated his job. As a dentist that catered to the average nine-to-fiver, he got awesome pay and benefits. Enough to provide him with a comfortable life and have enough disposable income that he could indulge. And so, he did, in things like going out every weekend with his friends, drinking to the wee hours of the morning. Or a pricey ‘74 Mustang that he worked on in the winter and showed it off in the summer.
It also meant that he worked Evenings, Saturdays, and Sundays most weeks and his “weekends” were actually Tuesday and Wednesdays. Craig blamed that for his abysmal dating life and, if he was being perfectly honest, why he spent so much time drinking. Nothing else really to do on a Monday night besides watch football and drink.
Which is how Craig found himself staggering out of a bar in the Little Village around 5:30 am on a Tuesday in August. The sky was just beginning to lighten in anticipation of the morning sun, but the clouds were still thick enough to provide a light drizzle. Even though sunrise was a good half-hour away, the pre-dawn glow and streetlights burned his eyes. Already, he could hear the city coming alive with the early risers and commuters. A trickle of people here and there moved through his vision, but he paid them little attention. For now, his struggle was walking straight. His hand traced the wall, pushing on it every so often to stop him from slamming into it. He was making good progress when he ran into a dumpster, causing it to echo hollowly.
His addled mind didn’t register the pain, which was a notable blessing. However, it also didn’t have a solution to navigating the metal bin without collapsing. While he tried to pull through the fog of alcohol and to activate his problem-solving skills, he realized he was breathing heavily. “That’s odd,” he thought. All attempts to transverse the garbage bin stopped as what few brain cells were working attempted to figure out that conundrum.
“You smell delicious,” rumbled a voice behind him.
Craig turned, and miraculously didn’t fall over. The man standing there was dressed in a flannel shirt had an odd look on his face. Craig was staring at his impressive beard and then looked up to see his eyes. “Oh, he’s the one breathing heavily,” his brain finally realized. There was something else wrong with the situation, but he hadn’t put his finger on it yet. He stalled for time, as eloquently as he could.
“Mrgg???”
Pure beauty there.
“I said, you smell delicious. Like beer battered cod, you’ve been marinating in alcohol all night. If you taste half as good as you smell, I’m in for a treat.”
Fear started seeping through the alcohol buzz as what the bearded man was talking about started to creep in. “I’m not food,” Craig thought, without any real comprehension of why that was disturbing. Still, he decided to leave the odd man behind and get away from the vague discomfort he felt.
Apparently, the odd man took offense at that and suddenly Craig was flying through the air. He cleared the dumpster and crashed into the brick wall, face first. Adrenaline started pumping, and the haze started to clear. The vague discomfort turned into realized fear. This man was threatening to eat him and was strong enough to toss him like a rag doll. The fear took control and decided the best course of action was running.
Unfortunately, that plan was stopped by the dumpster flying over Craig’s head and landing with a thud ahead of him, blocking the alley. Craig scrambled forward and tried to push against the dumpster to no avail. He couldn’t get it to move. Climbing was the only option, but by the time Craig had committed to that, the man had closed the distance with methodical and heavy footsteps and grabbed Craig’s shoulder from behind. Craig tried to squirm out and flee, but the hand just grabbed and squeezed. There was an odd pressure, like only his shoulder was underwater, and then he felt his collar bone crumple. The pain nearly knocked Craig out and all thoughts of running were replaced with the screams of, “OH FUCK MY SHOULDER! YOU BROKE MY FUCKING SHOULDER!”
The man smiled and whispered, in a sickenly honied voice that possibly was meant to be soothing, but just caused Craig to shudder, which in turn caused spikes of pain to radiate from his crushed shoulder, “Shhh, it’ll be okay.” Craig could only whimper.
Out of the corner of his eye, Craig saw the man’s right-hand reach forward, nails first. The nails settled on his chest unevenly causing minor discomfort as they started twisting back and forth, digging into his chest. Methodically, the hand twisted. Craig’s shirt, and then his skin, tore away at the relentless grind of the nails, blood welling up from the gouges, soaking his shirt and causing the nails to glisten in the pre-dawn glow. Craig whimpered in pain and tried to squirm again, but only succeeding in causing the pulp that was his shoulder to grind against the crushing grip and send a crippling wave of pain that nearly caused him to black out.
The man’s sickenly honied voice was in his ear suddenly, dragging Craig back from sweet unconsciousness, “I do like it when you struggle. Scream for me?”
The man accompanied the request by shoving his hands, nails first, through what little skin remained and into the muscles beneath. There was but a moment where Craig’s rib cage resisted before they popped aside. Twice in ten seconds his metric for pain had been redefined. Craig screamed wordlessly until eventually he passed out and saw no more.
Chapter 1
Home Again
As I dropped my keys the third time, I had to restrain myself from just blowing the apartment door off its hinges. I just spent the past 96 hours in Keane County Alabama doing a massive divisional training and update of all the MCD[1] Marshals. For most, that was informational about the newest strains of lycanthropy that had popped up in New Mexico, how to use the new ARCHIVIST system, some nominal time on the firing range, and reviewing tactical hand signals. For Government EEPs[2] like myself and McCoy, it also meant running through our metahuman abilities and pushing our limits to keep our records in the ARCHIVIST system current for reasons ranging from ‘Useful for understanding and assigning deputies’ and “Building an action plan in case someone ever went rogue.” And limit pushing included minimal sleep on a hard military style cot, which I hated with a passion most wouldn’t understand.[3] As bad of an idea as sleeping on a cot was for my back, being up and moving generally resulted in more work and tests, so I at least pretended that I could sleep on the torture device that was their too-broken-for-the-military cot. As I stooped to pick up my keys, the mess of knots that had previously been my back fought the motion, reaffirming that my choice to not be an infantry man was the right one. Regardless, four nights on a hellish cot, two midnight flights, and pushing all my physical and mental abilities to their limits had taken their toll.
I finally fumbled my key into the lock, turned it, and watched the door slide open. After the shock of having access to my apartment wore off, I stumbled in, took off my shoes, and started staggering to bed. I cursed when I realized the door was open and unlocked, and gas I turned around to fix the problem. My shoulder winced as I extended my right arm to close the door. Eckles had burned me in a training exercise and the new skin I ha
d grown back came in tight, like it always did. It’d be a few days before I had full motion again, but it sure beat the months anyone else would spend in the hospital. Wincing at my painful reminder, I closed the door and continued the shuffle to the bedroom. I was so tired that by the time I got to my room, I had only managed to get my shirt off. My pants button had proved to be difficult.
Tired and weary, I decided that I could just sleep in my pants. That particular struggle just wasn’t worth it, and just fell into bed face first. My pillow caught my face, and I fell in love immediately. It was soft and comforting, unlike anything I had seen in my past few days. I cuddled the pillow like a long-distance girlfriend I hadn’t seen in months. I considered showing my appreciation in more physical ways, but I was too exhausted to do so. For now, I would settle for sticking my head to it for the foreseeable future until we had melded together. And then tomorrow, I would reconsider. Kissing such a wonderful and supporting device only seemed appropriate. But for now, sweet cuddles and facetime with my pillow. It was going to be glorious and….
And my phone was ringing.
I resisted the urge to smash it into a fine powder and congratulated myself on my impressive show of restraint. All I needed to do was turn it off and execute my plans for an all-night, rapidly expanding into all day now, cuddle fest with my pillow. I picked my phone up to turn it off but paused when I saw who was calling.
Fucking Slate.
Against my own self-preservation and sanity, I answered the call from my boss.
“I just got home Slate and it’s my travel day off. Can’t I just sleep?” I stated in something just this side of a whine. I imagined Slate’s stone jaw face in something of a scowl. He always scowled. “I’ve read your file Tennant. Your powers mean you don’t need to sleep. Hence, I’m calling you to cover since everyone else in the office is busy.”[4]
I put my face into my feather-filled lover and muffled a scream. He was right. I didn’t need to sleep. My current record was somewhere around two months without even any adverse effects besides a slight uptick in my weight and caloric intake.
However, not needing and not wanting were completely different things. Ever since the Mayan Event, sleep for me was something like four times as effective than it was for the average man. A two-hour nap got me as much energy and refreshment as a full night’s rest did for most people. Between the impressive knot and the freshly regenerated skin, I needed the recovery. Not that my boss would care about such personal appeals like that, having long ago traded the stick in his ass for steel rebar. Which meant I needed a different approach. I racked my brain, searching for any excuse to stay home.
Wait, I had just been at a mandatory training and the federal government hated paying overtime. “Sir, I’m scheduled to have the next three days off so I’m not straining the budg …”
“Tennant, we have a corpse whose heart has been ripped out of its chest and you are literally the only person I can count on to actually make it there in a reasonable timeframe. So, stop pretending you’re worried about the budget and get to 24th and Kedzie over in the Little Village. Cops are holding the scene for you.”
There was the barest of pauses where I might’ve been able to rebut, but there was no point. I was already awake and the same pesky conscience that had me answering the phone wouldn't let me sleep with something that awful running around.
Taking my silence as acceptance, he continued, “Call me when you have something.” I went to reply, but my affirmation was cut off by the click of him disconnecting.
Groaning, and knowing that I would hate myself, I dragged myself out of bed and staggered to the closet grabbing a fresh pair of socks and undershirt. I worked my way into those and snagged a fresh button down from my closet. Unfortunately, my standard motion of whipping the shirt on made the fresh skin on my arm to spasm as it was stretched farther than it was ready which then made me drop the shirt in pain. Gingerly, I bent to grab the dress shirt, back complaining the entire way.
Shirt in hand and cursing, I grabbed my holster and stomped towards the door, finishing dressing as I went.
This was going to be a long fucking day.
Chapter 2
Boots on the Ground
Slate had said that the victim had their heart had been ripped out. What he failed to mention was how the blood pooled had been splayed across the ground and the alley walls making a macabre Jackson Pollock. Or how the chest cavity had been pried open, rib shards decorating the ragged puncture wound which reminded me too much of Aliens for my own comfort. Or how the natural tendency for a corpse to void their bowels had blended with the Chicago back alley smell to make a horrid blend that made most violent crime scenes smell like a scented candle.
I wanted to barf, but I was too tired to deal with the fallout of my vomit being on a homicide victim, so I stuffed that urge back down and forced my brain into logic mode.
I stopped thinking of the body as a person and started thinking of it as a corpse. There wasn’t a pried open chest cavity, the corpse had a puncture wound that was uneven, suggesting a ripping motion. And with the lack of obvious lacerations around the wound, claws and knives seemed increasingly unlikely. Still, forensics would need to confirm.
As my brain settled on the depersonalizing facts and observations, the mental patterns changed. Since it was a corpse, things were done to it not a him which made them far less nauseating, and my urge to vomit faded. Carefully, I continued to catalogue facts.
I looked back at the cavity, noting that there were jagged breaks on the few arteries. A ripping motion seemed most likely which suggested some amount of enhanced strength, though once again I'd have to wait for forensics to tell me how much.
Which took me to the elephant in the room, or more accurately missing from the room. The absent heart. Someone had gone full Temple of Doom on this body.[5] I glanced around. Even with the copious splatters and the large pool of blood, it would stand to reason that the heart would still have some blood in it. If our perp had walked off with the heart or stashed it nearby, there’d be some kind of trail. I glanced around, eyeing the dented dumpster that I had passed on my way in. It was unlikely that someone willing to go through the effort of ripping a heart out just to dump it. I’d have someone else toss the alley, just to be safe but doubted the search would go anywhere. Still, better safe than sorry. My eyes fell to the bloody hole and my brain whispered, “And we thought Indiana Jones had it bad.”
Mistake. Relating the corpse to a character personalized it again. I quickly looked away from the body, fighting the rising urge to vomit, forcing myself back into the rational and depersonalized mindset. No, it was worse than Harrison Ford ever had it. They had pulled out chunks of the ribcage and the better part of a pectoral to get to the heart. I looked around the scene. There were plenty of bone fragments, but no signs of the muscle. I added it to the list of things to be found in the toss. Spiraling outward, my eyes settled deformed mess of blood that was the right shoulder. I took a second to center myself, dug deep, and woke up a sleeping part of my brain.
For most people empowered by the Mayan event, they got one power. Or one narrow band of powers that they could use in a variety of clever ways. Quinn Eckles, for instance could just spew out large swaths of fire whenever she wanted to. However, she’d also figured out how to suck the heat out of an area to make it super cold, or pump more into make it super-hot. Her personal favorite had very little to do with fire and everything to do with the rate at which her powers burned calories. Woman regularly got shuffled out of all you can eat buffets and still fit into her skinny jeans. Although, I got the impression that she would be just as comfortable at the weight her caloric intake would normally result in, she relished being able to inspire envy in every woman she met with both what she could eat and how little she had to work out to keep her figure.[6]
Back on point, most people got one. I won the lottery, so to speak, and got two.[7] My primary power is regeneration, resulting in a natural healing
rate somewhere around twenty-five times faster than the average human. The second-degree burns Eckles gave me over the weekend were already fully healed instead of the three weeks it takes most people. Plus, no scar. This also meant that I didn’t need to sleep as the things that trigger tiredness and repairs that require sleep are also apparently healed. I don’t quite understand how that works, but the metahuman doctors with the Marshals tell me it’s about as normal as any of this is.
The secondary power I developed was telekinesis. It took me a while to realize it and it’s still rather tiring, but damn useful. Don’t like a door, I can blow it off its hinges with enough thought and effort. Don’t want to pick something up from the floor, just grab it, provided you're awake enough to think straight. Want to investigate a wound but don’t want to touch the body or otherwise disturb the scene? Reach out with telekinetic fingers which are far more delicate than my physical hands could ever manage.
And that’s what I did. I took a deep breath and reached out. The shoulder felt much like a moldy fruit. All squish and no resistance. Whatever had grabbed this corpse had pulverized the shoulder in doing so. Explained the lack of self-defense wounds. Too much pain and strength to fight against. The chest cavity had indents under the pooled blood that felt like knuckles, reaffirming the scooping and strength. And, the pocket still had what felt like a phone and wallet, which meant the murderer didn’t care about money overly much and John Doe wouldn’t be anonymous much longer. I pulled my feelers back in and came back to the world. Strong, unconcerned with material possessions, and, if the missing muscle was any indication, carnivorous.
My first thought was werewolf, but that was almost immediately shut down. Firstly, most werewolves don’t hunt in the city like this.[8] Too many smells tend to offend the nose. Secondly, no claw marks. Thirdly, most werewolves eat more than just the heart. Despite all the blood, the body was just too intact. Plus, we’d probably see teeth marks somewhere from the eating. And fourth, and probably most damning, the new moon was last night. Historically, not the highest point of werewolf attacks.[9] I bit my lip, ran through my mental catalogue of spooky things that we had talked about at training or had popped up in the past five years again. No matches sprung to mind. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something I or the US Marshals had run into.[10]
World Wonders Page 1
