by S.D. Higgins
Part Two
North Fossil Island, Raptor City
Like the rest of Raptor City, North Fossil Island was separated into distinct districts. If you walked far enough in a single direction, you’d find yourself somewhere that likely shared no resemblance with the place you’d just left. While the lines were seldom clearly drawn on a map, anyone who’d spent any amount of time in Raptor City could tell you which district you were currently in, and whether it was in your best interest to stay there.
The island’s east face, looking over the Atlantic, was the Falcone District-home to Raptor City University, Bio Tek Research Facility, and the commercial center for the island. Falcone was safe enough while its businesses were open, but after the bars and clubs closed in the hours before dawn, muggers would prey on unsuspecting wanderers.
To the south was Riverside where a large number of the city’s upper-middle class resided. While the economy had been failing, many of the nicer homes had fallen into foreclosure but the residents here were still doing better than just “getting by.” The riverside had shrunk in the recent years, but at its heart at least, it was still a safe place to live.
Finally, to the west and facing inland, was the Kessler District. Several generations ago, some of the wealthiest individuals on the East Coast lived in the Kessler and Riverside districts. However, as the line between classes began to widen, Kessler fell into the resulting crevice. Eventually upscale housing and manicured lawns were replaced with dilapidated apartment buildings and unlit parking lots.
Over the last several years, things in the Kessler District had gone from bad to worse as gangs waged war over the territory that was seldom patrolled by the police. Local residents rarely left the relative safety of their homes at night for fear of the gangs and other things rumored to roam in the darkness. Terror held the Kessler District in a stranglehold.
Father Thomas Murphy knew about fear. In a past life he’d used it as an effective tool. He didn’t believe in the monsters that filled the local tabloid pages. And while he had more reasons than most to fear gang violence, he refused to submit. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
He had spent the evening ministering at the Rescue Mission. He had planned to have left hours earlier and taken the bus back to the parish house, but difficult times left a number of lost souls in need of someone to talk to. The question had been raised before as to why he didn’t just purchase a car, but the church was struggling for donations already. Regardless, he enjoyed walking at night in spite of the dangers.
As he walked, a gentle rain began to fall, adding even more of a chill to the already cold November night. Thomas pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his old brown leather jacket, pulling the collar tighter against the back of his neck. His mind drifted as he walked, replaying a number of the events of the past year. He was still more than six months away from his fiftieth birthday, but it seemed as if age was quickly catching up with him.
Thomas stood just under six feet tall when he wasn’t hunching against the cold. His caramel colored skin had begun to wrinkle above his brow. He had his thick and wavy hair pulled tightly back into a short pony tail. The hair had once been solid black and an admitted source of some pride, but without any forewarning, it had faded to two-tone, more white than black.
As he walked in quiet contemplation, he realized that this stretch of sidewalk was darker than it should be. With less than an hour till midnight, the street lights should have been bathing the sidewalk in an orange fluorescent glow. It was likely the absence of the glow was simply a testament of how much the Raptor City Power Authority valued the Kessler District, but it still made Thomas nervous.
Something else had made him notice the darkness though, and now his senses had kicked into overdrive. He immediately recognized the sound of a second pair of footsteps not far behind him and as he glanced back over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a shadow dart into a doorway. He kept walking as if he hadn’t noticed, but cursed himself silently. Thomas had felt eyes upon him since he’d left the Mission, but had dismissed it as the weight of the night. Now his lack of paranoia may have cost him dearly.
Thomas had little doubt over who it was that was following him. He also knew that the figure behind him was not alone. He’d been warned just yesterday that this would happen. The outcome had been inevitable, but he was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t taken steps to protect himself. He was still several blocks away from the relative safety of the Queen of Our Holy Hearts Cathedral, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun his pursuers. Still, Father Murphy refused to go quietly into the night.
Adrenaline flowed through him and it was only partially linked to his fear. Father Murphy hadn’t always been a priest and he hoped that he still had some tricks up his sleeve. He broke off into a run down the sidewalk. Behind him, someone shouted out in alarm and at least two sets of footsteps pounded after him. Even with the adrenaline rush, Thomas was pushing fifty and he knew that his pursuers would soon be upon him. But running was only a part of his plan.
About fifty yards ahead was an opening between two buildings off the sidewalk. Father Murphy planned to slip into the narrow alley and pounce on his pursuers as they rounded the corner. If he could land a solid punch, he might be able to even the odds in a fight. But he had to reach the opening first.
Though he pushed himself as hard as he was able, he could feel his pursuers closing in. His knees already ached and his heart was beating harshly against his chest as the initial boost of energy faded. It felt like a nightmare, where no matter how fast you ran the creature in the dark still caught you.
The alley came into view, and the glimmer of hope was enough to drive him forward even faster, tapping into reserves he didn’t know he had. But hope turned to dread when another figure stepped out of the alley and turned to face the priest. Father Murphy skidded to a stop, surprising himself when he didn’t slam into the new figure, instead stopping about an inch from the new man’s face.
The man stared at the priest without blinking, his face covered in a layer of dirt. Father Murphy gagged from the smell irradiating from the man, a nearly solid aura of stench worse than any the priest could remember. A smile spread across the young man’s face, and his lips parted, he barked violently at the priest, almost perfectly imitating the sound of a rabid dog. Father Murphy leapt backward, surprised at hearing the guttural sound coming from a human throat, and fell into the waiting arms of his pursuer.
“Good evening, Padre.” The voice that hissed into Father Murphy’s ear was thick with a Hispanic accent, and the priest recognized it immediately. Muscular arms forcefully spun him around, placing him in the center of a circle formed by three young men.
Father Murphy swallowed, trying with effort to remain calm. This was a bad situation, but demonstrating panic was only going to make things worse. Besides, he wasn’t out of options yet. He may have been a man of the cloth, but he was far from a pacifist. Three on one wasn’t even the worst fight he’d been in. It was a different life, but he had beaten worse odds before. “Good evening, Vilencio,” he said calmly, making sure that the other two men remained within his peripheral vision. “Nice night for a walk.”
Vilencio sneered back at the priest, cracking his knuckles. “It’s a nice night for a dance.” This wasn’t going the way Vilencio had planned and it made him nervous. The priest was supposed to be begging for his life at this point, not bantering with him.
Vilencio was shorter than the other men gathered on the sidewalk. He was obviously of Hispanic decent, with smooth, medium dark skin and shoulder length black hair, which appeared heavily oiled. He was athletically built, wearing a white muscle shirt, exposing his well-toned arms. On his right shoulder, Father Murphy could just make out a tattoo of hands folding in prayer, holding a rosary. Tied around his left bicep was a black and red bandana. The tattoo testified to Vilencio’s devotion to the Catholic faith while the bandana professed his devotion to the local street gang, t
he Rejects of Society. Just looking at Vilencio’s arms, the priest had little difficulty seeing how so many people could see the Church as hypocritical.
“If you’re looking to dance, Mister Lopez,” Father Murphy said with a smile, “it appears you already have one partner too many. I’ll just leave you boys be.” The young man who had barked at the priest earlier began laughing uncontrollably. Even the tall man standing beside Vilencio cracked a smile, bright white teeth showing in sharp contrast against his blue-black skin. Vilencio simply glared, apparently for a moment at a loss for words.
Thomas turned to leave, hoping the joke might be enough to save the true confrontation for another night. Vilencio, however, had no intentions of waiting. His hand shot out and swiftly gained a tight grasp on Father Murphy’s wrist. With that action, the joke was suddenly over. The young man with the terrible odor stopped laughing abruptly and the smile vanished from the large black man’s face. “You aren’t going anywhere, Padre.” Vilencio spit the words into the priest’s face. “You need pay for what you did to my brother.”
Father Murphy regarded Vilencio with an expression of compassion. He understood, probably better than any of the men present, that Vilencio hadn’t chosen this way of life. That didn’t free him from being responsible for his actions, but the priest couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. “Caimen chose his own path, Vilencio. Be careful you don’t follow him too closely.”
Vilencio’s eyes were knife points, and Father Murphy could almost feel them piercing his skin. “That’s where you’re wrong, Padre. My brother didn’t choose nothing!” Even as he spoke, Vilenci’s words came harder and faster. “You sent him to prison! You sent him to die!”
Vilencio’s hand was still wrapped tightly around Father Murphy’s wrist and as he finished speaking, he balled his other hand into a fist and swung it toward the priest’s jaw. Father Murphy had known the attack was coming, and he was ready for it. Luckily, Vilencio’s punch was made out of frustration and lacked any real skill. The priest easily ducked the blow and using the grip on his wrist and Vilencio’s own momentum, Father Murphy pulled him forward and propelled him into the smelly young man. The two collided with a heavy thud and toppled to the concrete, breaking Vilencio’s hold on the priest’s wrist.
The black man watched in surprise, his jaw going slack. He certainly hadn’t expected any push back from the middle-aged priest. He was equally shocked when the priest, who was still close to the ground after dodging Vilencio’s strike, swept his legs out from under him, knocking him on his back.
Father Murphy pushed himself back up, wondering if his legs would carry him fast enough back to the church. However, before he could take off in a run, Vilencio shouted out from the ground behind him. “Enough of this!” That sentence was followed by a metallic click, a noise Father Murphy recognized as the hammer being drawn back on a gun.
Instinct took over and Father Murphy lifted both of his hands before he slowly turned around. Vilencio had pulled himself up to one knee and he was holding a large, chrome plated pistol pointed at Murphy’s chest. “I’m going to send you to hell, Padre.”
“You don’t want to do this, Vilencio,” Thomas pleaded.
Vilencio was able to hold the gun steady as he brought himself back to his feet. Father Murphy could sense the other two moving, but he kept his focus on Vilencio and the gun. Vilencio was obviously the man in charge and even if the other two had guns, they wouldn’t shoot unless he did. “An eye for an eye, Padre.” Vilencio’s voice had gone calm and cold. “An execution for an execution. Andre, Fang, grab him!”
The two lackeys followed orders and even though the large dark skinned man seemed hesitant, Father Murphy knew he was out of options. He may have stood a fair chance against the three young men in a fist fight, but he couldn’t dodge bullets. This was the last place he would have expected to meet his end when he decided to become a priest nearly thirty years earlier. The irony wasn’t lost on him, as if his life had gone full circle.
“On your knees!” Vilencio ordered, drawing Father Murphy from his thoughts. “I want to see you beg.” He was going to comply, but before he could move, one of the lackeys kicked him hard in the back of his knee. The priest buckled, his kneecap hitting hard against the pavement.
The rain began to fall with added intensity, and Father Murphy welcomed the distraction. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He may die on his knees with a bullet to the brain, but he refused to give Vilencio the satisfaction of seeing him beg. He gently shook the rain water from his face, bowed his head, and began to speak quietly. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
He could hear Vilencio’s laughter, but it was a distant sound. “Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Vilencio placed the gun barrel against the top of the priest’s head. Father Murphy could feel the cold metal even through his hair and involuntarily, his body stiffened. “Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil.”
The moment those words escaped his lips, time stood still. He could still feel a downpour of rain falling heavily upon him, and heard what sounded like thunderous footsteps rushing toward him. The priest’s eyes were still clenched tight as he awaited his inevitable end when both of his arms were suddenly released. He sensed Vilencio’s two lackeys turn and run away even as the gun was pulled away from his head.
Father Murphy’s heart was beating fiercely against the inner walls of his chest. When he heard the metal gun clank against the sidewalk, he slowly opened his eyes, blinking away the rain. “Deliver me from evil,” he repeated, awkwardly pulling himself backwards in the rain, away from the impossible sight before him.
In the short period his eyes had been closed, a statue had appeared on the sidewalk. The statue stood about seven feet tall and it held Vilencio’s right forearm in its huge fist, lifting the priest’s would be attacker at least a foot off the ground. Vilencio’s shoulder, the one with the tattoo, was bent at an impossible angle, dislocated at the very least. From his angle on the ground, Father Murphy could see a damp line running down the inseam of Vilencio’s blue jeans. The priest couldn’t help but feeling vindicated.
Vilencio’s eyes were locked on the statue’s face, wide with panic. Father Murphy stood up slowly, and as he did, the statue’s head turned to look at him. The priest looked up at the creature’s face and immediately his heart began to race. The statue was naked and quite obviously male. Its face was carved, if anything could be carved with such detail, to appear as a young man with smooth skin, no older than thirty. The eyes that looked at Father Murphy, though made of gray stone, were far from lifeless. Still, the priest was surprised that there was no recognition in the creature’s eyes.
The statue appeared to have a swimmer’s physique, but that was little measure of the creature’s strength, given how effortlessly it was holding Vilencio off the ground. Father Murphy didn’t know what to make of the creature’s sudden appearance, but undoubtedly its timely arrival had saved his life. Still, as he looked at Vilencio’s terror stricken face, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the young man. Certainly Vilencio deserved some punishment for his sins, but this may have been going too far.
“Release him,” Father Murphy said once he finally found his voice. He had no idea what he would do if the creature didn’t respond, or if it turned its dangerous attentions on the priest.
But after only a moment’s hesitation, the statue relaxed its grip, unceremoniously dropping Vilencio to the concrete. Using his good arm, the young man pushed himself up to his knees and, under the watchful eyes of the priest and the creature, he glanced down at his gun, before pushing himself to his feet and running off into the darkness.
The creature turned to watch Vilencio leave, but Father Murphy’s eyes again were locked on the creature’s face. Its hair, eyes, and lips all appeared to be formed of solid
stone, though it all moved with such fluidity. Father Murphy carefully moved forward, causing the creature to turn his full attention back to the priest. “What are you?” The words had escaped the priest’s lips before he realized the creature might take offense.
The statue’s mouth opened and closed several times, the expression on its stone features one of confusion. “What am I?” it finally repeated, saying each word slowly as if it wasn’t positive that it knew how to form the words. After a few more moments of silence, the creature answered. “I am Rock Man.”
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About the author:
S.D. Higgins is a self-proclaimed superhero fanatic born in the great white north of Wisconsin and currently living with his family in the mountains of Virginia. In addition to writing the Raptor City series he runs a mystery dinner theater in Roanoke, Virginia and with his non-existent free time he enjoys karaoke and video games.
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