Halfway Heroes

by Dustin Martin

“Mark! Get in here now!”

  The boy jammed the pen deeper into his skin. He twisted and turned, but all that remained was a black stain on his forearm. He set the pen aside and raced to the living room.

  Glued to the chair, his father was watching TV. A job application, his token effort for the week, was on a table beside him being used as a drink coaster. He held out the phone out to him. “It’s your mom,” he said.

  Excitedly, Mark accepted the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetheart,” a tired woman said. “How’s my little man?”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that,” he said, sighing. “I’m good.”

  “How was your field trip? Your dad said one of your classmates was hurt.”

  “It was fine. She’s fine, last I saw,” Mark said, pacing about. “How are things up there?”

  “Stressful,” she said. “I might end up staying here a little longer than I would’ve liked. Maybe a day or two. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Mark said, hoping she didn’t hear his disappointment. The travels of a management consultant were stressful enough without adding in his problems.

  “Anything new happen?” she asked.

  Mark glanced at the ink spot on his arm. “Not really,” he said. They chatted for a while before he handed the phone back to his father. Then he ran back to his room.

  Brushing aside the pen, Mark sat back down. He snatched a fork from his dresser. But as he was readying for the next test, the doorbell rang. He ignored it until his father yelled, “Mark! Get in here and answer the door!”

  Mark gripped the fork in his hand, holding it high above his outstretched arm. After a couple of deep breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart, he plunged the prongs into his forearm, stabbing with all his might.

  The fork didn’t penetrate his skin. His pale, freckled arm resisted the prongs. Mark tried over and over, each time summoning greater power for the endeavor. Each time, the fork failed to cause any damage.

  The doorbell rang again, its shrill chime heard all around the house.

  “Mark!”

  He held up the fork, touching its prongs. They were not dull.

  The bell rang a third time.

  “Mark! You useless, fat waste of space! I want you in here this instant!” his father yelled. Mark sighed and tossed the fork onto the growing pile of sharp objects on his bed: pens, pencils, and razor blades. He plodded to the front door, shrinking away from his father’s cold gaze.

  “If they’re selling anything, tell them no. Then come over here,” his father said.

  When Mark answered the door, he was met by a well-dressed gentleman with combed chocolate-colored hair and smiling eyes, little larger than slits. He grinned down at Mark.

  Beside the man was a young brunette, the man’s junior by at least a decade, in her late twenties to early thirties. She was close to the man’s height, and her brown eyes held traces of hazel, which unnerved Mark a little. A thin scarf was bundled loosely around her swollen throat, its ends stuffed into her dark jacket. The poorly hidden bulge under the scarf forced her head high and she looked down on him. She was enveloped in an overwhelmingly sweet scent, as if she’d bathed in perfume.

  Behind the pair was a much taller man, dressed in a large shirt and pants that barely fit. The giant man with the mangy red beard and hair was built like a wall. He made Mark feel like a helpless child, as his massive aqua orbs stared down at him. He appeared to be the same age as the woman. He shook his shaggy hair and swatted away mosquitoes out for their evening drink.

  “Markus Bell?” the dark-haired man asked. Mark nodded slowly and the man extended his hand. “I’m Bartholomew Rooke. I was wondering if we might have a word with you.”

  “Mark?” his father called, plodding over to the door. The balding man stopped short when he saw the trio standing at the entrance. “Who are you?” he asked rudely, snorting at their presence.

  The woman stepped inside, holding out her hand. Mark’s father slowly extended his and she clasped it, bringing him a little closer. Rooke and the larger man stepped inside, almost shielding Mark from the exchange between his father and the woman. Rooke pressed a surgical mask over Mark’s face and then one over his own. The larger man held one over his own face. “Hold your breath,” Rooke whispered to Mark. Mark struggled against the hold, but Rooke held him close.

  “I’m Heather Stanson,” she greeted his dad in a sultry voice. “And you are?”

  “Gene. Gene Bell,” he said, looking at her skeptically. “What’s with the masks? Who are you people?”

  Heather smiled. “We just need to talk to Mark about something for school. Is that alright?”

  Mark wasn’t paying attention to the conversation so much as he was to the wisps of barely visible air exuding from Heather’s mouth. The air swirled around delicately around her and then, like a cloud, consumed his father's face. Gene relaxed instantaneously.

  “Of course it is,” he smiled, gesturing them farther into the house. “Come in, come in.”

  Mark was shocked by the sudden change in this dad’s manner. His only explanation was a wink from Heather, who he now noticed was very attractive, now that she no longer tilted her face up and wasn’t looking down her nose at him. She tightened the scarf and looked like a normal person, sans the lingering traces of sweet air. She allowed herself to be led away by Gene as Rooke placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

  Rooke guided Mark away from the foyer and toward his bedroom. After a few minutes he removed his mask. Mark and the other man followed suit. “Quite the woman, isn’t she?” he said, laughing at Mark’s wide-eyed expression. “That’s not all she can do, I assure you. You might have a chance to see more later. For now, let’s have a chat.”