Halfway Heroes

by Dustin Martin

  Chapter 24—Birthday Gifts

  Crinkle, crinkle. Mark twitched at the sound. Was it raining? No, the sound was louder than falling rain, and whatever the falling objects were, they seemed to slide rather than to smack a surface. He cracked open his eyes. Sunlight flooded the balcony. It was morning.

  Tap, tap. He poked his head over the top of the couch and looked toward the sound. Heather was in the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl. The tapping sounds were brewing coffee. Like anyone who hated the morning, her eyes were squeezed shut, but she expertly navigated her way around the kitchen. In front of the coffee maker, she stood like a stone-faced, sulking statue as she waited for her drink.

  Mark rolled off the couch and stretched his back. The couch was nowhere near as comfortable as his bed. His neck was stiff and there was a kink in his back that resisted all his grunting efforts.

  “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked. Heather thumbed the hall and mumbled something about being on the right. Mark found the door easily enough.

  When he returned, Heather was sitting in the living room on his “bed.” A cup of hot coffee steamed before her. She munched her cereal as she watched the news. “The weather is looking to be sunny all week,” the weatherman announced cheerfully. “Sun, sun, sun!”

  “Bowls are on the left,” Heather said to Mark in between bites. She slurped her coffee. “Cups are next to them. Spoons in the drawer.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said. He walked into the kitchen and searched the cupboards for a bowl. He poured some cereal, but passed on the coffee.

  “If you’re inside, get out!” the weatherman on the news shouted. “Today is a great day to be out and about! Back to you, Gale!”

  “Thanks, Chet,” the news anchor said. “In other news, Yemen is still in negotiations with Overwatch. Representatives from both sides claim that the government is open to accepting the PMC’s help, but that they have nothing further to say at the moment.” Mark carried his bowl into the living room and sat next to Heather.

  Heather muted the television and exchanged her bowl for the cup. She took a long sip of coffee. “There is one thing I need to make perfectly clear to you,” Heather said slowly. She sipped her coffee. The more she drank, the more her eyes opened, as if the scalding taste burned away the sandman’s dust. “Last night was a onetime thing. No more spending the night here.”

  “Alright,” Mark said.

  “I mean it,” she said. “My sympathy for your situation does not extend to babying you. So next time, I don’t care if you have to cross the balcony and climb into one of Finster’s windows or spend a traumatized night at your place, don’t wake me up. Got it?” Her voice was threatening. He eyed the hidden bulge beneath her scarf. It rose and fell, like it was warning him as well. He nodded.

  “Good.” Heather gathered up her bowl and cup. “You need to learn to take care of your own problems. You can’t expect others to share your burden. That only causes more trouble for them. That’s one of the most important lessons you can learn. Remember what I told you before. Don’t trust anyone. That includes relying on anyone.” She put her things in the sink and headed to her room to dress.

  She reemerged from her room in a few minutes, sporting a tight shirt and brown slacks. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail. “Think of me as mean if you want, but I’m trying to help you here. As soon as you learn to handle your own problems, the better will be your chances of survival. That’s all there is to it. Relying on others, having to owe them for help—that will only bring you down.” A pistol was strapped to her waist, which she covered with a brown leather jacket. “The second-most important lesson is to always be prepared,” she said, noticing his stare at the weapon.

  “I’ve never shot a gun,” he said.

  “And you won’t while you’re underage,” she said, turning off the television. “You’re luckier than we were, since you have someone to tell you all this. If I knew half the things I know now. ..” She trailed off. Then she shook her head and waved him off. “You should go get ready. I have to go now.”

  “You’re not riding with us?” Mark asked as they headed for the door.

  “No. Finster and I have to do some business out of town. We’re leaving today, so you’ll need to hold down the fort for a while. Won’t be back until the end of next month at the earliest.” She shut the door behind him, leaving him in the hall. Mark entered his now-quiet apartment, careful not to wake his parents. Neither was in the living room, but there were a few broken dishes and a toppled chair. He dressed in his room, and Rooke arrived soon afterward to pick him up. They stopped by Leonard’s house, where Rooke had set up a private little work area in one of the upper rooms. “Going to start working from home a few days here and there,” he said.

  Over the next several days, they worked from Leonard’s home. Mark would assist Rooke, helping him to discover the right combination for his invulnerability formula. He was tutored in the afternoon. During his free time, he talked with Leonard, since Rooke was wrapped up in constant calculations. Outside of work, Mark only saw Rooke when he was checking on Leonard.

  Rooke’s dad was worse than when Mark had first met him. His breathing had become more labored. Yet he was still cognizant of his surroundings. When he had strength to speak at length, Leonard had some interesting stories to tell, including once meeting the president to congratulate Leonard on his work for a vaccine. Mark grew to enjoy their talks, finding it a nice distraction from the monotony of mixing chemicals and doing homework. Then again, it was the only distraction at the house.

  A few days into the new routine, Rooke came to Leonard, clutching a vial. At first, Mark believed he’d found the recipe to grant invulnerability. Instead, Rooke claimed it was a solution to his father’s ailment. “I think I’ve got it this time,” Rooke said, administering it to Leonard.

  Unfortunately, the drug had no effect on the disease, which led to a nasty outburst from Rooke. He’d traipsed up and down the hall, cursing and shouting. Then he’d isolated himself in his room. “He doesn’t mean it,” Leonard told Mark when the noise died down. “It’s stress. He lets it pile up. You’d be like that, too, if your experiments always failed.” But he appeared paler after his son’s tantrum.

  Later that day, Leonard called Mark aside. “Could you do me a favor?” he asked. Mark nodded. “I hate to ask this of you, but could you talk to my son? He won’t listen to me. Maybe you can get through to him.” Mark noticed the pleading quality in his voice. “Tell him this is all folly and that he should stop stalling what will happen, one way or another.”

  “Why not just have yourself disconnected from all this?” Mark asked, waving his arm at the tubes and machines. “Stop taking the treatment.”

  “I’m letting myself be treated—for him,” Leonard said. “But I want it all to stop. Please. I’m desperate. Make him see that. At least try?”

  “I don’t think he’ll listen to me either,” Mark said. Truth be told, he was afraid to stand in Rooke’s way

  Leonard was disappointed, but he accepted the answer. Mark believed that was the end of it. However, the next day, he discovered Leonard with a respiratory tube down his throat. “It’s temporary,” Rooke said, when Mark had asked about it. “He wasn’t getting enough air last night. It was necessary. But it’s only temporary.”

  Mark felt guilty for refusing Leonard’s request. “What if it isn’t?” he asked.

  “It is,” Rooke said.

  “But how can you be sure? Maybe it’s permanent.”

  Rooke said nothing else on the issue. The day after, Mark was left at Rooke’s office in an employee’s care, while he mixed chemicals and was tutored in the company lounge.

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