by CM Raymond
Elijah blushed, realizing that his twig and berries were dangling on his leg. “Wait. We didn’t…?”
Willa rolled her eyes. “Sorry, you’re not my type.” She paused. “You did try to kill me, though. So we have that going for us.” She paced across the tiny room toward the dresser. Laying her slender fingers on a pile of clothes, she said, “These should fit you. I don’t think he’s coming back for them. There’s a toothbrush and towel in the bathroom. Get cleaned up, and then we’ll have story time. Because I have some questions.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait,” Elijah said. “Did you say I tried to kill you?”
The woman paused for a moment, then grinned. “Pretty sure you did, champ. Lucky for you I was in a good mood.”
She left her battered guest alone with his bewilderment.
The hot shower helped Elijah to feel only half-dead. He considered it a good start. A small container of foul-smelling cream with a note, written in what Elijah assumed was Chem’s erratic handwriting, balanced on the sink. He rubbed the ointment on his burns and felt immediate relief. There was also another bottle of Chem’s painkillers. Elijah grabbed the medicine but decided against taking any. He wanted to know what the hell was going on before he took any more of the strange pills.
The giant scab on his chest remained. Elijah looked closer, convinced there was some pattern trying to emerge. But he couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t make sense of anything.
Blurred images flashed through his mind, memories. Things that he couldn’t be true, that he couldn’t have experienced. Not sober anyway.
Sharp laughter filled the bathroom. Ragged and angry. Elijah spun, looking for the source. But there was no one there.
But it was a voice he recognized. From the restaurant. Screaming in his mind.
Elijah looked down at the pills again. Maybe I’m still high, he concluded.
Gingerly, he pulled on the stranger’s clothes. The flannel was baggy around the shoulders but fit well enough. The jeans required two cuffs. Apparently, Willa’s ex-boyfriend was a tall drink of water.
Elijah limped his way into the living room. He found Willa on the couch with an orange cat and an open book.
“A single poet surrounded by her cat and books? Cliché much?”
Willa closed the book and set it next to her on the sofa. Petting her cat, she said, “He has his uses, unlike most men—present company included.” She grinned, taking off the edge. Willa stood, letting the cat drop to the floor. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Elijah, wide-eyed, pushed the eggs around his plate as Willa concluded her account of the previous day’s events. Any semblance of appetite had vanished. She told straight-faced and lacked any hesitation.
The historian looked up in disbelief.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to believe that last night I turned into a seven-foot metal monster and terrorized a neighborhood on Mount Washington.”
“I do.”
“And that if it weren’t for you and Chem I could have laid waste to the city of Pittsburgh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And, after a sprawling fight, you and the chemist got me drugged up enough to carry me off the streets and back to your apartment—all the while dodging the police—where I woke up butt-naked and sore as hell?”
“Yep. I know, it’s a tad unbelievable.”
Elijah laughed, sending waves of pain through his body. “Honey, it’s not unbelievable, it’s History Channel nuts. Why are you doing this?”
Willa’s brow furrowed. “Doing what, exactly?”
The sincerity in her voice was striking.
“Why the hell are you messing with me? You get your kicks out of this or something? ‘There’s a new guy in town, let’s drug him, beat the hell out of him, and mind-fuck him.’ That’s sick.”
“Elijah, no one’s messing with you. This is happening.” Willa’s voice was steady.
The historian dropped his fork and stood. “Bullshit. It’s impossible. Scientifically, experientially, metaphysically, and…and…theologically.”
This drew a smile. The poet raised her brows. “Didn’t peg you as the religious type.”
“You should be locked up.”
“Call Percy. Ask him.”
Elijah crossed his fingers on the nape of his neck and squeezed. “Kiva Han, the coffee shop,” he said. “It’s all coming together. That’s where your sick plan started. Just so happened that I ran into you there, and there was Chem too, all buddy-buddy. You two do this twisted shit all the time, or was I your first go at it?”
Willa gave a slight smile. “You’re right. It sounds bizarre.”
Elijah’s mind raced. Anger filled him—old-fashioned, self-interested anger.
He looked for something to throw. “I want you and Chem to stay the hell away from me. You understand?”
Willa’s face turned blood red. Her hands balled into fists. As she watched Elijah head toward the door, her lips started to move. The verses spilled across the room.
“Thou who stealest fire,
From the fountains of the past,
To glorify the present, oh, haste,
Visit my low desire!
Strengthen me, enlighten me!
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.”
Elijah stood still with his hand on the knob. He didn’t look back, but he also didn’t advance. Flashes of fire and steel rose in his mind. He pictured Willa, cowering on the ground, one hand pointing in his direction.
“You felt that, didn’t you?”
“Felt what?” Elijah asked with hesitancy in his voice.
“You’re not the only one with powers.”
The historian turned and faced her. His face was pale—and sad.
“What are you doing to me?”
“I told you,” she said. Gone was the softness in her voice. “I need answers. One of my students has been missing now for almost a week. No one believes me that something is wrong. No one cares. And the only lead I have to go on is a large man in a suit and a ski mask. The last time I saw him, is when I first met you. Or rather, the other you.”
Despite the heat in her apartment, Elijah could feel the beginnings of a cold sweat. In his mind, a large man in a ski mask stared down at him, laughing.
“Murderous bastard.” The voice droned in his head. Elijah grabbed his temples and squeezed, fighting the rising panic. He considered saying something about it, but figured now was the worst time to mention hearing voices.
“You’re remembering aren’t you?” Willa placed her hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t understand.”
She hesitated, then spoke with confidence.
“My words are helping. Helping you see what really happened.”
“Your words?” His anger receded slowly.
“Strictly speaking, not my words, but I have power, Elijah. I’ve never seen anything like what you did last night, but your abilities aren’t exactly unique. There are a few others like us, able to do things that most only see in movies and read on the pages of children’s stories. For me, it’s the ability to speak and have my words shape the world.”
“You can control my mind?” Elijah didn’t try to hide his incredulity.
“Not mind control. But certain words have power, and I can tap into that power in a way most can’t.”
Elijah shook his head, trying to make sense of this bizarre situation. “Well, I’d be lying if I told you that’s an easy pill to swallow.”
“I understand. Believe me. This is all going to take time. But when you’re ready to listen, you need to come talk to me.” Her eyes were glassy. “Something is happening in Pittsburgh. Something wicked. And like it or not you’re at the center of it. You’re going to need us, Elijah. And it seems that we are going to need you as well.”
Hardness s
pread through his face. His bottom lip quivered. “I’m leaving,” he said abruptly. “But if you think I’m buying your witches and warlocks bullshit, then you’re sick and stupid.”
The door slammed as Elijah Branton left. Willa was left feeling more alone than ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Chem walked toward the lab with his typically slow amble. Some did yoga, some meditated, some even read sacred texts—Chem walked. A mild pace allowed the thirty-five-year-old chemist a chance to process, to unwind, clear his head. But for Chem, it was more than that.
Although he’d never say it out loud, he held a tacit yet unyielding belief that the lab was a place of pure science—for verification, mental rigor, and solid fact. For reality. These mundane aspects of a researcher’s life were vital for effective scientific investigation. But true science required more than that. Creativity, wonder, and desire—these things might skew one’s perspective, might cause one to misread a lab report or inflate an analysis, but they were necessary for meaningful discovery.
Chem’s walk to work gave him the chance to dream.
But the day after the events on Mount Washington, he quickened his steps. A man-turned-monster had torn the dreams from Chem’s mind and used them to destroy a small neighborhood. The researcher spent his night mulling over what had actually happened, trying to make sense of the impossible.
Elijah’s turning changed everything. Since med school, Chem had spent all available time trying to do the unfeasible, to bring that which cannot be into existence. It was his raison d’être, his glorious project, his manifesto. But progress was slow. Funding remained elusive, his theories and grant proposals were the laughing stock of the academy. He had reached too many dead ends and was running out of options.
The previous night renewed his hope. Future possibilities were born.
His mind was entirely preoccupied with the image of the molten man.
The monster had all of the right attributes of a military-grade bioweapon. Its massive size and strength had been at the core of what Chem wanted when he started his research all those years ago. But on top of that, it also had a steel-like exodermis that was nearly impenetrable—though he would have to test that.
The molten-metal skin constituted a blend of density and malleability perfect for sustaining impact with minimal damage. The fire inside of the creature could even conceivably be directed outward. Clearly, it was a weapon of great value. As a younger man, the value of that power would have been better than any academic prize. But it was more than that. The mixture contained some element that protected its host from utter destruction.
And that piece held his full imagination this morning. If the mixture could make a man strong enough to withstand molten steel, what else could he overcome? Disease? Disability? Death?
But behind those dreams, a singular question gnawed at his mind: Who created it?
Every phenomenon had a cause. Every cause could be dissected. A dissected cause can be replicated.
This was the foundation of science. This was his job.
Someone had not only beaten him to the punch but surpassed his most ambitious projections. And it pissed him off. He racked his brain trying to deduce who it may have been. There were certainly some nerds at Carnegie Mellon who were working on similar tests. Some covert, private operation was possible but unlikely. A government project gone awry? None of these answers satisfied him, but it was clear that someone had won the race. He was left in second place—kissing his sister.
His one advantage was Elijah Branton’s blood. A small sample sat securely in the lab. But that opened another can of worms. What the hell is his part in all of this? If Branton turned out to be an active participant, Chem would shit a brick. The awkward, out-of-shape academic just didn’t fit the part of a secret super-soldier. And if he was involved, what was he doing teaching at the University? They’d most likely keep him under lock and key for testing and observation. Why would he come to the chemist for medical help? It would expose the whole program. It didn’t make sense.
Chem considered the little he knew about the historian. It must be connected to his research.
Whatever it was, his gut told him that Elijah’s involvement was outside of his control—which meant that his new friend was in danger.
Chem was thankful that he hadn’t been alone on Mount Washington. That twig of a poet did something to the creature, although he didn’t know what. The word witchcraft came to mind. Before the encounter, Chem would have called bullshit. This morning, he wasn’t so sure. Whatever the case, the lonely-professor was turning out to be quite a woman. She definitely exerted some sort of control over that thing, and she didn’t hesitate when it came time to grab the historian and run. If she weren’t such a prude he’d have a huge crush on her.
He’d have to wait until he received Willa’s report, but he hoped that Elijah could clarify some things. The creature acted like a man possessed. It wasn’t irrational, but it certainly wasn’t the person he knew. Clearly, the product had unintended mental effects. The transformation was powerful but sloppy.
The toll—physical and psychological—that it seemed to take on its host was untenable. Who would opt for that kind of procedure? It likely could have killed the man, should have killed the man. Not to mention the dangers sustained exposure might entail. Chem was convinced that there was something swimming around in Elijah’s blood that was critical to the process. Something that continued to protect and preserve the human from the creature’s eruption.
The reaction could be improved upon: developed into something more stable, something controllable. His knowledge and skills could refine the process, enhance it. And produce a desirable commodity.
In the historian’s blood were the catalyst for cataclysmic change and an agent of protection.
War and peace.
Destruction and healing.
Chem nearly skipped the last few steps to the laboratory.
A pair of Sennheiser over-ear phones swallowed his head. Chem hated working daytime hours at the lab. Techs and researchers were everywhere, and they chatted incessantly about local sports teams or administrative gossip. They prioritized camaraderie over doing science. He was ashamed to call them colleagues.
While in the lab, he had to proceed with caution. He was technically trespassing, his employment and access terminated months ago. Bill, the security guard who was the easiest to manipulate, was still out on disability, and Chem couldn’t be sure that the new guards hadn’t been given his physical description. Chem prayed he wouldn’t run into that linebacker who was sure to still be nursing a grudge.
He decided to steer clear of the chemical supply closet.
Chem had to determine the catalyst. It must have been the benzene-like compound that caused Elijah’s transformation. The question was, how did it get there, and what triggered the manifestation? If he could find answers to these problems, Chem would be able to not only recreate Elijah Branton but also control the effects of the serum on the human condition.
The next matter at hand was whether or not he could make designer serums that could create diverse enhancements. Whatever was going on in the body of his new friend, it literally changed his molecular makeup and transformed its substance. In principle, it was reasonable to assume that if some formula of chemical compound could make a superstrong metal man, then it could also make someone supersmart, superfast, or maybe even invisible. Figure out the foundations, and the possibilities could be limitless.
What continued to vex him was how exactly he would stabilize the change.
Chem paced the room. Chemical names and symbols rattled around in his head. There had to be an element, an X-factor that, when added to Elijah’s blood, could protect the subject through the application of the Vida Serum.
After a hundred more laps around the lab, his eyes landed on the office fridge, which incessantly leaked a small stream of water from its aging guts. But it wasn’t the fridge or the
water that held his attention. He laughed, staring at the dusty, old cord running to the outlet on the wall. He needed an element that would kick whatever was protecting the historian into overdrive. Something to power it up.
“Mother-fucking Eureka! Thermo-icilin.”
He turned to for a bookshelf on the far end of the room. A long time had passed since he last studied the agonist, but he had a hunch that enough of it in the historian’s lifeblood could sustain a mere mortal through the change.
Too much, and it might just kill them.
Chem’s concentration was broken by a vibration in his pocket.
A text from Willa.
He’s gone. And pissed. Thinks we’re messing with him.
Chem couldn’t help but smile. Branton was smart and wholeheartedly committed to empirical evidence. In the science world, evidence came through replication. Maybe if Chem could recreate the experiment that resulted in the monster, Elijah could be convinced.
Just give him some time, he responded. And give me some time.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and exhaled. At the moment, he couldn’t bother with Willa or the Molten Menace. He had history to change.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Brooke leaned back in the leather chair, staring out of her 40th-floor window. The sky was clear. Bright sunlight filtered through the cold air, reflecting off the gleaming city. She always loved winter, loved the brutal clarity it brought with it.
But the view held little interest for her today. Instead, her focus lay entirely on what she saw the night before.
Hell breaking loose in the form of a man.
At her desk lay an editorial discussing Mount Washington’s amusing “monster problem.” The Trib placed the blame on a boring election cycle and the Steelers’ postseason failures. Above the fold, the writer even reported a list of nicknames for the allegedly freak of nature. The Molten Menace won out in Brooke’s mind for best in show. The editorial went on to decry the whole incident as a hoax propagated by over-imaginative gossip columns and a faked YouTube video.
