"If I don't run away tonight, I'll have to face my dad when he gets into town in the morning."
"You sound terrified," Lazar said.
"I am."
"How bad can he be?" Lazar asked. "I mean, Ed's dad is a bone-fide supervillain. Just talking about Errol's parents sends him into a frenzy. What's your dad do?"
"He's a supply chain manager."
"That... doesn't sound particularly scary."
"It's the disappointment I don't want to face."
"Dude, is that it? The way you're talking you'd think he was going to flense strips of flesh from your hide to make a whip to beat you with."
Kevan shook his head. "There's too much to explain, and I don't want to tell you."
"I get it. I won't press the matter."
"Well I don't," Gabe said from the doorway. "What are you two doing jawing while I'm trying to sleep? It's past lights-out. Back to bed with you."
Sheepishly, the two stood and walked back upstairs. Gabe followed them up. Seeing the light under Ed's door, he opened it. Ed knelt next to the bed, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. Nearly half the sheets were folded under the pad proper, but half a dozen had been torn out and crumpled into balls that lay nearby.
"What are you doing up?" Gabe asked.
"I've almost got it," Ed said. "I've almost got it ironed out."
"It's also past lights-out," Gabe said, flicking off the light switch."
"No!" Ed shouted. He lunged for the switch, but Gabe caught him. Despite the depredations of age, the Kaiju Killer was still more than a match for Ed's meager strength.
"You can finish that up in the morning." Gabe lifted the pad from Ed's fingers.
Ed slumped, and slinked back to the bed. Sitting down, he sighed. "For the first time in forever, I had something interesting to do."
"This will be waiting when you wake up," Gabe said. "Just get some sleep." He turned. "That last part goes for the rest of you too."
Kevan and Lazar murmured an acknowledgment as they scurried back to their rooms.
Part 11
Gallows spritzed caustic chemicals from the long nozzle on the tile. The dingy, discolored floor had once been a uniform shade before years of abusive ownership. Now, Gallows couldn't spot two tiles that were the same hue. Seeing another roach sprint away, he spritzed it. The chemical mixture in the sprayer reduced the insect to goo. Gallows had all of the windows in the apartment open, and fans going full blast to clear the fumes. Even so, he kept his respirator and goggles firmly in place. When he'd arrived, the overwhelming aroma had been of cat urine. He was fairly certain it came from the living room carpet. His new 'laboratory' was just the kitchen of one of the units on the top floor of Tower Ten. Chasing out the current, six-legged inhabitants was taking too much of his time.
"What is that smell?" a voice called from the entryway. Gallows rattled off the chemicals he'd loaded into the spritzer, getting only blank stares. Most of the new arrivals were dressed in the same blue and white colors he'd seen on the other members, though these had significantly more gold jewelry. All carried a firearm of some sort, though none were drawn.
"You the mad scientist?" the same voice asked. He was the oldest of the lot, looking as though he might be in his late thirties. Though he wore blue and white, it was not in the same urbanwear as the others. He had a neatly-tailored blue suit with waistcoat and tails, brilliant white shirt, tie, and shoes, and a blue trilby with a bright white band. His cufflinks had the heels of cartridge cases on them, and his build was as narrow as a rapier. A wide, venomous grin crossed his face.
"Darrel Gallows," he said.
"So, Hangman, what are you cooking up?" the man in the suit asked.
"Insecticide," Gallows said. "I had roaches all over my equipment. I ran out of distilled water just scrubbing it down again."
"You telling me you haven't got anything done?"
"This is not like cooking meth, where any redneck can mix up a batch in a trailer park," Gallows said. "These are finely controlled chemical reactions which do not respond well to contaminants. I need to get rid of the roaches before I can get back to work."
"I don't like it when people talk back to me." His tone sounded a millimeter away from a violent outburst. Gallows paused.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with all the members of your organization. Could you tell me who you are?"
"I am Full-Clip Freddy. TJ and his boys, they answer to me. This crew, they answer to me. Anyone wearing these colors answers to me. And now, you answer to me. Got it?"
"I believe I understand," Gallows said. "That is an interesting name, how did you come by it?"
"Back when I was startin' out, a boy from another crew emptied a full clip into me. Even shot seventeen times, I still plugged him between the eyes." Freddy pressed a finger against the middle of his own forehead. "Wasn't the last time I got shot neither. But there ain't nobody able to kill me." Gallows raised an eyebrow, the gesture hidden behind his protective gear. "Now, I ask you again, what have you got for me?" He strolled casually into the kitchen, fingers flitting through the half-packed hardware. He held up an injector pen and peered through the ampule of pale blue liquid within. "What's this?"
"Iteration Twelve, I have not yet had the chance to test it," Gallows said.
Full-Clip tossed the injector pen to one of the group standing by the door. "Find a crack-head aching for a fix and tell him this shit will take care of his problems. Record what happens." The gang member nodded and hurried off.
"Full-clip, was it?" Gallows said. "We have had no data on the effect of the metabolites of cocaine on the transformative process. Nor on the effect of the altered brain chemistry from withdrawal will have. That test is both pointless and scientifically unsound. The odds of a detrimental reaction go up with the number of uncontrolled variables."
"Who gives a fuck about a crack-head?" Freddy asked.
Kevan had left shortly after the curfew lifted, too uncertain to risk censure by leaving earlier. The coffee shop was the only relatively new business in the area where he'd gotten off the bus. He hadn't really thought out the destination, it was just the other end of the route that passed closest to the halfway house. The beige decor fought against itself between trendy and inoffensive. Kevan got a few dirty looks from the baristas as they realized he wasn't going to buy anything. The girl behind the counter looked almost as if she was made of plastic: too much makeup, eyebrows plucked too thin, and tan that had to be sprayed-on.
Kevan sat quietly with his back to the front windows. He desperately wanted to reflect on what he should do, but his mind kept wandering to irrelevancies. Things like the dust on the fake plants by the counter, the haggard looking business people, and the thickening traffic outside. Even on a Saturday, the First Street Bridge couldn't handle the traffic demands. Another suit in the crowd didn't stand out until he set a cup down in front of Kevan and slid into the chair opposite. Roger Nightchase had dark hair and broad shoulders. He'd once been fit, but middle age and office work had hit him in the middle.
"I..." Kevan said. "How'd you find me?"
"You are wearing a tracking device," Roger said. "Mister Derleth told me where you were. He also said you had red hair now, but I didn't think he meant that red."
"The aliens did it," Kevan said, sheepishly investigating the blend of fruit and ice in front of him. "It just grows this way now."
"When he said you weren't at the house, I was terrified that it was going to be a repeat of Minnesota. That I would come all this way and you'd be gone again."
"It almost was," Kevan said. "I... I debated running away again."
"What made you decide to stick around?"
"I didn't. I just... ran out of time to think."
"They're telling me I can't take you home."
"I
have to finish this program," Kevan said. "Or things will keep getting worse."
There was a prolonged silence between them.
"For what it's worth, we didn't mean to put so much on you," Roger said. "I just wish you'd stuck around for a few more hours."
Kevan glanced up, but didn't speak.
"We realized we couldn't have one celebration for both of you, since, well, Sara was never going to grow up and you were. So your mother was going to handle Sara's birthday, and I was going to do yours."
"So where were you?" Kevan asked.
"My original plan had been to take you to get your permit and spend most of the afternoon teaching you to drive. But, a paperwork snafu got me stuck at the dealership. By the time I got home, you were nowhere to be found. I looked until the company was threatening to fire me if I didn't show up at the office. Then, when I was wold you were in Minnesota..."
Kevan looked down in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
Roger put a hand on his arm. "That's not what matters now," he said. "I just want to be sure I'm not going to lose you again."
"I have to stay in New Port Arthur to finish this program."
"I understand," Roger said. "But now I know where you are. That in of itself is precious."
"So now what?" Kevan asked.
"You have the weekend off, right?"
Kevan nodded.
"How about we finish what I planned to do on your birthday? I think the DMV has Saturday hours, and I brought the car with me." Roger gestured out the window at a bark blue two-door hatchback. It was a bottom-of-the-line entry-level car, but it was new and shiny. "I did put a few miles on it on the way up here, but it's not been driven into the ground or anything."
Bennie was emaciated. Threadbare, filth-stained clothes hung from his narrow shoulders and hips. They were a remnant of a time before his current circumstance, and cut for a larger man. They also looked as if they hadn't been washed since the time they'd fit. Watery, yellowed eyes peered piteously from sunken features. Ragged, patchy hair clung to a taut scalp. He bit at dirty, cracked fingernails with his few remaining teeth. His arms trembled with need and hunger gnawed at away at the pit of his stomach.
Spotting gang colors, he tried to shuffle out of sight, to become invisible in the squalor. A strong hand landing on Bennie's bony shoulder nearly had him leaping out of his loose skin. He nervously looked up at the robust figure of the gang member. Shades hid his eyes, but the smirk was unnerving. "You look like you could use a fix," he said, his tone far too friendly.
Bennie shook his head, but the need in his heart gripped his throat and voiced the word, "Yes."
The gang member held up a thick blue pen. "This will take away your cravings, ease the hunger, take away your pain."
"A... pen?"
The gang member pulled the cap off, revealing the needle and the ampule of pale blue liquid below it. With a twist of the base, the plunger sprung into position, ready to inject the contents. He handed the injector to Bennie. The last shred of rationality in Bennie's psyche cried out that the gang member couldn't be trusted, that they were not generous or kind. The screaming hunger drowned it out. Pushing up a dirty sleeve, he sank the needle into the remaining flesh of his arm and shot up. A sweeping feeling of invincibility rushed through his veins, followed by the pressure.
Bennie clutched his head and cried out as his scalp began to pulsate with swollen blood vessels. He cried out in pain as the pressure built and his left arm ripped out of its sleeve. The bulging extremity was barely constrained within a skin that had bleached to a sickly jaundice yellow. Throbbing veins squirmed visibly just below the surface under the pressure of their internal flow. Screaming with rage and pain, Bennie swiped at the gang member. An oversized, meaty hand struck the pavement hard enough to crack the asphalt. A cry of horror joined the chorus of emotions within his inarticulate wailing.
The gang member had his phone out and was filming Bennie's torment, a sadistic smile across his features. Bennie charged, sending the gang member running. As they ran, Bennie's right leg ballooned up in the same jaundiced, veined, pulsating manner as his arm had. It gave him an immediate limp with concrete-shattering footfalls. As the gang member darted through traffic waiting for the bridge to come back down, Bennie shoved aside one car and clamored over another. The crowd's screams harmonized with his own wails.
For his part, the gang member tried to keep his phone pointed at the horror coming into being behind him. A shape reminiscent of cerebral folds pressed against the underside of Bennie's scalp as the pain grew to a screeching crescendo.
Bennie tripped on a sedan as his left leg expanded to match his right. Unthinking and enraged, Bennie picked it up and tried to smash the car into the sidewalk. Someone caught his wrist and tipped the car into a more gentle landing. As the people inside the car scrambled out and bolted, Bennie peered at the new interloper in confusion. He had paper-white skin and hair the color of blood. He was also almost as strong as Bennie had become. Almost.
Bennie ripped Kevan off the ground, pulling up chunks of asphalt as though the teenager had been rooted to the pavement. He hurled the youth into a parking lot across the street. When Kevan rose and shook off the landing, Bennie thundered after him. His still-emaciated right arm flailed in a mockery of the hammer blow his oversized left landed on Kevan's upper chest. Incoherent rage had his wriggling, boneless fingers wrapped about the youth's throat.
A shadow fell over Bennie moments before he was shoulder-checked into the hood of a wagon. The impact drove the engine into the pavement.
"Are you all right?" Stamp asked, folding her wings into her back.
Coughing and sputtering, Kevan gave a thumb's up.
Raising from the wreckage, Bennie delivered a now-swollen right fist to Stamp's face. The right hook sent her careening through the window of the coffee shop and into an espresso machine. Clutching Kevan by the throat, Bennie lifted him off the pavement. Terrified green eyes silently pleaded for him to stop squeezing.
A single gunshot put an end to it all.
Bennie toppled, a hole drilled between his eyes. Pink brain matter and putrescent yellow-green fluid jetted from the exit wound, following the bullet. Esposito lowered his rifle as calmly as if he'd been taking shots on the range. The detective keyed his radio. "Dispatch, we have an officer involved shooting at First and J, one fatality. Send backup." his eyes flicked over to where Stamp was extricating herself from a storefront, and the purple blur was was Blue Streak approaching.
"What the hell?" Blue Steak asked. "Why'd you shoot him?"
"He looked like he was about to rip that kid's head off, and you were in no position to stop him." Esposito advanced to the parking lot and called in his loudest, most commanding voice. "Anyone who saw what happened needs to remain in the area so that we can get your statements."
Something caught Blue Streak's eye and she rushed off. "Those are familiar-looking gang colors," she said, peering over his shoulder. "Who are you texting?" Before the gang member could put his phone away, it was in her hand. "Who's 'Full-Clip Freddy'? And what's this video you just sent him?"
"That's my phone, give it back." Before he finished his sentence, she was by Stamp at the front of the coffee shop.
"Detective, I think you'll want to see this," Blue Streak said.
Sitting in the front of the little blue hatchback, Kevan kept thinking about how warm the sunlight had made the seat. His father's voice drew his attention away from the triviality.
"Are you all right?" Roger asked.
"I'm fine."
"Why'd you run off to fight that thing?"
"There were people in that car, Dad."
"Speaking of, since when can you move a car like that?"
"Since when is my hair red?"
Silence
fell over the interior of the car again.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"No," Kevan said. "I just watched a guy get shot while he was trying to strangle me."
Roger put a hand on his son's shoulder, words failing him.
Part 12
The oversized white pickup glided along the sedate lanes of The Barons with a silence and confidence that its battered and worn frame wouldn't have suggested. From street level, the neighborhood looked like nothing more than stone walls, iron fences, and trees. The houses were all built where casual passers-by couldn't peek in on them. It was a neighborhood of old money and snobbery, looking down even upon those in Leyden Heights. If not for the commonality of service personnel, the pickup would have looked sorely out of place. Errol glanced over at his grandfather.
Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 59
