Paul forced out a smile although he felt like crying. “Yes sir, that’s good news.”
He didn’t cry then. Only after Brother Max left did Paul let his feelings show and the tears flowed unchecked. Sobs racking his body, he cried for his lost years, cried for his friends, and most of all, cried for the girl he’d met and whose life was in the hands of monsters and there was nothing he could do about it.
Chapter Thirteen
Breakout and Broken Dreams
The maps, they held the key. Paul had been sitting in the library since lunch ended, going over some maps of the city. It was late afternoon, the day after his return to the orphanage, and the sunlight streamed in through the dirty windows, illuminating the aged library in a cheery glow.
It may have been cheery for someone else, but for him, it was simply a reminder his friends weren’t around anymore. He didn’t want to think about what Simpson was doing to Angela, but he had a pretty good idea, and it made him sick. He wanted…no, needed to find her in the worst way, but since he had no frame of reference, he couldn’t do a damn thing.
As for how the other kids reacted when he’d come back, say hello to Ignore Mode. His teachers had welcomed him back, all had been forgiven, but as for the rest of the student populace, they had gone about their business with their cliques. For once, he’d actually been grateful for the anonymity.
Beginning his search where it all started, he found Angelica well enough, but New York State was large, and Simpson and his goons could be anywhere. Struggling to put the pieces together and using his city smarts, he wondered where a person would take someone like Angela. Neither she nor CF could stand up to electricity, so where would someone be able to get all that power?
Then it hit him. Power stations—there were a lot of them. The goons at Rallan wouldn’t risk going to one of the major power stations, but maybe there were some inactive ones.
No, how could they be using all that electricity and have no one notice? It didn’t make sense. The power drain would probably show up on a power grid somewhere in the city, unless they were hiding it somehow.
The possibilities of where to go and which authority to talk to were endless, but at the same time, all of this had to be kept secret. Would anyone take the word of a teen runaway? Moreover, would they care? In a burst of cynicism and despair, Paul heaved a tremendous sigh. Simpson had been right. No one would listen…
“Hey, nerd, you’re back.”
When he swiveled around on his chair, he saw that two of his classmates stood three feet away. Big for their age, tough looking, they had the appearance of future gangsters.
“What do you want?” he asked, and clicked off the computer. Rage flowed through him, and he got up, balled his fists, and prepared for war. “If you’re here to smack me around, go ahead.”
For a change, the other kids held their ground. Perhaps it was the anger in Paul’s voice or perhaps the look in his eyes that said he wouldn’t be put down, not this time and not ever.
After glancing at each other, the larger of the two boys, dark haired with a face full of pimples, held up his hands as a gesture of peace. “No man, we just want to ask you how you did it. I mean, you were gone for almost two weeks. It’s friggin’ rough out there. How’d you make it?” His voice held a measure of respect, which was something new.
What could Paul say? No way in the world would anyone believe him, so what else to do but to lie? He wove a story of skulking around during the day, hiding out in abandoned buildings and movie theaters at night, always on the run and stealing when he had to. It was total BS, but the two boys bought into it.
“Man, that is just too hardcore,” the bigger kid said with admiration. “Too many Bangers around, and did you ever see that vampire chick? We were watching it on the news. Her and some zombie, that was totally sick!”
“Uh, well, I didn’t see anything except people out there,” Paul added, trying to change the course of the conversation. “I mean, I was on the run and inside half the time, so—”
“I think it’s all bogus,” the other kid put in. “It had to be some kind of movie stunt.” He pulled on his friend’s arm. “C’mon, Joey. Everyone’s waiting downstairs.”
He left, but Joey lingered long enough to say, “Hey, I heard some family’s coming by tomorrow to talk to you. You think you’ll get lucky?”
Luck was only an opportunity, and right now Paul figured his luck had already run out. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Either way, I’m out of here in six months.”
“Yeah,” Joey affirmed, nodding, “me, too. Anyway, see ya.”
He took off, and Paul sat in the library until it was closing time, not seeing or hearing anything. Once the librarian told him that he was closing up, Paul went back to his room. He now had an idea of what to look for. What he needed was someone who knew where it was.
* * * *
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Collins said.
It was late in the afternoon the next day, roughly five-thirty, and Paul sat in the administration’s office, dressed in his only suit. Actually, it was a suit that the orphanage provided, as he possessed nothing outside of a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts and socks that needed darning. Black with worn elbows and knees, the suit was two sizes too large and hung from his frame.
Brother Max welcomed Mrs. Collins in and asked her to sit alongside him. She was a short and slender blonde woman in her mid-forties. In a pleasant voice, she introduced herself, talked a bit about where she lived and apologized for her husband’s absence, but he’d been called away on a sudden business trip and couldn’t make it.
“My husband’s a professor at Rutgers University,” she said. “That’s in New Jersey. He specializes in computer science. I also work part-time in a boutique and do home schooling in my spare time. We, er, couldn’t have children, so we devoted ourselves to our jobs. However, we discussed the matter about raising a teenager and we’d welcome the challenge.”
Their talk continued. Mrs. Collins asked all the right questions, nodded at his answers, and seemed more than kind. To his surprise, she seemed concerned for his welfare and in fact, Paul began to like her…but a sudden dripping sound made him lose his concentration.
It came from the sink behind Mrs. Collins and Brother Max. A few drops fell from the tap. Max turned around, muttered something about calling the plumber, and swiveled around in his seat again. The drip continued, and a few seconds later, a tiny hand formed from the drops. The hand waved, and it took everything Paul had not to lose it in front of his temporary guardian and his potential future foster mother. With a massive effort to calm his thundering heart, he took in a few deep breaths and bit his lip to keep from yelling out.
“Is something wrong?” Max enquired.
“Uh, no, sir,” Paul stammered out. “This is all happening really fast. I mean, I was just thinking, um, I’ve never been to New Jersey. It sounds like a fun place.”
“It is,” Mrs. Collins affirmed. She rummaged around in her purse. “I have some pictures here of our house… Please wait a moment…”
While she searched, Paul affixed his gaze on the water coming from the tap. The hand then changed to letters. I got away. Sandstorm is with me.
“Yes!” Paul exclaimed as he started out of his seat. Hastily, he clamped his lips shut.
“Yes, what?” asked Max.
What to say? Taking his seat again, Paul fumbled for an answer then came up with, “I meant, yes, this is a very good meeting and I’m very happy.” Abruptly he stopped speaking when he realized his answer made him sound like he was on drugs.
“Well, it seems as though he’s enthusiastic,” Mrs. Collins said, and handed over the pictures. “Do you like the house?”
Quickly leafing through the photos, Paul had to admit that the house was everything he’d ever hoped for. It looked like a mansion with a garden in front, at least ten rooms, and a pool in the backyard. It looked perfect…but the one person who mattered most wasn’t in th
ese pictures.
“I think it’s a great place, Mrs. Collins,” he answered truthfully, and knew in his heart he’d have to say no. It also meant throwing away his future, but someone out there needed him and he couldn’t let her down. “I’m, uh, just a little snowed by all the attention. I mean, I’ve been here a long time, and—”
“I understand,” she interrupted in a kindly manner. “If you want to think about it, take your time. My husband and I will talk it over tonight when he comes back, but we’re very open to having you.”
The meeting concluded with the usual handshakes, the tour of the facility and the promise to call at the end of the week. “It was wonderful to meet you, Paul,” she said. “I hope you’ll be able to come out to our house one day. Please stay in touch.”
She nodded and left, and with her car’s departure it was a sure bet no one else would ever come close to being his adopted mother. Even if no other chances came his way, he couldn’t go through with this adoption process. He said nothing, though, except to offer a goodbye.
Brother Max turned to him and gestured toward the door to signal the meeting was over. “That seemed to go very well. I’m sure she’ll call us and I’ll be only too happy to make the arrangements.”
Once back in his room, Paul locked the door and turned on the faucet. Ooze poured out and spoke to him in the shape of a bar of soap. “You have zero idea of how nasty the sewers are,” he began, sounding more than a little testy. “They have alien life forms down there! I almost got swallowed by something worse than what CF looks like.”
“Keep your voice down, man,” Paul answered, nervously glancing around. He wasn’t sure if someone wouldn’t walk in and how could a person explain that they’d been talking to water? “How’d you know where to find me?”
Ooze proceeded to explain. When Simpson’s men had torched the farmhouse, he’d returned from hiding in the drain and doused the flames. He’d also overheard one of the men mentioning St. Joe’s and knew the location, courtesy of his download. “You saw a fire, right?”
“Yes.”
“That was just on the first floor,” Ooze said. “It’s pretty much history, but the basement where the doctor had his chambers and files? I pulled out the water from the pipes and managed to douse the fire. The chambers used to make us are inoperable, but there’s one left. It’s in the garage, remember? They didn’t look there.
“I also found another file before those morons took everything else away. It had all the instructions on it. I figure Bolson decided to keep it as insurance, just in case he decided to go straight. I got it stashed under the floorboards in the basement, so don’t worry.”
It wouldn’t help things if they had the computer. As if reading his mind, Ooze added, “I trashed the hard drive on the computer. They’ll never get it to work again.”
That was a bit of good news. Paul thought hard and a plan began to form in his mind. It was weird—probably a suicide mission—but he didn’t have any other ideas. After explaining the logistics, Ooze chuckled softly. “You know,” he said, “that’s so insane it just might work. What do you need?”
“I need a map.”
After Ooze formed a map on his body, he twisted his neck around to gaze at it and then resumed his normal shape. “Yeah, this is doable,” he stated. “The cops didn’t take the van. I can drive.”
“Where’s Sandstorm?”
A knock came at the window. Outside, a sand-fist stood out in contrast to the dusk and rapped on the window. After opening up, Sandstorm swirled around and formed a question mark with his body. “I need you to find a place,” said Paul, ignoring the cold.
Giving him directions, Sandstorm shifted his form to say, I can find this place. Wait a few minutes.
He slithered off and Paul paced back and forth impatiently like an expectant father. A number of agonizing minutes later, a tap on the window alerted him to the sand being’s return. He’s there.
Paul felt an evil smile begin to spread across his face. “Then let’s go talk to the hand.”
* * * *
That same night, once his roommates passed out, Paul got dressed in a warm pair of jeans, two T-shirts and his reliable hoodie. Carefully, he crept down the corridor wearing only socks. He skirted the places where he knew the Brothers would patrol and snuck down to the basement. There, he found a flashlight and some rope. Now he was ready.
Making as little noise as possible, he took off his hoodie then placed it against the window. With a sharp elbow smash, he opened a hole then snuck out onto the street. A cold, sharp wind blew and threw up swirls of snow. His feet instantly felt chilled, but he wasn’t thinking about the temperature. He was thinking about a certain sorry-ass henchman who was about to get his butt kicked.
The streets were practically empty with only a few stragglers moving quickly to get out of the frigid weather. No one noticed him as he made his way to the corner. There, the van waited. Ooze opened the door. “Get in,” he called out.
Sandstorm sat in the front seat in a shapeless pile, quiet and ready.
They drove to the Donut Hole. Ooze got out of the van and walked over to a grate near the sidewalk. In a quick twisting motion, he opened a valve on his suit and poured himself into the grate. Paul took up a position across the street, next to the shop and tried not to shiver.
Sneaking a peek, sure enough, the tall, skinny henchman sat inside at a booth sucking down sweet after sweet and swilling enough coffee to keep a city awake. When Hand came out, Paul whispered, “Hey, moron,” and took off around the corner and into the alleyway. The henchman gave chase and once he rounded the corner, Paul whirled around and brained him with the flashlight. Hand pitched forward and sagged to his knees.
Quickly, Paul searched him, took his gun and tied his hands up behind his back. Grabbing onto the rope, he proceeded to drag the skinny man deeper into the alleyway and over to a manhole grating.
With no crowbar to lift the cover off, he wondered what to do, but took a chance and called down, “Ooze, are you there?”
“Yeah,” a voice answered. “Hang on.”
The manhole cover blew off and went straight up in the air, only to come clanging right back down. “Way to keep a low profile,” Paul muttered. “I got a visitor.”
Hand stirred, his mouth making semi-coherent noises. “What? Who? It’s you!”
“Shut up,” Paul replied and smashed him in the mouth with the flashlight. He took the sock he’d stored in his pocket and stuffed it in the man’s mouth. Muffled noises came from the downed man as he struggled against his bonds, but he wasn’t going anywhere, not now.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Paul ground out. He felt the heft of the gun in his hand, wondered briefly if he’d have the balls to use it…but anger drove him to make the decision. He’d use it if he had to. “Now, we need a little information. Where are you keeping Angela and CF?”
He pulled out the sock and it was accompanied by a river of blood. “Screw you, kid,” Hand uttered with hatred lacing every word.
“Wrong answer,” Paul said and pushed him headfirst down the hole. “Try again.”
A scream came from the hapless henchman as he plummeted, but a geyser shot out of the sewer with him encased in a bubble. He started to thrash around, his eyes wide with panic.
“This guy smells worse than the sewer,” Ooze burbled out. “Should I keep drowning him?”
“Just a few more seconds,” Paul said, and focused his attention on the slowly suffocating scumbag. “I’m not going to ask you again. Where are they keeping her?”
Hand nodded, his eyes bulging. Ooze released him and he fell to the hard concrete, gasping for breath. Water trickled from his mouth and he heaved in great gasps of air before groaning and turning over onto his back.
While he was recovering, Paul kept the gun trained on him. Ooze went back into the sewer, but poked a humanoid head out to listen in.
The henchmen kept coughing out water and other unmentionables. “It’s… She’s at Yonkers
Power Station. It’s an old station…abandoned long ago. Rallan bought it. We’re using it as a base of operations.”
“If you’re lying to me, get ready for a bullet you know where.” Paul’s hand moved down a few inches.
Under the harsh lights of the city lamps, the henchman’s face turned white. “I swear it’s the truth! We’ve been…been siphoning off electricity from the New York power grid. No one knows. We don’t need that much, but if we want to kill those monsters…”
Paul shoved the barrel of the gun in his mouth, cutting off all speech. This was a matter of life and death and seconds counted. “They’re my friends. You got that?” Hand nodded, eyes bulging in fear. He pulled the gun out but kept it trained on the henchman.
“I got it! I got it!” yelled Hand as he spat out a river of blood along with three teeth and he sneered, “You’re just a punk.”
Some guys just don’t understand.
Paul waved the gun in the henchman’s face. “Yeah, you’re right, but I’ve got the gun and you don’t. Let’s go.” He turned to Ooze. “You got all that?”
The water-being nodded. “I do, but what’s the plan once we get there?”
“We improvise.”
A smile formed on Ooze’s face. “I can do that. Bring him over to the van.” A second later, he disappeared down the manhole.
Keeping Hand tied up, Paul laid down one warning. “No false moves. You do, and I’m not going to care.”
Hand eyed him with a sullen expression, but nodded. They went to the van. Ooze had already re-entered his containment suit and gotten into the driver’s seat. Firing up the engine, he took off and kept the vehicle moving steadily. The trip passed in silence until they reached the station. It was located on the waterfront and while old, the lights were on inside.
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