Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  He scrolls down to “Many Moons,” cranks it up, and starts bobbing his head.

  “Hey.”

  His hips start twitching at the opening quick-tempo drum groove.

  “Hey.”

  His lips move, eyes squint shut, fingers snap.

  “HEY!”

  A hand on his shoulder that whirls him around. A finger jabbing sternly into his sternum.

  “You need to burn that shirt.”

  He looks down at his shirt that reads ALL GENES ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL! BE HUMAN. He looks up. “You new in this country? I’ve got the right to wear whatever I want.”

  A fist from nowhere.

  A kick to the ribs.

  His earbuds are knocked from his ears and Miss Monae’s lyrics bleed out faintly.

  That’s when he notices the second shadow and the second set of fists and feet that begin to beat the shit out of him.

  Giorgio looks for clues at the crime scene while Noir searches for things to swipe.

  “Would think that with all the money they came into they would have a better selection o’ things to choose from.” Noir opens and shuts the drawers of the bureau in the bedroom. He slides a drawer open and his face lights up, much like the diamond earrings in the small open case. “Ooo, sparkly. Mrs. Johnson had reeeal good taste.” He snatches up the earrings, goes to slip them into his pocket, slows when he sees Giorgio watching him. “What?”

  “We’re here to investigate, not pilfer the belongings of the deceased.”

  The earrings disappear in his pocket. Noir points at him. “No, you’re here to investigate, I’m here...” He swipes a pair of cufflinks. “...for immoral support and to steal shit.” He waggles his eyebrows.

  Giorgio shakes his head and slips into the next room. Noir slips into the closet, emerging a second later with slightly bulging pockets. “Find anything?”

  Giorgio narrows his eyes in concentration and holds out a hand. “There’s something...I’m not quite sure. It’s...tugging at me.” He slowly moves into the living room.

  Noir follows after. “Let’s hope it’s somethin’ I can sel—I mean a clue, let’s hope it’s a clue.”

  Downtown - 7:02 P.M.

  It’s snowballed into a brawl. A righteous one. A woman jumps on this man’s back as he shoves that man who accidentally elbows this woman in the face as she stumbles back from a flailing fist thrown by that woman into his jaw as he drags another woman roughly from her scooter.

  “HELL OFFA ME!”

  The woman with the golden-red hair slams on the breaks and boils out of her car.

  “HEY! ASSHOLE!” Her pointed nail jabs at the man with the busted lip. “Take the fight somewhere else.”

  “SICK OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

  He wipes at his lip with his already bloody t-shirt, grabs her by the blouse, and slams her onto the hood of her giant SUV. She protests and flails, but his striking palms and shoving hands stamp out her disputes.

  “FUCKING FREAK LOVER! GONNA BEAT YOUR ASS!”

  Someone cracks a steel pipe across the back of his skull. He drops to the street and does not move, he only bleeds.

  “THEY’RE AN ABOMINATION IN THE EYES OF—”

  A motorcycle sails through the air and crashes beautifully through a storefront window. The owner rushes out.

  “SAID THE SAME THING ABOUT YOUR PEOPLE!”

  The pistol in the store owner’s hand turns a few heads, but not enough.

  “BREAK THIS MESS UP RIGHT NOW!”

  Traffic has stopped on Lynord. Horns are honking, doors are opening, and voices are shouting.

  “HE’S GOT A GUN!”

  That’s when someone gets hit by a car.

  That’s also when the same Alpha-Omega with superhuman strength who threw the motorcycle picks up a minivan and flings it into the crowd.

  Adam hurries after West out of the car.

  “Detective—” He shuts the door. “Detective West, if you would just wait for one second.”

  “Why? You wanna explain to me why you didn’t report this bastard?” He stalks up the walkway.

  “I told you, he’s not a sinner anymore. I’ve shown him the way.” He screeches to a halt as the other man suddenly whirls on him.

  “You think a rapist stops being what he is because you lay hands on him?” Head shake. “And people say I’m crazy.” He advances up the steps and knocks on the newly installed door. The door frame still bears a few cracks from Sovereign’s last...visit.

  “He only did that because he was paid to do it. I’m helping him deal with his transgressions. I’m a parole officer, I do this for a living.”

  “Then you know damn well you shoulda reported him the moment you knew who he was.” West knocks loudly again. “DCPD!” To Adam: “I should bring your ass in with him.”

  Adam goes rigid. “I’d advise against that.”

  “No matter what you believe, Mr. Kensie, you aren’t the law. And neither is God.”

  “God is greater than the law.”

  West’s mouth and the door open at the same time.

  Whirling heads, a shocked silence, a little yelp.

  The door shuts. West kicks it open before it fully closes

  “Not you again, you platinum motherfucker!” The Rapist sprints down the hall, moving surprisingly fast for a man his size. West runs after him as Adam shouts the word and soars behind him.

  A door slams and locks. The door is demolished by a platinum fist.

  B L A M !

  Ting! Off of Sovereign’s chest.

  B L A M !

  Tang! Ricochets from his shoulder.

  B L A M ! B L A M ! B L A M !

  The bullets pling and plang away from silver-ivory flesh.

  Cchk. The Rapists frowns at his gun. Aims again and pulls the trigger. Cchk. Cchk. Cchk.

  He looks at the gun. “Aww, fuck.” He looks up to see Detective West’s foot slicing through the air and folds as it takes him in the softness of his temple. “Ow! Fuck!” He withers and whimpers as he touches the throbbing spot on his head. “They lied! Said you wouldn’t be able to trace them back to me.”

  “Who told you? Trace who? Speak up, dumbass.” West boots him in the abdomen.

  The flames enshrouding Sovereign blaze once more before they fwoosh out of existence. Adam steps forward. “Kicking him is unnec—”

  The other man’s finger is in his face.

  “One more word and you’re down there with him with my heel on your throat. I don’t care if you can break me with one finger.”

  Adam shuts his mouth.

  West turns back to The Rapist. “Now, start from the beginning.”

  The Rapist starts crying.

  Downtown - 7:06 P.M.

  Leo cradles Francie to his chest as pandemonium rages out of control around them. A glass bottle smashes against the pavement at their feet. Four men gang up on one, cussing and kicking, taunting and teasing, breaking and bloodying.

  “Still think all A-Os should be put in a box and gassed?” One man punctuates his words with a boot stomp to the shoulder. “Huh?”

  Approaching sirens serrate through the distant air. A car has caught fire in the middle of the street. A woman holds up her fists and roars victory at the flames.

  A squeal of tires.

  The harsh sound of vulnerable flesh impacting with unforgiving metal.

  A minivan sailing through the air directly at Leo and Francie.

  Leo looks up as the vehicle’s shadow blankets them.

  Instinct.

  He throws a hand up and wraps a force field tight around the soaring minivan. A silver-blue outline surrounds the vehicle and it jerks to a stop as Leo grits his teeth, holding both the force field and the van in place several feet in the air.

  The nearby crowd cowers and covers their heads.

  Leo seems to realize what he’s done and dissolves the force field, dropping the van in a relatively clear spot on the street.

  He looks down at Francie.


  “You okay?”

  Giorgio kneels down in the living room, white tape outlining the deaths of the Johnsons. He presses a hand to the carpet, seemingly unmoved by the drops of dried blood.

  Noir clops down the steps from the second floor, sitting on the bottom one with his elbows on his knees. “Find what you were sniffin’ for, Fido?”

  Giorgio closes his eyes. “I...I think so. Yes. There’s something wrong here.” He spreads his fingers. “This family didn’t die correctly.”

  “The hell you talkin’ about?”

  He opens his eyes and looks at the other man. “This might sound odd, but it’s the only reasonable explanation. Or as reasonable as things can be when you speak of death.” He glances down at the carpet, opens his mouth and says—

  “It was all a ruse. The Johnsons and their wholesome family image, it’s all bunk.” The Rapist rests the back of his head against the wall he’s fallen against. “They’re not even American.”

  “Then where’re they from?” West pulls a notebook and pen from the front pocket of his dress shirt, jots notes.

  Head shake. “Dunno. What I do know is they’re an experiment.”

  “What kind of—” Adam begins and ends at West’s glare.

  “What kind of experiment?”

  “The kind where you find out how people react to the life and death of a normal, well-known American family.”

  “The Johnsons weren’t normal.”

  He scoffs and a bubble of blood froths from a nostril where Perry decked him earlier in an attempt to unsnarl the truth from his unwilling tongue. “Not yet they aren’t.” He sniffs. “In a few years, Alpha-Omegas will no longer be exotic, they’ll just be run-of-the-mill. Average.” He wipes his nose and examines red smear on the back of his wrist.

  “You said they wanted to find out how people would react. Who’s they?”

  The Rapist starts to laugh and then starts to hurt and clutches at his chest. “Think you broke something.”

  “Good, you deserved it. Now answer my question before I break something else.”

  “They, uh—” Wince. “They call themselves Libera Mentis Machina.”

  West pauses before translating. “Free Mi—No, Unfettered Mind Machine.”

  The detective looks from The Rapist to Adam as they stare at him. “My mother made me learn Latin to teach me about patience and attention to detail.” To The Rapist: “What’s their end goal?”

  A shrug that turns into a cringe. “Dunno. One of them approached me and asked if I would kill this family for seven thousand dollars.”

  “You told me you wanted to get help.” Adam ignores West’s glare.

  The Rapist looks up at him. Then he smiles. “You’re hot as fuck, but you’re also dumb as hell, you know that, Mr. Platinum? I only let you smear that oil on my forehead and mutter those prayers to get you out of my face and out of my life. It’s not like I’m actually going to stop getting paid assloads of money because of some dumbass overgrown child’s obsession with angels and shit.” He laughs in Adam’s face. “I got student loan debt and an IRA to take care of. Bouncer jobs don’t pay what they used to, especially when some of the rowdier folks are A-Os and I’m not.”

  West holds up a hand before Adam retorts. “Why the smoke and mirrors? Why make the murder look like some kinda ritual?”

  The Rapist blinks up at both men. The smile carves itself deeper and he opens his mouth and says—

  “The Johnsons aren’t dead.” Giorgio curls his fingers into his palm and lifts it from the carpet.

  Noir sits still and silent for a beat. “Get the fuck outta here.”

  Downtown - 7:15 P.M.

  Bisset stands in the middle of the swarm.

  The Dragoness bathes in the chaos.

  A man runs at her screaming and yanks his fist back.

  The Dragoness overrides Bisset’s mental block and catches the man’s knuckles in her palm before tossing him high into the air into the flames of the burning car.

  His howls are like a spice that makes her shudder, fingers stroking the air before sliding down her tongue.

  “You see, Bisset? You see what their suffering has erupted into?” She walks calmly down the street.

  A woman beats a man with a bat.

  “What will the end result be this time? A final realization they’re a community that needs to genuinely come together? Death for those who deserve it?” She jukes back as someone falls to the concrete, stepping nonchalantly over the body. “A riot is just the spark needed for great and much-needed change to take place.”

  She steps inside the swing of a man with a crowbar about to attack an injured man cringing on the sidewalk. She plucks the crowbar from his grasp. “Too much.” She whacks the crowbar against the side of his temple, dropping him before dropping the crowbar with a clatter. She turns and kneels before the injured man with a bleeding gash on his arm, caressing his sweat-kissed cheek. “Too little.”

  She curls her fingers into a delicate fist and rams it into his nose.

  A geyser of blood and screams.

  “Just right.” She stands and walks away. “Suffering must always be administered in just the right amount.”

  Adam and Perry watch as a paramedic helps The Rapist out the front door.

  “Preston Caulley.” West shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “What?”

  “His name’s Preston Caulley.”

  Adam watches as Preston turns his head a bit and gives a half-assed wave before slumping into the arms of the man helping him down the steps. “We should have made him tell us who these...Unfettered Mind Machine people are.”

  A sidelong glance from the detective. “Ten minutes ago you regarded that man as a child of God, now you’re turnin’ your back on ‘im? What kind of Christian are you?”

  “The man lied to me, to himself. He doesn’t want to change, he doesn’t know how.”

  Perry clears his throat, massages his knuckles. “We’ll drag him through the ringer once he’s properly recovered.” He pauses a beat. “Why’d you do all this?”

  Adam looks back at him. “Because God wanted me to. I think the time is right that the rest of the world knows who Sovereign is and who he stands for.” He holds his chin a bit higher.

  A stare. “You do understand you’re an Alpha-Omega...right?”

  “Detective West, I’m a Sovereign of God. That’s all I am, have been, and all that I will be until God sweeps me up into His arms and calls me home.” He looks straight ahead.

  “Whatever you say...Sovereign.” West begins to walk out of the house and stops. “By the way, they’re constructin’ a special set of holdin’ cells made of reinforced titanium down at the precinct for A-O perps with enhanced strength.” A smile, a two-fingered salute. “Take care o’ yourself, Mr. Kensie, and stay the hell outta my way.”

  Adam watches him leave before going over to the table. On it is a pocket-sized Bible. He opens the cover.

  May God bless you and guide you on the path of Righteousness.

  Brother Adam Kensie

  He shakes his head and stuffs the Bible in his right side pocket. In his left is his own pocket-sized Bible.

  He leaves.

  DCBN Newscast - 9:03 P.M., October 22nd

  “A massive riot broke out downtown this evening, resulting in several dozens of people being injured and at least four killed. The cause of the riot is believed to be related to A-O and non-powered human relations. Lynord Street, one of the city’s busiest thoroughfares, has been blocked off until the damage can be repaired, which may take as many as three weeks. We’ll be sure to provide you with updates as they become available.

  “In other news, a break has been made in the case regarding the homicide of the Johnson family. Thirty-four-year-old Norma Gargis confessed a few hours ago and has been arrested and charged with four counts of first degree murder. While being detained, Gargis said that, quote, I only wanted to do to them what they did to my grandfather. Fair exchange is no
robbery, end quote.

  “Now, let’s go to the weather.”

  Noir shuts the door behind him, swiftly swiping crisp bills from one hand to the other as he counts.

  “’Ey, man, made a pretty penny from all o’ that crap.” He wraps the wad of Benjamins in a thick rubber band. “How do the undead celebrate? They have any zombie strip clubs around here. Wanna go out for a few shots o’ quicklime?”

  Stop.

  Search.

  Silence.

  “Giorgio?”

  FADE OUT

  Some Nowhere

  THE day is windy, trees yielding to the streaming squall pressing against them. The trees are in well-maintained lawns. The lawns surround rows of houses that all look just the same. Neighbors wave to each other and stop to converse as they check the mail, wash their cars, walk their dogs, go for a jog.

  Suburbia.

  Charles and Miguel Johnson are flying kites in the backyard, a red diamond and a blue and yellow triangle stretched tight as they slide and glide in the breeze, ribbons fluttering in their wake.

  “There you go, dad. Good job.” Miguel looks over at his father’s kite as it whips a loop in the air.

  “I’m supposed to be the one teaching you how to fly a kite.” Charles smiles as he tilts his face up to the sun. He plays out more string and watches the kite soar higher. A small frown smudges his expression as the kite flies free. He remains where he is on the ground. Not moving. Trapped. Caged.

  “Parents learn from their kids all the time.” Miguel squints at the sky. “Just because you’re older, much older, doesn’t really mean anything.”

  “Yeah, but it should.” His father wipes the frown from his face and replaces it with a smile.

  An hour passes. Kites crash back to the earth only to be lifted into the air again. Conversation is made, jokes and laughs are traded as life goes on. Soon, Miguel tires of the charade.