Inherited Magic

by Andrew Gordinier

  That regret didn't stop him from keeping up his rampage though, nor did it actually dampen his joy at being a god suddenly. It was hard work though, all that killing and flying around. He had thought it would be endless boundless energy, but he did get tired. That got him to thinking: Am I still mortal? He had gotten lucky and not been shot yet and dodging the cops was ridiculously easy now. He was the one controlling the fire, so there was no reason or way for it to burn him. But was he still mortal? Again, he wished he had not lost that damned notebook. You and I can sit here and comfortably make the comment that Jimmy never thought about finding out whose notebook it was, why it was notebook, or why something so powerful was left laying around. This says a great deal about Jimmy's general intelligence, and how much his thinking was being warped by his status as a “god.”

  Mortal, immortal, or just downright crazy, a hard day’s killing will wear a guy out (especially if it starts out with lots of booze, drugs, and sex with unconscious girlfriends). He needed a place to hide and Jimmy knew he couldn't just get a hotel room. His common sense as a criminal was intact and had not vanished into madness yet, and on some primal level he knew he had to hide. But where? He had flown over the city and considered options from the mundane to the morbid. He had never forgotten a crazy fucker in jail that told him about the “Gacy Motel,” where you show up at the door and kill everyone so you can sleep in the bed. That was a bit much for Jimmy because he didn't like the idea of hurting kids. Even assholes have limits, even if you can count them on one hand, and abandoned them when they get inconvenient.

  So when he saw the Morton Salt Factory, he smiled. He had been offered a job to help out as a temp on the annual cleaning; it had sounded too dirty for the pay to him, so he’d turned it down, but he knew the building was empty. There had to be all kinds of good places to hide in there, and no one was likely look there. It was the perfect place to catch a nap and plan for bigger and better.

  Chapter 29

  They could see him. At the far end of a wide aisle of pallets stacked high with packaged salt. He sat at a desk in the shipping department, his feet propped up on a box clearly marked “out.” He snored deeply and evenly, with his head back—not the image of a man with a guilty conscience. As they crept closer, John could see the man was disgusting, in every sense. He was covered head to toe in random splatters of blood and body fluids, his face was mangled as if it had been clawed by a wild animal, and there were sections of his scalp that were just bloody and raw. The man’s pattern was falling apart as John looked at it. Not unraveling, it was simply collapsing slowly in places while, in others, it seemed to be burning. Whoever this guy was, he was a horrible sight in every sense of the word and John knew he was dying.

  Still, they crept closer, ever so slowly. Owen had decided he wanted to get close enough for a single clean shot to the head. He, too, had seen the state the man was in and was sure he wouldn't be able to wake up in time. He was wrong, of course, because it was at that very moment that Jimmy opened his eyes. The three of them were there. Frozen in that brief instant of “holy fuck,” where there was no doubt, no mistake, about what had to happen next. The only question was who would walk away and who was about to die.

  Everyone exploded into action.

  Owen blindly fired, hoping for a lucky shot. It wasn't. It missed but destroyed a significant portion of the desk. Jimmy had launched himself straight up into the air and stayed there. John rushed blindly forward, trying to get a clean shot at the now flying Jimmy. It was the start of a cluster fuck.

  People see shootouts and gunfights in the movies, and they think that there is some sort of sense and thought that goes on. In the case of seasoned and trained professional soldiers, there is an element of strategy, but they train for years. Between the three of them, there was no actual training, just a lifetime of movie shoot outs and a lot of violent video games.

  Jimmy clumsily threw a stream of fire at Owen, who dodged to one side. The flames quickly spread over the racks and pallets. John, who realized he was doing something stupid, fired blindly. It actually startled and upset Jimmy slightly, causing him to move away from Owen, and that was part of the reason he missed. Jimmy switched his attention to John and decided that he genuinely hated him and was done playing, so he set about making the air around him burn. He hadn't tried that yet. Owen was busy trying to see past the growing inferno next to him. John, meanwhile, had a moment of clarity that he would never forget.

  He could feel the air around him getting hotter and hotter, well past anything he had ever felt before. This was no oven blast; this was “I now understand the terror of burning alive” and John would have nightmares about this moment for the rest of his life. He fought to bring his shotgun to bear, but it seemed to be moving too slowly; everything did. He saw the patterns and flames wrapping around the man who was about to be his killer. Some distant part of his mind saw the beauty in it, but there was no thought. There couldn't be. It was pure action and reaction. Like it or not, all the players had made their choices ahead of time and set things in motion. Now it was down to a simple question: was John going to shoot before he started trying to breathe flames?

  John pulled the trigger and watched his potential killer crumple and fall violently to the ground, crushing what was left of the shipping desk in the process. The air around him cooled quickly, and he could smell burning hair and see that his clothing was burnt in places. He stood there a moment, in shock and terror at what he had done. He felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring. Turning, he came face to face with the tribesman, who looked sad but smiled reassuringly before vanishing. These few heartbeats would forever leave a stain on John.

  “Did you get him?” Owen yelled past the growing flames.

  “Yeah . . . I got him.”

  Chapter 30

  They could hear sirens as they drove, and at one point, it seemed like every fire truck in the city was racing past them, lights blazing and loaded with adrenaline pumped heroes-in-waiting. Owen had shut off the police scanner and the radio, so there was no way to know how much worse the fire had gotten. It had already been bad when they had started running for the door, and by the time they had pulled away, there was a plume of smoke and fire competing with the city’s skyline. Neither of them spoke. Owen drove while he smoked and John sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window.

  They ditched the car in an alley by an L stop and rode the Brown Line the rest of the way to the stop on Western Avenue. As they got off, a Chicago police officer gave them a dirty look from where he was leaning against the wall, sipping coffee. Owen seemed not to care, despite carrying a bag full of evidence and smelling like a burning factory, so John followed his lead and they never got a second look.

  Officer Caver knew something was up with those two. Everything in his experience and training told him to stop them and see where it went. Everything except the gentle tick of the clock he heard. He was going to retire soon, leave his wife, and move to Mexico with his mistress. The thought of her brought him to a standstill. Why risk a future with a pretty young thing like that? He watched them go and told his instincts to shut up for once, while he dreamed of warm beaches.

  John followed Owen down the stairs, out to the street, down the alley, and through the back door of the shop. It was over, in John’s mind, and as they headed down to the basement, he felt nothing but miserable and tired. He was trying not to think, trying not to face the fact that he had just killed a man and then left his body to burn in an inferno that would no doubt destroy millions of dollars’ worth of property. Even without that thought, the collateral damage from the evening mounted quickly. How many dead before he acted? How many dead because he was foolish? It was hard to get his head around it, hard to face, easier to follow Owen to a blank wall in the corner of the basement. Owen made no attempt to hide the pattern he used or the safe from John. The kid was stupid, but he would never be a thief. John, however, was not paying attention because he was struggling with his gu
ilt.

  “Did you fill out your time card for the week?”

  The banality of the question shocked John for a moment.

  “I said; did you fill out your fucking time card!?”

  “Yes, sir.” John could only mutter.

  “Good.” Owen opened a bottom drawer in his safe and pulled out three large rubber banded stacks of cash and thrust them at John. “Get lost, and never come back.”

  “What . . .”

  “Kid, you aren’t lousy at magic, but you are careless and dumb as hell sometimes. Playing Harry-fucking-Potter with your damn color by numbers spell book killed how many people? Burned down a factory endangering how many firefighters? Cost how many people their jobs?” Owen paused to contain himself before lowering his tone. “In the not so old days, you would have been shot for this. As it is, I am going to have hell to pay, but consider yourself lucky to be alive.”

  “I—”

  “Just shut up, kid.” Owen dropped his guns on the work bench. “This episode of stupidity has more than proven you shouldn't handle this power. So there is the last of your pay, with a generous bonus. Use it. Go away. Find something else to do with your life. Lock the door on the way out and never come back.”

  “Owen—”

  “Get the hell out, now.” Owen didn't raise his voice, but the gravel in it said it all.

  John packed the bills into his pockets, dropped the guns on the work bench, and did as he was told, locking the door on the way out.

  Chapter 31

  He was exhausted, but he knew he couldn't take any more chances, so he took a cab back to what was left of his apartment building. The whole way the car radio spilled the news about the fire engulfing the Morton Salt factory. Arson was at the tip of every one's tongues. As the early morning, DJ said; “Things only burn that way if someone wants them to burn!” The upside was that there had been no firefighters reported hurt as of yet and the public was pinning the blame on the villain of the hour. They still had no idea he was dead in at the bottom of the burning building.

  There were no guards apparent at John’s building, but he was careful to stay out of sight and go in a back door just in case. The hallways already smelled faintly of mold from all the water that had come leaking down through all the cracks and holes. At least that wasn't his fault. He slipped up the stairs and under the yellow tape declaring this a “crime scene.” He could hear faint talking in one of the apartments but doubted it was a resident. He wasted no time opening the air vent and retrieving some extremely soaked cash, the ring, and the damned Book. He carefully replaced cover and was back on the street, quick as a shadow.

  He hailed another cab and asked for a hotel.

  “What kind?”

  “Cheap, but not nasty.”

  “Tough to do on this side of town.”

  “Do what ya can then.”

  So, in no time, he had a room, but despite the fact that he was exhausted in every sense of the word, he couldn't relax. He sat on the crappy bed and looked out over the parking lot at the liquor store on the other side of the street. He fought the urge to drink for a long time; he didn't actually know why and when he stopped to think about it, he gave up. He shuffled across the parking lot as the sun was coming up. He missed the darkness and wanted to hide away. He grabbed some random beer and some junk food on impulse.

  “Rough morning?” asked the guy behind the counter, who looked to be the exact definition of rough mornings.

  “Yeah.” He was not interested in talking.

  The man gave him his change and a knowing half smile and nod, but said nothing more.

  As John walked out, he noticed a short woman standing by the doorway; she was lighting a cigarette. Her makeup was layered on and her skimpy clothing looked more than slightly dirty. She was blond, and John briefly wondered why they were all blond.

  “Wanna party, cutie?” Her voice had a noticeable lack of seduction to it. Still, he did a second take; he had never been propositioned. She was attractive, no doubt about that. John stared longer than he should have at her thin t-shirt. She smiled falsely, sensing a customer.

  “Umm . . . No.” John felt decidedly shy suddenly. He looked at her pattern, and there certainly wasn't anything wrong with it. Nothing that said disease or heavy drug use. After the chaos of the night before, it looked beautiful and shining. He was momentarily tempted by the thought of human warmth.

  “Are you sure? You're kinda cute. I'll cut you a cheapie” He was still looking at her, and she knew how the minds of men worked: so long as he looked, he wanted her.

  Something struck John about her suddenly, and he looked at her closer . . . He was older than her—by a lot. He realized she might not be even old enough to drive.

  “How—” He stopped and shook his head, knowing he actually didn't want to know. He pulled a can of beer out of the bag and handed it to her, their fingers briefly touching, warmth on the cold metal.

  “Thanks . . .?”

  “Yeah.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled twenties and pushed them into her hand. “Buy a bus ticket and never look back.” It seemed like the sort of thing he should say. He wasn't sure; he was in unknown territory. Before she could say anything and before he could say anything else stupid, he walked towards his hotel room with his head down. What the hell was he doing?

  Chapter 32

  After three days of ordering pizza, drinking, and watching pay-per-view, John counted his money. He still had just over four thousand dollars, more money than he had ever had at any one time. Yet, he had nothing else. No job, no place to live, not even a spare change of clothing. It was a state of affairs that seemed to accelerate the hangover he knew he had more than earned. He decided not to care and turned on the TV. In the interest of saving money, he channel surfed through the basic cable channels, till suddenly something caught his eye. It looked, for all the world, like a two dimensional view of a simple pattern. He turned up the volume and watched, transfixed.

  It was a documentary about physics and math that explained the possibilities of parallel worlds. Much of it went way over John’s head, but he got some of it. According to the documentary, there were seemingly simple math formulas that, when mapped or graphed with a computer, created vast complicated images. These images contained smaller details that reflected exact images of the larger image and this continued no matter how small or large you went in the images. The narrator called it a “Mandelbrot set” and that it created these “fractal” images. It blew John's mind.

  He suddenly grasped that there must be a way to express patterns, no matter how complex they were, in a mathematical way. It would make it easier and safer to study and explore the effects and possibility of any given pattern and any changes made to it. He realized that this math was well beyond him and that he was going to need help to continue learning magic as well, but those were solvable problems. He had no idea if this could or would work, but it was something.

  He dumped out the booze, showered and shaved, and choked down some cold pizza as he locked the door behind him. He went and bought some new clothing—nothing fancy, just enough for two or three days—picked up a newspaper, some aspirin for his hangover and started apartment hunting over lunch at a fast food joint. By evening, he was standing in his new apartment on Magnolia near Wilson.

  He was still on the north side and still not in the best of neighborhoods, but it had what he needed, and a few things he might need. It was right next to the Red Line stop on Wilson, perhaps the scariest L stop ever. He had a grocery store nearby, along with an army surplus, a family owned hardware store, and lots of small restaurants. The key selling point, though, had been its proximity to the local community college; Truman College. He had looked at a course catalog and knew they weren't going to have a class in magician’s algebra 101, but he tried to get a sense of what he could use, and it looked good. He just had a few loose ends to tie up, and then he had to patch things up with Owen and that was what had him n
ervous.

  Chapter 33

  John had made a point to avoid paying attention to the news since the fire. Had he made the effort, it would have saved him a lot of trouble. While he was not a suspect, he was listed as missing and a person of interest in the investigation. It was, after all, his apartment that had exploded, and no one had seen him or heard from him since then. While John considered sitting in a hotel room getting drunk for three days and paying for everything in cash a break to clear his head, it is seen by most law enforcement officials as hiding out or avoiding arrest. So when he decided it would be easier to go to his old place, pick up his mail, and settle up with the landlord, he was not expecting to end up in a small interrogation room, in a downtown police station, but that is exactly what happened and what he should have expected. Some days, it just never pays to try and do things the right way.

  He had been frisked, searched, his pockets emptied, and he was given rough verbal treatment by two cops that looked oddly like two guys who bullied him when he was a freshman in high school. He had not been read his rights, so he knew he wasn't under arrest, but he didn't want to push his luck and try to leave yet. Then he was left in an interrogation room that looked like it was straight out of the movies, it was that stereotypical. John just kept telling himself to play it cool. They didn't know he was a killer, did they? Or did they?