by LE Barbant
I’ve got to get Chem to make me some flame resistant, stretchy pants.
Voices, hardly audible, came from an office down the hall. Elijah hoped his friends would be among the living.
The strobe of flickering lights pushed the jackhammer in his head into overtime. Elijah prayed the fighting was over. He didn’t have much left in the tank.
The feeling of being the metal monster in shape and size but the historian in every other way was bizarre. Strength and confidence came with the power. But now, his normal self, with all of its fear and insecurities, could barely move.
The thought of Willa in trouble urged him on.
A faint voice came from behind the door marked Robert Vinton. He gently pushed it open. Mayor Dobbs sat propped up against a towering bookshelf. Although his chin was high, the man looked barely conscious. A thin trickle of scarlet blood seeped from the side of his mouth.
Willa stood over him. She was nearly unrecognizable. Raged adorned her face. It had taken her over. The twisted face of the once-gentle poet snarled down on the broken man.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Willa said, “ever since I learned the truth about my mother. You were just an idea at first, a concept I could direct my hatred towards. But now, that vision has a face and a name. Both of them will be struck from the record of the living today.”
Elijah stood breathless. The image of Brooke Alarawn kneeling on Van Pelt’s chest came rushing over him. He had pleaded with her not to kill him, but it was, in the end, an impossible request.
It was happening all over again.
His mouth opened to speak, but the words got lost along the way.
The Mayor’s eyes grew wide. He laughed. “Do it. What are you waiting for? I’m not afraid to die.”
Willa’s eyes narrowed.
“And this will only solidify my dream.” Dobbs coughed; drops of blood spewed onto Willa’s legs. “Monsters killed the man trying to stop the monsters? How perfectly poetic, eh, Professor? This will only drive the one who comes after me harder. Make him stronger. Do it.”
The man was playing a game he had engaged in since early in life. It was his final move for survival. The historian realized the man’s insults were a last-ditch effort to save his life. It was tired reverse psychology, but deep down, Elijah hoped the gambit would work.
“Come on, you bitch. You’re just like your mother.”
Wrong move, Elijah thought.
“Willa, no,” he screamed into the room.
The words interrupted her. She turned; her face softened at his presence and then contorted into confusion.
“You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to be like her. Brooke also thought she was fighting for justice. But in the end, she was just a monster, lost in her own bloodlust.”
Willa furrowed her brow.
Elijah prayed he could win her, that he might just keep her hands from being bloodied with the guilty man’s life.
“You’re right, Elijah. You’re always right, aren’t you?”
A smile crossed her face, but it wasn’t her own.
The maniacal grin was alien.
Shit.
The Mayor’s shoulders dropped as he relaxed. He had taken the magician’s bait, fallen for her deceptive move. And Elijah knew she would enjoy the surprise ending all the more because of it.
Willa kicked Dobbs in the face. “But as this piece of shit knows, right isn’t always the best path.”
The man reach up and held his nose. Fear filled his eyes.
Willa’s face was granite.
“No!” the historian shouted. But her lips started to move.
“’The charge is old’?—As old as Cain – as fresh as yesterday;
Old as the Ten Commandments – have ye talked those laws away?
If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
You spoke the words that sped the shot – the curse be on you all.”
A woman screamed somewhere behind Elijah, her voice washing out Dobbs’ final cries.
But Elijah barely heard her.
Willa’s words drowned out all else.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chem stared through the oculars of the microscope, trying to make sense of the odd results. To say that this sample of Tim Ford’s blood was different from the one taken just before the fight would be an understatement.
The compound inside of him had broken down entirely. Chem lifted his head and sighed. In one form or another, he had been working on this cocktail for over two years. It had taken manifold iterations, but he thought that, with the magician’s aid, he had finally accomplished what he had set out to do.
Part of him despised her magic and what it was able to accomplish in the lab, but mostly he had been pleased that his life work was taking shape—even if that shape resembled a juiced-up superkiller. But strength and speed were only part of his goal. The healing affects were also profound. When Tim leapt off his table, seemingly unfazed by the bloody beating he had received just hours before, Chem saw true power.
But now, as the compound receded, a downward spiral of physical deterioration had taken over Ford’s battered frame.
The man looked like hell.
Tim sat behind Chem on the discarded love seat, likely left behind by a resident from the 70s. Ford’s pain was palpable; his uncharacteristic silence set a weird vibe over the lab. The chemist wasn’t sure if his brooding was caused by the chemical changes occurring in his bloodstream, or if the impetus had a simpler solution.
Tim Ford had just killed his old friend and occasional lover.
It was a perfect storm.
Chem considered asking about Anna, but his social skills met their limit just beyond small talk and dick jokes. Grief counseling certainly wouldn’t make it onto his curriculum vitae.
“How are you feeling?” Chem asked, not taking his eyes off the microscope.
“I’ve never felt worse,” Tim groaned.
“Physically, I mean.”
The basement smelled like mildew, more so now after a few days of rain. How do I work in these conditions?
“Yeah. That’s what I meant,” Tim said. “After you juiced me up with that stuff, I felt like a million bucks. I could do nearly anything. And…well…I did.”
Chem turned and watched Ford’s eyes fall on his knees.
“Yeah, man. Um, sorry about that. It’s terrible.”
Tim laughed, which caught Chem off guard. “She was a soldier for hire. I did it for years too. Anna was just trying to make bank. Anyone working for Blackbow knows they’re doing some shady business. None of us are dumb. The other night, I did what I had to, but I just can’t believe she’s gone. Thought about talking her out of the company. You know, try to get her to go legit.”
Chem sighed; the therapy session made him uneasy.
“Yeah. You did what was right. You didn’t know.” Chem paused, assuming he had said enough. “So, tell me more about how you feel.”
Tim grinned. Chem realized the man wanted his counsel as much as he wanted to give it. “Low energy. Everything that was sore before is even worse now. I can hardly move. But the damned strangest thing…” He trailed off.
“What?”
“You ever try quitting something, Chem?”
“Like my teaching position?”
“Nah, man. I mean like a habit or addiction or something. I tried to quit this stuff once,” Tim pointed to the bump on his lip—the place Copenhagen called home. “That withdrawal was the worst. I was tense all the time, yelling at people and shit. Not to mention I got really nervous about things, unsettled. Finally, I thought I’d risk cancer just to feel normal again.”
“OK…”
“That’s how I feel. Like I’m going through some serious withdrawal.”
Chem jotted down notes as Tim talked, then scratched his temple with the graphite tip of the pencil. “Interesting,” he said, mostly to himself.
“That doesn’t sound great,” Tim sa
id. “Does it?”
“Not sure. Mind if we juice you up again?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chem drew more of the compound into a clean syringe. He hoped Willa’s magic remained in the virgin solution, but he was working in uncharted territory. There were no peer-reviewed papers on enhancing chemical reactions with magic. Starting a stopwatch on his phone, he pushed the needle into Tim’s arm and slowly depressed the plunger.
“Let me know when you start feeling something.”
Tim laughed. “I already do, Dr. Strangelove. Unless it’s in my noggin.”
Chem wrote down a few more things and turned back to the microscope. “Could be a placebo. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” Tim stood to leave, then nodded behind Chem. “You have a visitor, Doc.”
Chem turned, finding Rita positioned behind him in her yellow raincoat. He swallowed hard and took a step back.
“Damn, girl, I’m going to put a cowbell around your neck.”
Rita said nothing. She pressed a jet-black jump drive into his palm, then retreated into the shadow. A chill ran down his spine as her scales brushed the back of his hand.
Chem raised his eyebrows. “What’s this?”
“A thank you for rescuing me.” Her thin mouth turned into something unrecognizable—almost a smile.
“This is all of it?” Chem asked, lifting the drive to inspect it.
“The only copy.”
Chem reached out and grabbed Rita’s shoulder. He squeezed her arm, encased in the rubbery jacket. “Thanks.”
Without a response, Rita pivoted toward the basement window.
“Oh, and Rita…”
She looked over her shoulder.
“They made me save you.” Chem winked.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
In February, the Steel City was shaken to its core by an alleged battle waged in the shadow of the iconic PPG Tower. The incident forced us to question what we know about our world, required us to confront dark parts of ourselves and our city. Worst of all, it made us feel afraid.
Many of us have walked in terror since.
And during this season of trepidation, we searched for help. We needed a leader, and we found one in City Hall. Our citizenry looked to the strongest man we could find and listened to old sources of popular wisdom, in hope of a return to normalcy, a reclamation of the status quo.
But this new normal resembled the worst of the old. Deceit trumped truth. Fear and hatred divided us when unity ought to have been our response.
From the crucible of fear, pain, and loss, we emerged weaker than ever.
We abdicated our moral responsibilities as citizens and gave up our freedoms in order to find revenge. We became the very monsters we feared. Mayor Dobbs, desperate to improve his chance at reelection, fabricated a fictional thriller starring powerful creatures who threatened to destroy our city. But this story, which we’re all too familiar with, was a sham. With high-tech puppetry and old-fashioned smoke and mirrors, Dobbs and his lackeys put one over on all of us.
It was a deception ripped from Oz.
But this myth came at a cost. Very real blood was spilt in order to keep the lie going and eventually, the monster turned on its master—the man behind the curtain—and Dobbs paid the ultimate price for the power he sought.
Might the fearmongering of Dobbs, and of any leader that dares heighten fear of the other for the sake of their own advancement, remind us of who we really are and warn us of who we are all able to become.
Monsters exist.
But they exist only within our own hearts.
Willa finished reading out loud and closed the lid to her laptop.
She winced as she leaned to place the computer off to the side. They’d considered the ER only for a moment; explaining the wound would reveal too much. Chem showed extra care removing the bullet, but her entire shoulder still ached.
“And that’s it,” she said to the historian, who was settled into the couch. “No mention of us. She cast the blame for everything, even what happened last year, all at Dobbs’ feet.”
Elijah only nodded. Willa wondered what it meant.
She was not the only one suffering from the battle in City Hall. Elijah’s face was still spotted with carmine splotches of dried blood. She imagined only some of it was his. Nasty blisters covered his hairless arms. Gray tufts had formed over his temples, a new mark of the transformation.
The turning took its toll.
She leaned back. Every muscle throbbed, testifying to the reality of the events of the previous day. Without the physical evidence she might have believed it a dream.
“How do you feel?” Elijah asked.
Willa expected judgment, but his soft eyes told her it wouldn’t be found in him—not on that day.
“Empty.”
“Empty?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m fine. But I feel something less than what I expected. Maybe I need some time to understand what the hell happened to me—what I did.”
Elijah let the comment hang in the silent room.
Willa continued. “I feel mostly sad. I didn’t expect that. I’ve been planning for Dobbs’ death for months—even before I knew who it was I hated. Now I just keep thinking of my grandfather.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s strange,” Willa said, stroking Cat, who had occupied her lap. “Last year, before he died, he told me that using powers to change the world changes us instead. I thought he was a madman. Now, I know he was a sage.”
“Maybe he was both.”
“Hmmm?” Willa looked
“The madman,” Elijah said. “Sometimes he’s right. It was another madman who said, ‘This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men.’ It might not quite count as poetry, but there’s power in those words. Even though Jillian covered for us, the world has changed. Maybe it takes a madman to see it.”
Willa stared at him and waited for the historian to continue. She pictured him standing in front of a chalkboard.
“I’m not saying that everything your grandfather said was gospel. I’m sure it wasn’t. But I imagine he got a few things right along the way. It’s like the academy. When we become a disciple of a certain thinker, we hang on every word as if it’s the capital-T truth. But they’re human. Fallible. We have to take their wisdom with a grain of salt.” Elijah paused and looked at an invisible dot on the wall, then turned to Willa. “Everything is changing. But not all change is bad. We need to guide this evolution.” A faint smile rose on the historian’s lips. “Funny she mentioned the crucible. I was lecturing last week about crucibles.”
“In the mills?” Willa asked.
“Yeah. The crucible is a place of extreme heat, hot enough to melt down the iron ore and burn off its impurities. But it also keeps the molten steel from running wild. It’s a tool for change: powerful, dangerous, but safe when guided by a wise technician. That’s where Pittsburgh is now, in the crucible.” He paused again. “Maybe we can control the environment, maintain it until it’s ready.”
Willa started to reply but paused, hearing footsteps coming down the hall. Rhett entered the room and leaned against the doorjamb.
The poet scowled at him, then turned away. It would take time before she forgot how easily his manipulation worked on her.
Elijah stood, leaving the confines of the La-Z-Boy chair with a grunt. “It’s okay, Rhett. Come on in. We were just catching up.”
Rhett sat easily in the uncomfortable folding chair against the wall. The man’s composure pissed her off. His crisp suit and perfectly sculpted hair stood out in stark contrast to the beat-up academics recovering in the living room. They had been through a war; he looked like he’d just returned from the spa.
Willa looked him up and down. “What was up with your journalist?”
“Jillian?”
“Yeah. I just read her post.”
“Thought it was really good, myself. Artfu
l, even—I mean, for a blogger.”
“Seriously, why did she lie for us?” Willa asked.
“Did she?”
“She was there. She saw what happened, yet she didn’t write about me or Elijah or Tim or Rita. Her story wasn’t true.”
Tim laughed. “Depends on your perspective, I guess. She told a version of the truth, just shaded some of the nuance. You know, like your girl Emily, ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant.’”
“Impressive,” the poet said. “But don’t forget, ‘The truth must dazzle gradually, or every man be blind.’”
Elijah had been trying to stay out of the conversation. But Rhett’s last point piqued his curiosity. “But what did she gain by it?”
“Of course, the historian would ask that.” Rhett rubbed his hands together. “Let’s just say that I convinced her that writing about you would not be good for anybody. Us or her.”
Willa shot out of her chair. Every muscle screamed, but she ignored them. “You can’t just force people to do what you want, Rhett.”
“Easy there, Professor. I’m not sure you’re the one who should be lecturing me about ethics. I saw your moral compass scatter a man’s brains against the wall.” He leaned over and picked up Cat, who had jumped to the floor after Willa’s outburst. “And I didn’t force her do anything. I just asked her to trust me.” Rhett winked at Willa.
She paced the room, imagining what his nose would look like if she broke it.
He continued, ignoring her brooding. “Anybody can influence people. And I’m one of the best. But no one can subvert the will completely. Part of her wanted Dobbs to take the fall. I simply gave her a nudge in the right direction. Listen, you and that guy,” he jutted his chin at Elijah, “you two have powers, and nobody asks you to justify them. But I’m good with people. Do you want to use that to our advantage or are you going to let another personal grudge get in the way?”
His words stung worse than her wounds. Willa stopped her pacing and collapsed back into the sofa. Elijah kept his eyes trained on his feet.
No one made eye contact for what felt like forever. The silence was uncomfortable, but Willa didn’t want to be the one who broke it.
