Cartoon Heroes: Book One of the Dark Skies Series

by Anthony Harwood

  Right now, he was using them to keep an eye on where he was heading and make sure he didn’t step on anyone whilst simultaneously taking snap shots of the insides of Greyson’s, which was pretty mundane. White walls, white panelled ceilings, bright spotlights here and there lighting various fixtures or price points. Then there was the merchandise and the customers. Quite boring really, excepting the customers. There was quite an array. He managed to squeeze a couple of shots off on unsuspecting individuals he found particularly fascinating.

  Then he was through. He felt the bench of the information desk against his hip and he quickly turned to regard the two women sitting behind. The noise was awful. Questions were leaping out of brainless mouths all around.

  “Where are the toilets?”, “How do I get up to the next floor?”, “Do you sell car parts?”

  One woman was calmly going through her customers one by one, doing the best job she could do under the onslaught. The other was going like a bat out of hell, spewing information to questions that may or may not even have been asked of her.

  Stacey decided the latter would be the better; otherwise he’d have to wait in line.

  He withdrew an enlarged section of the photo he had developed earlier from his pocket. This showed little more than Russell’s face. He shoved it in her face and mouthed the word “Where?”

  Mid answer, she spun to him and shouted, “Bras on sale Confectionery for just thirteen ninety-five.”

  He smiled his thanks and nodded.

  If he remembered from his days working here, that was on the other end of this level.

  He pushed his way physically from the counter, creating a path way for himself as people pushed against him to catch even a glimpse of the information ladies some of them may never end up talking to.

  Protecting his camera with one hand, he shoved out of the crowd and fell into a stream of dawdling customers slowly making their way to God knows which department.

  There was nothing Stacey could do, so he found his little niche in the crowd and moved onward.

  It was a fair while when he finally made it to where Confectionery used to be and where Men’s accessories had set up shop.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Pushing onward, he made it to the lifts. Just opposite them was a sign posted locating all the different departments. Confectionery was on the lower ground.

  “Bugger.”

  He squeezed, barely, onto one of the lifts and made his way downstairs.

  When the doors opened again, it was as if the lift released a huge sigh as the people tumbled out again, only to resume that slow steady pace that seemed compulsory when in a department store.

  But here, he had to be careful. Surveillance was what he was here for; he couldn’t be too obvious.

  He once again fell in step with the other customers, finding the gentle swaying back and forth as they waddled somewhat hypnotic and relaxing. He finally caught sight of his target through a line of cards and stationery.

  He lifted the camera and zoomed in on the chap.

  He looked ordinary enough. A little gangly, but nothing a few gym sessions wouldn’t fix.

  His camera whirred as it snapped shots and automatically wound on. Stacey had plenty of film in his jacket pockets, but he was hoping he wouldn’t need it. It looks too conspicuous trying to reload a camera in a store. Some people may get the idea you’re ripping off the film, despite the fact that film was rare in this technological age.

  He moved onward, getting closer, but keeping a fair distance between himself and the boy who was hard at work behind the counter. He actually looked a little flushed with his hair falling out of place, still sticking together because of the hair gel, but managing to look a little wild. It was warm also; his face had a slight film of sweat. It would all come out in the photos.

  Passing into computers, he tried to hide behind one of the software fixtures. But it still didn’t give him a clear shot. None-the-less, he kept aiming and firing.

  Taking a step backward, he found his foot coming down on someone’s shoe. He jumped around and found himself staring at a pair of well-formed breasts. Well, if he hadn’t of looked down ever so slightly he wouldn’t have been, but what’s a guy to do.

  Over one of them was a nametag, “Kristen”.

  He let his eyes lift upward until he could see her face. An attractive young one, this one. The thought that he wouldn’t mind photographing her sometime entered his head. Nude or clothed, it didn’t matter, but he knew which one he preferred. She was tall; he’d give her that.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Was that contempt? So much for the rule of the customer being right. Then he remembered this woman worked in Greyson’s. She had probably already found out it’s full of shit.

  “No, thanks. Just browsing,” He tried laying on the accent a bit more and, you know, giving her the eye.

  Her expression revealed before her response what she thought of his attempt.

  Sarcasm dripped from her words; “Some things aren’t for sale.”

  He was speechless. He knew he was in the wrong, but he seemed to have hit a nerve with this one.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Can I help you with anything else, Sir?” She practically spat out the last word.

  “No, thank you.” He backed away and tried to disappear amongst the crowd, but with her height, he could see she was watching him all the way to the escalators.

  * * *

  “Russell.” It was the tone a manager used. Neither a question nor a statement.

  “Yes?” He looked up from the register to see Joseph, probably the scariest manager in the store standing in front of him, on the other side of the confectionery counter. He was tall, dark skinned and heavily built. As for his nationality, Russell wasn’t sure. African, African American, perhaps. Either way, his deep voice struck fear in the hearts of every employee. Well, almost. Rebecca had made good friends with him, as had a few others. People kept telling Russell that he just had to learn to behave around him. If he insults you, give it straight back. If you have an idea, give it. Stand up for yourself in other words. Not something Russell was particularly good at. But Joseph still seemed to treat him okay.

  “Can I have a word?”

  Russell surveyed the counter behind him where Emma was still serving. It wasn’t busy any more.

  “Sure.”

  He followed Joseph to one corner of the department, away from the counter and the majority of customers. He stopped and turned toward the smaller man.

  “Are you alright?”

  Russell was taken aback. It certainly wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. Alright? Was he alright? Well, it only figured the management would have a concern as to whether their employees were up to working standard or not. That thought bought an image of a slave camp to mind, where the weak were herded and culled for their lack of stamina. He hoped that wasn’t what was happening here.

  He thought about his answer before giving it, though it really didn’t require much thought. The truth would suffice, “Sure. Why?”

  “Well, what with your ordeal last night. We had the police contact us, wondering if you needed any counselling.”

  Russell smiled. Counselling? What for? Were people really that weak minded that they couldn’t cope with something out of the ordinary happening? Sure it was a near death experience, but so was choking on a pea. You never got counselling for that, and Russell could remember what an ordeal that had been when it happened only months before. In his own mind, he thought people needed to stop coddling each other, to grow up, stand on their own two feet. Counselling? What kind of weak-minded fool did they take him for? He actually found it quite amusing, even let out a slight laugh.

  Joseph looked at him, a look of genuine concern.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t want to go home early? Take some time off?”

  Was this a nightmare? The smile dropped from his face. He couldn’t afford
to lose the hours. He had a mortgage to pay for the apartment. He had barely managed the deposit, let alone maintained his monthly payments. He still owed his parents for helping with some of the payments.

  “No,” he nearly snapped the word. Embarrassed, he restrained himself, “No. I’m fine. I’ve already been through the lunch rush, anyway. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Joseph nodded, “Well, the detective, Corrigan was his name, wants you to give him a call. He left this number.”

  A slip of paper was transferred; Russell stuffed it in his pocket. He’d deal with that after work.

  “Thanks. And thanks for being concerned.”

  Joseph smiled as he moved away, “Hey, we can’t lose the top man of confectionery.”

  “I’m the only man in confectionery!”

  Joseph laughed, “I know.”

  * * *

  He called the detective after work on a pay phone in store. It was five past five. The store was open until nine o’clock tonight. They exchanged words; the detective expressed his concern, Russell, his reassurance that he was okay. Then it was organised for Russell to go to the police station straight from there. What a waste of time.

  He swiped out, unable to find Kristen to say goodbye to her, and made his way out of the store. He felt pretty refreshed, all things considered. Slightly hungry, but that was normal. Usually he’d be lucky to grab any food on his break, leaving him starving by the end of the shift. Not this time. Still, he had time to get something on his way to the station. What a walk that would be.

  He estimated half an hour to an hour without his car, most of which was through the more unwelcoming areas. The old end of town.

  The city had initially been set up on the Swan River. It was still there, but had expanded more to the North and West toward the ocean. What once was a six block by four block Central Business district which focused on retail malls and the commerce side of things, became a twenty-four block by eighteen-block establishment. In terms of size, this was at least four times as large. Unfortunately this lead to urban blight, where the old town became somewhat redundant, excepting its use as a transport thoroughfare to the other side of the river and the location of the Central headquarters of the Police, which was not so central any more. The other buildings that had been located there were either empty or spotted with failing businesses or derelict apartment sites.

  During the daylight, it all seemed harmless enough. It would even have been somewhat appealing if he had been a photographer.

  As for what he told the Detective, what could he say? He explained about his walking up the stairs, not bothering to worry about the story of his keys, about how he opened the door to the wrong level, and then described what happened when he opened the door to the right one.

  “There was a flash of orange light and – Bang! That was it. After that was a blur,” a lie. He could remember quite clearly what had transpired in the second floor of that building. But they didn’t need to know he was hallucinating.

  “All I remember after that is the police, the reporters, the hospital and you.” He stopped. That wasn’t true, either. But what he was leaving out here was important.

  “It was a white van.”

  Corrigan looked at him a little surprised at the topic change.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The bomb. It was in a white Mazda van. The windows were tinted to almost black. It was only small, but it packed a hell of a punch. It was parked right next to my car. Damn. I better put in the insurance papers for that.”

  “Can you tell me anything else?”

  He thought for a moment, “No. Sorry.”

  They had been quite courteous. A cup of tea, which received odd looks. “Why not coffee?” is what they were probably thinking. Can’t stand the stuff, was what he thought in return.

  Even on letting him out of the building, Corrigan walked him to the front doors, where they stopped at the sight of reporters lined up along the exit path.

  “Great.”

  “Another exit?”

  “Yeah,” they changed direction, Corrigan leading him down another path, “Have they caught up with you yet?”

  “Not yet. I don’t have the time to worry about them. Too many other things on my plate.”

  “I know what you mean. But be careful, they’ll be calling you all day and night until you give them something.”

  “If they don’t watch their step, I’ll give them something alright,” they both laughed, “No, seriously. I’ll leave my phone off the hook if I have to.”

  “Might work.”

  Russell was snuck out through a back exit. It didn’t look like anyone had seen him, thank goodness. It was a major story in the newspapers already. He had seen one in a newsagency along the way. There was a picture on one paper of the burnt out building, on another, one of Russell, dirty and worn. But on another, the one he actually considered buying was an image of him standing in the middle of what looked to be a blast zone. People lay scattered around him. It was rather unsettling. It had to be one of those fake tabloid papers, what with a title like “Bomb Demon Possesses Man”, or something along those lines. Probably a fake computer creation. Though it did seem vaguely familiar. He had shrugged it off.

  The sun had set by the time he set out for home. The “Dead End” of town seemed like a totally new world. Sinister shadows, skeletal buildings, eerie creaks as foundations and supports eased into the cooler night temperatures; it all congealed to create a most haunting experience.

  He rammed his hands in his trouser pockets again and hunched his shoulders, trying not too seem to imposing or stick out in the darkened roads. His white shirt, however, acted like a beacon in the night. He may as well have been shouting “Come and get me you muggers!”

  He heard a vehicle approaching from behind, its headlights glaring off broken shop front windows and casting even more shadows on the pavement.

  Russell moved toward the shop fronts, trying to blend into the surroundings, but continued walking. He didn’t want trouble, but he didn’t want to stop either. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but being somewhat paranoid, he couldn’t help suspecting the worst.

  The vehicle seemed to slow. Just my imagination, Russell thought to himself. Why would they slow? There are richer people to mug than him.

  Obviously the driver of the van didn’t think so.

  It pulled up just in front of him.

  He stopped and looked up. Another white Mazda. Exactly the same make.

  “Shit.”

  The passenger door opened, a man in black stepped out, a balaclava over his head. A man or a very flat chested woman. He doubted the latter.

  He heard the slider door on the other side open also.

  Not good.

  “This is not good.”

  He started to back away. Slowly at first, but as they approached he quickened his pace.

  From somewhere nearby he heard a loud “click-whirr” which echoed in the night.

  The men kept coming, also increasing their pace. There were three in all. Plus the driver who had started to turn the van around.

  Russell ran. He pivoted quickly and bolted down the street, dodging a broken bottle and a garbage bin that lay partially over the path, its metal support snapped by some neglectful vehicle, having rammed it.

  He could hear their footsteps behind him.

  Someone slammed into him from behind and he found himself falling face first toward the pavement.

  When he finally made contact, the guy's arm wrapped around his waist in a form of rugby tackle. It was more the shock of jarring his body than the pain of contact. Something was really wrong. Normally he’d be screaming in pain after such a tumble. Bad enough it was concrete, but it was broken in parts and he could feel it digging into various parts of his anatomy.

  Instead he tried to roll over, to face the guy who was trying to claw his way up his body. Kind of gross when you thin
k about it.

  He managed to wriggle around, breaking the guy’s hold on him. He lashed out with his arm, trying to make contact, but found himself punching air. That same silver misty cloud of air he had imagined last night.

  The guy was struck by the cloud as it blasted into him, having reacted to the force of Russell’s punch. He toppled backward mid grasp, leaving Russell room to wriggle free.

  “What the hell?” Russell glanced, only for a second at his hand. What had just happened?

  Then he made the most of his new found opportunity.

  He jumped to his feet and was about to run again when he realised the other men had him cornered.

  But what caught his eye was not the men, nor the van, but the silvery wisps of air that surrounded him. They reacted to the currents blowing by, the slightest breeze sending them into a swirl of life. This was so odd. Could they see this too?

  But it was more than that. As he looked into the silvery colours moving by him, he felt something. It was hard to describe; he was lost for a word in his mental vocabulary. Even a made up word didn’t sound right. The closest thing he could come up with was “connection”.

  These silver clouds just seemed to feel right. Whatever that meant.

  The two standing men moved closer, the third was getting up from the ground.

  Russell reached his hand out toward the mist, trying to touch it.

  As he did so, they began to react. The slivers of silver came alive, swirling and heaving in the air. He could feel them as they raced toward him, answering his call, blowing past him, around him, sweeping his hair off his head, gel and all, and creating a bubble of chaotic wind. He could hear it whispering to him, not quite talking to him, nor calling his name, but communicating somehow. A whisper, unlike the normal roar of the wind; somehow hidden to the normal ear by the noisy gale storms, or rumble as they blow on your lobes. This was so much more subtle. It seemed to slide gently over his skin, like water, flowing over every inch of him, catching his clothes in the gales. He watched as the air around him came alive and enveloped him once more in a cocoon. It was exhilarating. It was more than a “connection”. It was “completion”. He laughed out loud at the thrill of the experience. Nothing erotic, just captivating and exciting all at once. This felt so right to him.