by Bruce Blake
Everyone in the gym gathered, some to help, some drawn by morbid fascination. The good Samaritan side of me wanted to join them, help attempt to save his life, but their massive bodies left no room. And I knew their attempts were futile. Alfred’s body twitched as nerves fired for the final time, his arms finally falling limp. The boy stood and removed himself from the noisy throng.
No one noticed.
“Call 9-1-1,” someone yelled.
“I’m a nurse,” the woman said and a couple of men moved aside to let her through.
The boy backed away from the panicked group, his eyes never leaving the crowd collected around the body of Alfred Topping. I could no more look away from him than he from them.
“Alfred?”
The boy looked toward me, tears overflowing his eyes. As I looked at him, I realized he wasn’t completely there. What’s the word: translucent?
Ghostly.
“What happened to me?”
“You died.” The words left my mouth before I considered how they’d sound. Not much of a bedside manner.
“No.” He glanced back at the blood-soaked bench. “I don’t want to be dead.”
I shivered. Me either.
“I don’t think you have a choice.”
“No.”
“You need to come with me.”
“No.”
He took three quick steps toward the door and it struck me this might not be as easy as Gabe said. Thoughts raced through my mind about God and life and death and the nature of insanity making it difficult to concentrate on him.
“Whoa, hold on a second, Al. Can I call you Al?” I held my hands up in a gesture of surrender, showing I wouldn’t hurt him.
“Alf.” He took another step toward the door.
“My name’s Icarus. Call me Ric. I’m here to help.”
He shook his head hard enough to send tears flying. I took a tentative step toward him and he bolted.
“Shit.”
He slammed through the door and out onto the street before I reached the entryway, barely avoiding the brick wall receptionist as he emerged from behind his clear partition to ascertain the source of the commotion.
“Hey.” His fingers caught the sleeve of my jacket, nearly pulling me off my feet.
“There’s been an accident,” I said pointing toward the bench press corner. His gaze followed my finger; I looked, too. People backed away, avoiding the pool of blood spreading beneath the bench, others trod through it, tracking it across the rubber mat as they attempted to help. The gorilla’s face blanched. If I stayed any longer, I’d probably see him either faint or puke, but his grip on my sleeve loosened and I didn’t hang around to see which.
I burst through the outer door, the autumn night a slap in the face after the muggy air in the gym. I glanced both directions in time to see Alf round a corner to my right and took up the chase. He had youth on his side, but I possessed longer legs and was a few days more used to the ins and outs of being dead, or whatever you called this thing I’d become.
I rounded the corner and a woman shrieked as I bowled her over. Alf raced ahead, weaving through pedestrian traffic. Being a spirit, he probably could have run right through them--an attribute I didn’t possess--but he didn’t know that, and I hoped he wouldn’t figure it out. If he did, he’d dart through a wall and leave me wondering how to track him down.
Sirens wailed behind me: probably an ambulance on the way to pronounce Alfred dead. I dodged a hot dog vendor and pushed through a group of Japanese tourists inexplicably snapping photos of a store front. Each step brought me a little closer to the boy.
“Alfred.”
He peeked over his shoulder then shifted his young legs into overdrive, ducking down an alley. Three seconds later, I ran down the alley behind him, footsteps echoing off brick walls as we leapt over piles of stinking garbage and ran beneath rusty fire escapes. The alley took a turn and he disappeared.
Rounding the corner, I found him stopped a few yards ahead. I pulled up short, runners skidding on pavement. My labored breath made me think about returning to ocky’s 24 Hour Fit ess Center to inquire about the cost of a membership, but the thought disappeared when I saw what had halted the boy.
The man stood at least six inches taller than me; black hair tumbled past his shoulders in loose ringlets, framing his olive-skinned face. Black pants, black boots, black button-down shirt and one of those long rain coats like Peter Falk wore playing Columbo--also black. His eyes glowed yellow like a cat’s.
“Hello, Alfred,” the man said, his voice deep, the words deliberate, almost drawled. He turned his gaze on me. “And a new harvester. Hello, Icarus. It’s good to finally see you again. Michael has been busy.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. If God existed, a Devil must, too. I had the feeling I’d just met him.
“Ric,” I told the stranger. “Who are you?”
“Mmm. That doesn’t matter now. You’ll find out soon enough.” He took two steps toward us, each as purposeful as his words. “Like you, I’m here for the boy.”
Alfred glanced around, seeking an escape route, but with the man ahead of him and me behind, he held his ground. I had the feeling his choice might prove a poor decision for us both.
“You can’t have him.”
The man laughed, a rumbling sound in the back of his throat which didn’t require his lips to part.
“Take him, then.” He waved dismissively and his eyes flared reminding me of the way Michael’s flickered. “There will be others.”
I made a face at his comment and stepped toward Alfred, hesitant.
“Really?”
“Of course.” He smiled, adjusted one of his black gloves. “But you have to get away from them.”
He nodded past us and I turned to see two men blocking the alley at our backs, each of them dressed like a smaller version of the man in black. One had close-cropped dark hair flecked with gray. The was other bald with a pencil-line goatee. They stood, legs shoulder-width apart, arms at their sides, like gunslingers awaiting the signal to draw. Maybe they were. The man in black stepped aside and swept his arm toward the far end of the alley.
“You may have a head start.”
Alfred didn’t move, neither did I. It seemed like a trick, a trap.
“No trick.” The man raised his arm and tapped his wrist. “Time’s ticking.”
No choice.
I surged forward, grabbing Alfred by the arm, dragging him toward the alley’s exit. Compared to the men in black, I guess he decided I wasn’t such a bad choice. The big man eyed me as we ran by, then barked a command. Too busy willing my legs to go faster, I didn’t catch what he said. It became apparent soon enough.
A boom reverberated down the alley; chunks of brick exploded from the wall by my head as I skidded the boy around the corner. Apparently they secreted cannons beneath their trench coats.
Great.
Damn you, Gabe. Why didn’t you tell me about these guys?
Survival instinct forced all thoughts of Gods and Devils, reality and insanity out of my mind. I had no way to protect myself, no idea what to do. The scroll didn’t say I’d need to defend myself, it said who’d die, when and where, and where to drop off the ‘package’.
The drop was our only hope.
I glanced back. The two men gave chase, moving faster than an out-of-shape guy with a panicked boy in tow, but I didn’t see guns in their hands. Maybe we had a chance. My years living on the street had developed a mental map of the city and I referenced it now. The closest street sign told me we were a couple blocks away from the drop address.
The boy looked back at the men chasing us. When he looked up at me, his face was splashed with terror.
“Don’t let them get me.”
“Run faster, then.”
Another thunder-thump of sound. I threw my arm around Alfred’s shoulders, ducking with him. Something flashed over our heads and the newspaper box sitting on the sidewalk ahead of
us dissolved into a puddle. We jumped to avoid slipping in yesterday’s news.
“This way,” I gasped yanking Alf around a corner, out of the line-of-fire of whatever they used to try to kill us. My heart hammered in my chest, pumping adrenaline through my veins. We ran by store after store, bumping into people, ignoring their indignant shouts to watch where-the-fuck I was going.
Why don’t businesses in the city put the street numbers on their doors?
Finally I saw a business with an owner conscientious enough to realize prospective customers might want to find his store: ten two thirty-four. The drop point was at ten four fifty-eight. Two more blocks, this side of the street. I looked behind us and saw one of the men put on a burst of speed and close within steps. He reached out to grab the scruff of Alfred’s neck. Without thinking, I stopped and ducked as low as inertia would allow. The man flew over us, knocking us over, a startled cry following him to the ground. The element of surprise was on our side: I knew I was going to fall over, he didn’t. I rolled, doing my best to protect the boy, and popped back to my feet, pulling Alf with me, briefly impressed at the unexpected physical prowess. We took off again, leaving the man to sort himself out.
One more block.
Traffic clogged the last street between us and our goal, blocking our escape. The second man couldn’t be far behind. I gritted my teeth and pushed on.
“Hold tight.”
We plunged into the busy street without looking to see what automobile company’s logo might end up imprinted in my forehead. Horns blared, tires squealed. I moved straight ahead holding the boy tight to my side. I’d wonder later why I had the ability to handle a ghost, not now.
A car went past so close behind me it flapped the legs my jeans. Miraculously, we stumbled onto the far curb. The sound of metal crumpling against metal screeched from the street behind us and, safe from traffic, I turned to see the mess we’d left behind. Two cars pinned the bald man, legs mashed below mid-thigh.
He’s solid like me.
He didn’t seem to notice that his legs had been crushed. His expression showed anger, annoyance, instead of the devastating pain it should have; his nonchalance made me shudder. He waved his arms, a glow collecting around his right hand.
“Get down!” I shouted and pulled Alfred to the sidewalk as an orange ball of light shot from the man’s hand, burning a bright trail in my retina and assaulting my ears with a screaming boom. It streaked past, its heat touching my face, and hit a car stopped beside us, flipping it into the air. I glanced up at it spinning over us, clearing us by barely enough space to allow me to roll away with the boy. The car crunched to the sidewalk a few inches from my head. The driver, scared and stupefied, stared out through the broken window.
“Come on.”
I clambered away, dragging the wide-eyed boy away from the wrecked car, his feet scraping the sidewalk . The other man, recovered from his fall, vaulted past his companion, leaping hood to trunk to roof, crossing the street on a bridge of twisted metal. My breath came in ragged gasps of shock and exertion as we stumbled away, eyes on street numbers we found.
Ten four ten. Ten four eighteen.
I glanced ahead, estimating which door belonged to the address we sought. A wooden sign hung over the sidewalk, its lettering looked freshly painted: ‘99 Red Balloons’.
A toy store? What toy store is open at eleven at night?
I hoped I’d guessed wrong. A church made more sense. A coffee shop, even a bowling alley would more likely be open, but a toy store?
Ten four thirty-eight. Ten four forty-six.
My estimate proved correct. We skidded to a stop in front of ‘99 Red Balloons’ and glanced back down the sidewalk. The man looked like he carried a camp fire in his hands. Not waiting to give him another opportunity to kills us, I twisted the antique-looking door knob and prayed it would open.
It did.
I shoved Alfred across the threshold as fire slammed into the sidewalk where my feet had been half a second before. A rain of dust and rock spouted into the air and the force of it tossed me through the doorway, flattening me to the floor. I scrambled across polished hardwood and slammed the door, jingling the brass bell hung over it. I searched the door knob, then around the edge of the door.
No lock.
Alfred whimpered. I pulled him close to my chest and scrambled away from the door, rubber souls squeaking as my feet pumped against the floor. My mind reeled. How would I defend us when the man came through the door? My heart ached at the thought of losing the poor, terrified boy, and at missing the chance to live my life again.
The man appeared in the window, his satisfied sneer and ember-colored eyes making him look every bit the demon he probably was. The boy shrieked, startling me. I jumped up and searched the nearby shelves for anything to use in defense, knocking over teddy bears and Raggedy-Ann dolls as I did. Too bad she didn’t keep an uzi hidden under her apron.
“Shit.”
The man reached slowly for the door knob, savoring the moment. When his fingers contacted the burnished metal, his body stiffened and shook like an electrical charge shot up his arm and through his body, dancing him about like a loose-jointed marionette with no strings.
I gaped at the sight. Alfred laughed through his tears.
“Don’t worry. He cannot enter.”
I spun toward the voice, fist cocked, but the man standing in the shadows moved in neither defense nor threat.
“Who are you?”
He stepped forward, the light shining through the store window revealing the whitest person I’d ever seen: white skin, white hair, white shirt and pants, the exact opposite of the men in the alley. If not for eyes so blue they’d have made a clear spring sky jealous, he might have been albino. He took another step, his foot treading on the quivering shadow of the man at the door--our pursuer winced as though kicked in the ribs.
“I have no name,” he said in dulcet tones. “Only a job.”
The man at the door banged on the window and I glanced over my shoulder. He leapt against the door, but it didn’t so much as shudder under the impact. He must have realized he’d been beaten because he stomped his feet like a child angry at losing a game and disappeared. Literally. One second, he was there, the next: gone. I gaped at the empty space.
What have I gotten myself into?
Alfred inched toward Mr. Clean. I grabbed him in a bear hug, held him back. If good guys wore black in Chuck Norris movies, then bad guys might wear white, too.
“What’s your job?”
“To take Alfred Topping before the throne of God.”
I hesitated, but Alfie seemed convinced; he struggled against my grip and I let him go. He pulled away, gliding across the floor to the man without hesitation. The man--angel?--knelt and whispered in the boy’s ear. Alfred nodded.
“Thank you, Icarus Fell,” the boy said in a tone like his mother told him to show appreciation for a birthday gift. My gut twinged at the thought.
Trevor.
He smiled and the man guided him into the shadow at the rear of the store.
“Wait.” I reached out my hand. “What happens now?”
Neither of them answered. I saw the outline of the whitest man for a second longer, his arm around Alf’s shoulder, and then they faded away, leaving me alone in the toy store. The room fell into greater darkness, like someone extinguished a candle, and the dark seeped into me. Every dim shape lurking in the shadows unnerved me.
I slumped to the floor and sat knees hugged to chest, the way I’d cowered in the priest’s closet as a child. With my eyes fixed on the window, I waited and watched, expecting the men in black to come for me, but our pursuers didn’t return. It didn’t seem wise to venture out, so I settled in, awaiting dawn to vanquish night and, hopefully, the things lurking within it.
With time on my hands, I pondered the night’s events: another angel, demons ejaculating fire from their bare hands, and the mysterious man in the alley. This job suddenly seemed way too dang
erous. I didn’t want to do it, not if it would be like this. I needed to figure a way out that would still allow me to have my son back.
God, I needed a drink.
Chapter Seven
I left the toy store with the rising sun, hurrying up the street with uneasy glances and hands jammed in pockets. A new roll of cash appeared in one of them. I flipped through the tens and twenties as I walked, wondering how they got there and how often I could expect them. No problem figuring out how to get rid of them, though. My first stop took care of the most important thing: Gray Goose. I deserved it after the previous night, needed it to smooth my nerves. Next, I found a motel renting rooms by the month. Not knowing how often cash would materialize in my pocket, I paid for two months at a place that, ranked among tourist spots, would have come in around a Motel 2.
Bottle in hand, I headed straight for the bed, fully intending to drink away angels and demons then sleep through a good chunk of my rent. Four hours and half a bottle later, I was awake and sober and disappointed to be both.
“What the hell happened last night?”
The empty room didn’t answer.
“Who were those guys?”
I flipped on the TV for distraction, but the cooking shows, pre-schoolers’ programming and talk shows aimed at housewives didn’t hold my interest. Porn might have worked, but the hotel wasn’t far enough up the food chain to offer pay-per-view. I set the bottle on the nightstand, feeling so little effect from imbibing its contents, I doubted it was actually me who drank it. Only one thing to do now: coffee.
A couple blocks away, I found a cafe called ‘The Caffeinated Cowboy’ where I eased myself into an over-stuffed chair tucked in the corner and sipped a mocha not quite hot enough for my tastes. Paintings by an unknown local artist hung on the patterned orange walls, small white cards bearing ridiculous prices mounted under each piece.
