Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst

by C. M. Raymond

  She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Elijah said. “Did you say I tried to kill you?”

  The woman grinned. “Pretty sure you did, champ. Lucky for you I was in a good mood.”

  She left her battered guest alone with his bewilderment.

  ****

  The hot shower helped Elijah to feel only half-dead. He considered it a good start. A small container of foul-smelling cream with a note, written in what Elijah assumed was Chem’s erratic handwriting, balanced on the sink. He rubbed the ointment on his burns and felt immediate relief. There was also another bottle of Chem’s painkillers. Elijah grabbed the medicine but decided against taking any. He wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  Gingerly, he pulled on the stranger’s clothes. The flannel was baggy around the shoulders, but fit well enough. The jeans required two cuffs. Apparently Willa’s ex-boyfriend was quite a man.

  Elijah limped his way into the living room. He found Willa on the couch with an orange cat and an open book.

  “A single writer surrounded by her cat and books? Cliché much?”

  Willa closed the book and set it next to her on the sofa. Petting her cat, she said, “He has his uses, unlike most men—present company included.” She grinned, taking off the edge. Willa stood, letting the cat drop to the floor. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You’re going to need it.”

  ****

  Elijah, wide-eyed, pushed the eggs around his plate as Willa concluded her account of the previous day’s events. Any semblance of an appetite had vanished. The story was told straight-faced and lacked any hesitation.

  The historian stared in disbelief.

  “Let me get this straight,” Elijah said. “You want me to believe that last night I turned into a seven-foot metal monster and terrorized a neighborhood on Mount Washington.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that if it weren’t for you, Chem, and some lovesick undergrad, I could have laid waste to the city of Pittsburgh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, after a sprawling fight, you and the chemist got me drugged up enough to carry me off the streets and back to your apartment—all the while dodging the police—where I woke up butt-naked and sore as hell?”

  “I know it’s unbelievable.”

  “Honey, it’s not unbelievable, it’s fucking nuts. Why are you doing this?”

  Willa’s brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

  The sincerity in her voice was striking.

  “Why the hell are you messing with me? You get your kicks out of this or something? ‘There’s a new guy in the city, let’s drug him, beat the hell out of ’im, and brain-fuck him.’ That’s sick.”

  “Elijah, you have to believe me.” Willa’s voice was steady.

  The historian dropped his fork and stood. “Bullshit. It’s impossible. Scientifically, experientially, metaphysically, and…and…theologically.”

  This drew a smile. The magician raised her brows. “Didn’t peg you as the religious type.”

  “You should be locked up.”

  “Just call Percy.”

  Elijah crossed his fingers on the nape of his neck and squeezed. “Kiva Han,” he said. “It’s all coming together. That’s where your sick plan started. Just so happened that I ran into you there, and there was Chem too, all buddy-buddy. You two do this twisted shit all the time, or was I your first go at it?”

  “What? Set what up? We didn’t set anything…”

  Elijah’s mind raced. Anger filled him—old-fashioned, self-interested anger.

  He looked for something to throw. “I want you, Chem, and your tag-along to stay away from me. You understand? Consider this a citizen’s restraining order.”

  Willa’s face turned blood red. Her hands balled into fists. As she watched Elijah head toward the door, her lips started to move. The verses spilled across the room.

  “Thou who stealest fire,

  From the fountains of the past,

  To glorify the present, oh, haste,

  Visit my low desire!

  Strengthen me, enlighten me!

  I faint in this obscurity,

  Thou dewy dawn of memory.”

  Elijah stood still with his hand on the knob. He didn’t look back, but he also didn’t advance. Flashes of fire and steel rose in his mind. He pictured Willa, cowering on the ground, one hand pointing in his direction.

  “You felt that, didn’t you?”

  “Felt what?” Elijah asked with hesitancy in his voice.

  “You’re not the only one with powers.”

  The historian turned. His face was pale—and sad.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  “I’m helping you remember. My words did that. Well, strictly speaking, it wasn’t my words, but I have a power, Elijah. I’ve never seen anything like what you did last night, but your abilities aren’t exactly unique. There are a few others like us, able to do things that most only see in movies and children’s stories. For me it’s the ability to speak and have my words shape the world.”

  “You can control my mind?” Elijah didn’t try to hide his incredulity.

  “Not mind control. But certain words have power, and I can tap into that power in a way most can’t.”

  Elijah shook his head, trying to make sense of this bizarre situation. “Well, I’d be lying if I told you that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

  “I understand, believe me. This is all going to take time. But when you feel ready, I want you to come talk to me.” Her eyes were glassy. “You’re going to need us. And it seems that we are going to need you as well.”

  Hardness spread through his face. His bottom lip quivered. “I’m leaving” he said abruptly. “But if you think I’m buying your witches and warlocks bullshit, then you’re sick and stupid.”

  The door slammed as he stormed out of the apartment.

  *****

  When Elijah was a child, his mother had a small decorative pillow with the words Home Is Where the Heart Is stitched across it. Even then, Elijah hated truisms. They reflected a mind unable to deal in nuance, a capacity that Elijah usually felt confident in. But after the events of the morning, he wasn’t so sure. Since his reason wasn’t working, Elijah defaulted, relying instead on the moral aphorisms of his youth. Elijah knew where his heart was—in the library. And his ass found its way to the seat of his third-floor cubicle.

  He pulled a volume from a pile and sighed. Few things brought him more delight than losing himself in the stacks. He hoped the familiarity of this place would center him and that the research might help him forget his deranged encounter with psycho poet.

  Pain shot down his arm as he moved the book. The burning had subsided, thanks to the chemist’s ointment, but the deep ache was still there whenever he exerted any energy, and he refused to take the painkillers. He had no desire to wake up in some bathtub with his liver missing.

  He ran his hand over his chest to feel the scab that had already started forming in the direct center.

  Pushing the pain out of his head, he flipped open the tome and starting shuffling the pages, front to back. A picture sat on the border of his memory—Elijah knew he had to find it.

  Several texts in, Elijah came across the photo he was looking for. Thomas Alarawn, Jr. stood proudly, his new mill looming behind him, a strange medallion hanging from his neck. Ignoring the steel magnate, Elijah focused instead on a group of steelworkers congregating to the side. For some reason, Elijah felt that he knew the men staring back at him. Reading the caption, he scrawled their names in his notebook.

  One after another, Elijah combed the Internet for any mention of the Alarawn employees—marriage ceremonies, war records, obituaries. Some history nerd with more time on his hands than imagination had scanned one of the now-defunct Pittsburgh papers into his computer and perfectly archived it on a site called Yinzstory.com.

  Simunek, the first name, was a single man—survived by none. The second, Arno Baracnik, left behind a daughter Lida and two s
ons—Hudok and Jozka. Elijah navigated to a new tab and searched the children’s names. There were hits for two of the three—both of them living in the South. Most likely, Baracnik chased job prospects below the Mason-Dixon line following the steel crash. Elijah grimaced.

  Finally, he got to Vaclav Novak. He left behind a wife and an only child—a daughter named Jelana. He applied his Google-fu to the keyboard, and found a phone number for the girl, who was now an old woman. His hands shook as he tapped out the number. Following three rings, a tone beeped and a message indicated the number was no longer in use.

  “Shit,” he said, too loudly for the library.

  Rubbing his temples, Elijah turned back to the open tab and searched: Croatian Clubs Pittsburgh.

  Bingo.

  He dialed, hoping this part of the haystack would contain a needle—the needle that might start to unravel the mystery of the Alarawn Dynasty and his own recent events.

  ****

  The air was crisp, and the foot traffic was light for a weekday afternoon. “Historical Research Methods I” commenced in eight minutes. If Elijah was lucky, he would get there late enough that the students would have given up on him. The only good thing about being an adjunct was that the kids only had to wait two wags of a puppy’s tail before they could officially ditch the class.

  Teaching always got in the way of his research, which was one of the greatest reasons he resented the responsibility.

  Turning, Elijah slammed directly into a young undergrad.

  “Sorry, man,” Elijah mumbled—though he wasn’t.

  “Dr. Branton. I need to talk to you.”

  Elijah pushed his glasses to the top up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The student cleared his throat and stuck his hands into his pockets. “Let’s just say we, ah, ran into each other last night.”

  “Yeah, sorry. But really. What can I help you with?”

  Elijah ran through the mental database of faces and names acquired since he had arrived in the Steel City. This one was not ringing a bell. Nevertheless, a ball started to form in his gut. Anxiety swept over his body, and he was clueless as to its source.

  “I was there.”

  “Excuse me,” Elijah said.

  “Last night. I was there on the streets of Mount Washington.” The kid paused. “You have no idea, do you?”

  An image of Willa came to mind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have me confused with someone else.”

  “Like hell I do.” The student pulled up his shirt to expose an enormous purple and black bruise that spread across his torso. “I’ll remember the thing who gave me this until my dying day.” He grinned. “I know Willa. We stopped you from tearing apart the neighborhood last night. You’re not the only one with…abilities.” There was another pause. The kid looked down at his shoes.

  Elijah pushed his hand back through his hair. “Stay away from me. And tell her the same. I don’t know what you people are into, but this is sick.”

  Elijah walked past Sean, knocking him with his shoulder as he marched toward his classroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The walk to the lab was typically a slow amble. Some did yoga, some meditated, some even read sacred texts—he walked. A mild pace allowed the thirty-five-year-old chemist a chance to process, to unwind, clear his head. But for Chem it was more than that. Although he never articulated his process explicitly, Chem held a tacit yet unyielding belief that the lab was a place of science—for verification, mental rigor, and solid fact. For reality. These mundane aspects of a researcher’s life were vital for effective scientific investigation. But true science required more than that. Creativity, wonder, and desire—these things might skew one’s perspective, might cause one to misread a lab report or inflate an analysis, but they were necessary for meaningful discovery. Chem’s walk to work gave him the chance to dream.

  But the day after the events on Mount Washington, he quickened his steps. A man-turned-monster had torn the dreams from Chem’s mind and used them to destroy a small neighborhood. The researcher spent his night mulling over what had actually happened, trying to make sense of the impossible.

  Elijah’s turning changed everything. For three years, Chem had spent all available time trying to do the unfeasible, to bring that which cannot be into existence. It was his raison d’être, his glorious project, his manifesto. But progress was slow. Funding remained elusive, his theories and grant proposals were the laughing stock of the academy. He had reached too many dead ends and was running out of options. The previous night renewed his hope. Future possibilities were born.

  He barely noticed his burnt hand, physical evidence of the encounter. His mind was entirely preoccupied by the image of the metal man.

  The monster had all of the right attributes. Its massive size and strength was the core of what Chem had been trying to develop in his manipulation of HGH and other chemicals. But on top of that it also had a steel-like exodermis that was presumably impenetrable—though he would have to test that. The molten-metal skin constituted a blend of density and malleability perfect for sustaining impact with minimal damage. The fire inside of the creature could even conceivably be directed outward. Clearly, it was a weapon of great value.

  Gnawing at the back of his mind was a singular question: Who created it?

  Every phenomenon had a cause. Every cause could be dissected. A dissected cause can be replicated. This was the foundation of science. This was his job.

  Someone had not only beaten him to the punch but surpassed his most ambitious projections. And it pissed him off. He wracked his brain trying to come up with who it may have been. There were certainly some nerds at Carnegie Mellon who were working on similar tests. Some covert, private operation was possible but unlikely. A government project gone awry? None of these answers satisfied him, but it was clear that someone had won the race. He was left in second place—kissing his sister.

  His one advantage was Elijah Branton’s blood. A small sample sat secure in the lab. But that opened another can of worms. What the hell is his part in all of this? If Branton turned out to be an active participant, Chem would shit a brick. The awkward, slightly overweight academic just didn’t fit the part of a secret super-soldier. And if he was involved, what was he doing adjuncting at the University? They’d most likely keep him under lock and key for testing and observation. Why would he come to the chemist for medical help? It would expose the whole program. It didn’t make sense.

  Chem considered the little he knew about the historian. It must be connected to his research.

  Whatever it was, his gut told him that Elijah’s involvement was outside of his control—which meant that his new friend was in danger.

  Chem was thankful that he hadn’t been alone on Mount Washington. Despite his badgering, that undergrad saved his life. He still couldn’t figure out where the kid’s strength came from. Sean seemed to think it was Willa’s doing, that she cast some sort of spell on him. Before the encounter, Chem would have called bullshit. This morning, he wasn’t so sure. Whatever the case, the lonely-poet was turning out to be quite a woman. She definitely exerted some sort of control over that thing, and she didn’t hesitate when it came time to grab the historian and run. If she weren’t such a prude he’d have a huge crush on her.

  He’d have to wait until he received Willa’s report, but he hoped that Elijah could clarify some things. The creature acted like a man possessed. It wasn’t irrational, but it certainly wasn’t the person he knew. Clearly the product had unintended mental effects. The transformation was powerful, but sloppy. The toll—physical and psychological—that it seemed to take on its host was untenable. Who would opt for that kind of procedure? It likely could have killed the man, not to mention what sustained exposure might entail. But Chem knew that it could be improved upon: developed into something more stable, something controllable. His knowledge and skills could refine the process, enhance it. And produce a desirable commodity.


  A quarter mile from campus, his thoughts turned from experimentation to application. Naturally, the military would be interested in this kind of thing. Chem had always imagined that Defense would be his most willing customer. But military development would make you rich, not famous. He wanted the acclaim and the wealth. Nobel? Maybe.

  He could also Elon Musk the whole thing. As with private space travel, Chem imagined individual consumers spending far too much money to become a superhero. Who doesn’t dream of that? While this might actually be the path to fame and riches, it would also be the path of most resistance. The FDA shit-storm alone would be a nightmare.

  Chem’s thoughts wandered toward what he would do with the money. Give some away, of course. It was rather obligatory in the contemporary world. Then spend it like crazy. Take a few years off. Travel anywhere and everywhere, then get back to work. He never wanted to actually retire. His dream would be to build a massive chemical development company.

  If he could configure what was going on inside the arteries of the adjunct historian, and alter it toward different enhancements and powers, the possibilities would be endless. With enough capital, he could buy the latest lab tech and hire the best brains in the business. With this small but well-equipped army, he could change the world—but more importantly change his life.

  ****

  A pair of Sennheiser over-ear phones swallowed his head. He hated working daytime hours at the lab. Techs and researchers were everywhere, and they chatted incessantly about local sports teams or administrative gossip. They prioritized camaraderie over doing science. He was ashamed to call them colleagues.

  While in the lab, Chem had to proceed with caution. He was technically trespassing, his employment and access terminated months ago. Bill, the security guard who was the easiest to manipulate, was still out on disability, and Chem couldn’t be sure that the new guards hadn’t been given his physical description. Chem prayed he wouldn’t run into that linebacker who was sure to still be nursing a grudge.