She charged leading with her face. Her gaping mouth looked intent on devouring his entire head. Her hideous orifice only inches away, Bryan arched explosively backward, cleaving his arm upward. Catching the woman’s armpit, he catapulted her voluptuous body over his own. The loud clang of her body slamming into the sheet metal air conditioner was testament of the impact, as was the rebound that sent her rolling across the tar surface.
Crouched on all fours, she hopped about furiously shaking her head like an ape gone berserk and then she galloped at him. She jumped from low, reaching for his eyes determined to scratch them from his face. Bryan grabbed both the woman’s wrists and spread her arms to length. Her momentum carried her upward and she wrapped both legs around his waist.
Bryan grinned. “I always—Aaaahhhh!”
The woman creature squeezed and Bryan no longer cared about being funny. He only cared about breathing.
The woman’s mouth opened wide; her head cocked back. She snapped forward as if to take a bite out of his face. Bryan let go of her wrists and clutched her throat and forehead, keeping her bite at bay. Claws now free, she grabbed his dark hair and pulled. Instead of moving his head closer to her deadly muzzle, she came away with clumps of hair. He held his grip and threw himself forward landing his opponent on her back, driving his palm into her throat, his full weight bearing down. He let lose a fury of hammering blows to her stomach; the creature loosened her leg lock and he pulled free.
“You bitch!” Bryan’s fingertips were like ice on his newly exposed scalp.
The woman coughed and wheezed. “You… just keep getting better looking.”
She hopped to her feet and charged. Bryan kicked the flat of his foot out to meet the woman’s face. She ducked under, rolled between his legs, and bit deep into his inner thigh. He pummeled her about the face, punch after punch. Her scalp tore away. She kicked upward. A boot passed his chin and the heel bashed his nose. The night turned into a cascade of stars and flashes and he staggered back. The woman wiped blood-matted hair from her face. Lacerations from his powerful blows covered her scalp and blood flowed profusely down her face and neck.
Bryan went on the offense swinging widely at her bloody head. Twice she tried slipping past his guard. Twice she failed, her head batted to the side. She backed off, hopping mad, crazed, flinging her head. Blood flew in all directions. She charged. Bryan let her in close then snapped her in a headlock, before her teeth could rip flesh. Her jaw worked furiously attempting to draw blood. She reached behind and clawed at the teenager’s back.
“Auuugh! Going to break your neck just like his!”
He worked his hand under her gaping jaw and pushed up as he squeezed the headlock with all his might. She jammed her claws into the bite wound on his thigh. Barely able to stay conscious, he pulled and pushed her head even harder than when he’d fought Savini. Her head popped off like a dandelion top; it flew several feet and rolled several more. Her body dropped back and Bryan staggered forward. He steadied himself against an air conditioning unit and pressed his back against the cool metal.
He stood silent amused at the rhythmic throbbing of his leg, back and nose. His body an instrument, it played a pounding symphony of pain and he laughed. Squinting down the length of his nose and finding it bent at an angle like a broken stick, he laughed.
A tuft of hair rolled down his face. He swatted it away, reached up, and pulled at a lock of hair. There was little resistance as the clump let lose exposing more scalp. “Now that’s not funny,” he said then giggled. He snatched handful after handful of hair from his ever-balding head, letting the night breeze carry the follicles away. “No, I mean that’s really not funny.” He laughed, and then mimicked the double hop he’d done when the woman had startled him with that first scream.
“Well shit,” he said, stumbling his way to the women’s head, “did anyone ever tell you, you were a bitch. Oh yeah, I did.” The teenager drew back a foot and bunted the head. It exploded in a cloud of dust. “Oh, Steve has got to see this.” Bryan zigzagged to his coat and dug out the cell phone. Holding the pieces together, he punched in a series of numbers.
“Hey, Steve you there? When you get this message, you need to get your ass into the city and pick me up. I have something to show you, you’re never going to believe it.” He carefully placed the electronic parts back into his coat pocket and fished out the powder.
CHAPTER 14
His best friend was alive. In costume and powered up, Steve propped his foot on the rooftop’s ledge and surveyed the Harlem neighborhood. The local news reported vigilante sightings across Manhattan and three burrows, but most centered in the Harlem district and the heroic figure now believed those sightings to be correct. If it were not for the seriousness of the situation, he would have found the inaccuracies of the eyewitness reports amusing. They varied from the spotting of the hairiest of yetis to the hairless of creatures. Still, the Harlem sightings seemed the most accurate. For blocks in all directions, the buildings tended to be shorter than average and their height varied the least across the island. His friend would like this terrain; two hops to the top and one easy drop made for fast and flashy traversal.
Vigilante. No one on TV used the words hero or superhero anymore. “Why aren’t you coming home, you big dope?” he said.
Telling George the truth about the powder and their escapades turned out to be a smart move. George devised the plan: a day in school collecting several names and phone numbers to turn in to the police and then two days home, sick at the disappearance of his best friend with George supplying the alibi. It amazed Steve how many kids swore they had spotted Bryan at certain parties across Queens last Saturday night and though he believed their intentions good, he knew every account to be wrong. A fact the police did not need to know.
George reacted well to the story. He immediately understood the graveness of the situation and swore he’d do anything to protect Nora and her family including taking their secret to his grave no matter how brutal the coercion. Steve didn’t like putting his uncle in danger, but it eased a little as he watched the man beam with pride as they planned this mission to bring Bryan home. George liked helping and he liked being a part of the superhero story. The old man’s long-term prognosis didn’t look good and if they lived through this it might be the best thing that ever happened to his uncle. To participate in something this fantastic your last couple of years could make dying a little easier.
Determined to see all of them make it through alive, he jumped to the next building infused with a sense of urgency. As Bryan would say, “his shit was wired tight”.
A hero spotter camped out on a foldout chair, drinking beer, presented little nuisance. Making it a game to slip behind him unnoticed, he jumped to the ledge creating no vibration and little noise. Not knowing if due to an enhanced athletic ability or Bryan’s theory of internal telekinesis, Steve proceeded swiftly and sure footed across these narrow ledges displaying a fluid elegance no Olympic gymnast could match. With no tall buildings to shine downward, the darkness blanketed the Harlem rooftops killing the shadows that would otherwise accompany his every move. The streets below were well-lit pits and he bet the people looking up could barely see past the streetlights.
The mask hiding his identity, the night camouflaging his movement, the teenager was free and powerful. A sense of boldness and courage foreign to him imbued his being as he ran the thick darkness, losing with each step the inhibitions carried in the daylight. With the slightest grunt, he threw himself into several cartwheels then twisted executing several backhand springs. Only two doses of the powder remained. He couldn’t help but to think what it would be like when the strength and coordination was gone. How he longed to take just a piece of the confidence back with him, into the daylight, so he could walk down a hall full of classmates and not feel inferior.
* * *
Bryan slipped over the ledge and crawled downward, fixed to the brick wall. Seemingly defying the laws of physics, he scuttled from w
indow to window peeping into dark apartments and checking for unlocked windows. He was sure the rules governing gravity were not being broken or even bent. He had developed a new muscle. It started at his fingertips, moved up both arms, down his back, across his buttocks and stretched all the way to his toes; except it did not physically reside in those locations—it inhabited his mind. He relaxed the muscle and started to fall. Quickly, he flexed and was drawn secure to the brick.
He stopped at a shiny pane; it reflected his face. He turned from cheek to cheek. The pea sized bumps lining his jaw, chin, cheekbones and forehead grew from the bone, not the skin, as he’d first thought. He rapped his knuckles against the bony hardness and liked their toughness and he admired the balanced pattern emerging. His epidermis was like leather. If more bumps developed across his bald skull all the better. He welcomed any protection they might provide. He decided against straightening the sharp bend across the bridge of his nose. The break befitted a warrior.
An unlocked window and dark deserted kitchen, Bryan drew up the frame and slithered through like a centipede. Impressed with his own stealth, he spread his coat out on the counter and started raiding cupboards. First he placed peanut butter, bread and chips onto the coat and then moved to the refrigerator were he took soda, cheese and lunchmeat. The beer looked tempting, but professionals don’t drink on duty, he told himself. He rolled the coat securely around his dinner, tied the sleeves and carried his payment out the windows as quietly as he’d entered. He would ask no money from the people he protected just that they feed him. Maybe he would devise a calling card to leave behind so that the good people could take pride in knowing they were supporting their champion.
He crawled up the wall, tossed the food to the rooftop and hopped over. Dizziness washed over him and he fell to his knees and vomited bile. Nausea and uncontrollable shaking struck hard making it nearly impossible to rip open the sealed food. He tore at the plastic and stuffed himself for several minutes with bread and chips, until the tremors subsided. He continued onto the lunchmeat, fighting to keep the meal down. The sickness soon faded and he vowed never again to go so long between meals.
“Bananas?”
Four bananas appeared, dancing in the air just out of reach. He stretched and plucked one. He broke the stem and sounded a “pop” with this lips. He peeled back the skin and waved the exposed core under his nose.
Steve?
Bryan stood up and tossed the invisible banana aside. He looked around for his friend, but saw no one. Yet he knew his friend was near; he sensed it. It was as if something, some unseen force was pulling him toward Steve’s location. His scalp tingled pleasantly and tugged his head to the side. He grabbed his coat and bolted in the direction of the pulling sensation. He slipped on the banana; flailing arms and a bouncy shuffle kept him upright.
“Damn banana!”
* * *
“Hey, Mongoose!” Bryan shouted.
Steve skidded to a stop and whirled in the direction of Bryan’s voice. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered. His tall friend bounded closer through the darkness. Overwhelmed with relief and joy, he slipped off his mask and wiped away a tear. Everything was going to be okay.
“I’ve been leaving messages on your machine for two days now,” Bryan yelled out.
“I didn’t get any of them,” Steve hollered back, “you must have been talking to someone else’s recorder. How are you calling? We call your cell every hour with no luck.”
He studied the silhouette and found further encouragement in Bryan’s strong confident stride. If his friend sported a bullet wound, it didn’t show. “Hey, buddy.” Steve held out his hand. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry about that,” Bryan said, emerging from the inky night.
“Holy shit!” Steve stumbled back.
Bryan grabbed Steve’s hand and shook it vigorously then pulled his friend upright and steady. “Dude, don’t freak out.”
Steve turned away, the voice and smile belonged to Bryan but the rest did not. He forced himself to look Bryan in the eyes. “You have got to stop taking the powder,” he said.
“All in good time my friend.” He faked a punch to Steve’s stomach. “First I’ve got a surprise. I’ve been saving it for you.” Bryan took off running and signaled to his friend. “Follow me.”
Steve’s calves ached. He pushed harder than ever attempting to keep up as the two traversed the Harlem rooftops. “Slow down,” he yelled forward, astounded at the leaps and agility being displayed ahead of him. Bryan changed directions toward the Harlem River and a tall building lay in the path. Bryan leapt to the building, stuck to the façade and waited. Steve propelled his body across the space and slammed into the fire escape. He hung from the rusty metal, looking up in wonderment as his friend charged on all fours up the remaining stories.
How the hell is he doing that?
Bryan waited for Steve to exit the stairs to the roof. “We’ve got to move quietly from here.”
Steve studied his friend’s stride as they moved along. None of Bryan’s telltale physical attributes, the poor posture, gangling appendages or lumbering awkwardness remained. The body sweeping along so elegantly, at times showing only the slightest stoop, filled the coat impressively. Each time Steve sped up to position himself beside Bryan, in hopes of asking a question or two—particularly concerning Savini’s death and this new wall crawling ability—the striking figure matched speed keeping the distance between them constant. Obviously, Bryan did not feel like talking.
They stopped on one of the most dilapidated apartment complexes Steve had ever seen on the island. Bryan motioned him to a large skylight. Steve was sure a structure in such a decomposed state had to be condemned as unfit for human habitation; however, several lit windows indicated occupancy.
Steve snuck to the edge of the glass structure, the light escape upward, and eliminated Bryan’s deformed face. Even as his friend pointed down indicating the direction Steve should be looking, in a trance he gazed at the bumps and baldhead. Bryan moved a hand up blocking Steve’s field of vision. Steve turned his attention downward. Through the dingy glass, he saw human activity, people sitting around on junk furniture, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.
“A nefarious street gang,” Bryan whispered, “This is a great place to start. I don’t think you’re ready for vampires yet.” He crouched deeply then sprang forcibly twenty feet into the air.
He stared up in amazement as his friend tucked into a tight ball and executed several summersaults on the way down. Bryan snatched Steve’s arm and pulled him through the shattering skylight. Steve spun amongst the falling debris and positioned for landing. An explosion of bottles, ashtrays and dust erupted as a table flatted under his weight. Kids not much older than the two of them flew over the backs of stained couches, exposing torn cushions as they scrambled in confusion.
Bryan bounded to the side of a male struggling to pull a revolver snagged at the waistline. He grasped the man’s hand fixing it firmly to the gun, clutched the bandana wrapped head to his chest, and forced the man’s finger to pull the trigger. Blood from the man’s groin splattered the floor. Much like tossing a Frisbee, he flung the man’s head outward sending the body spinning airborne.
Steve stood petrified at the carnage unaware of a gun muzzle raised in his direction. Shots rang out one after another. The gun wielder’s body jerked to the impact of several bullets then dust flew as the body slammed the dirty floor. Bryan tossed the empty revolver and bolted after a fleeing gang member.
Steve turned to the metallic sound of firearm mechanisms being chambered. A gang member snapped back the bolt and let loose a fury of bullets in his direction. The shooters reflexes were no match for Steve’s speed and the rounds hit consistently two feet behind him. Steve dove to the floor, rolled, and snatched up an unopened beer bottle. He flung it with dead accuracy. The projectile struck the man’s face, disintegrated into a spectacle of fluid and glass and sent the man staggering. A hail of bullets ripp
ed into the ceiling. Out of the shadows, Bryan emerged behind the thug and in one swift motion pulled the man’s chin, turning it well past the shoulder.
“Just like in the movies,” Bryan hollered, giving a thumbs up.
“Damn it!” Steve shouted, “You didn’t have to do that!” The man dropped face first like a limp doll. My friend, what have you become?
Steps approached Steve from behind—he turned. A small man with a machete squared off. “Hey Ectoman,” he yelled, “it looks like we’re done here. I’ll take care of this one, you head to the roof.” Pleased to see Bryan dart out of the room, the teenager turned his full attention to the opponent in front of him. “You should thank me.” He smiled at the gang member. “I just saved your life.”
The small man answered with several swipes at Steve’s midsection. He hopped back easily avoiding each swing. He maneuvered his way to the broken table, slipped a foot under the wooden top and kicked it up into the advancing machete-wielder. A split second after its impact Steve stood face-to-face crushing the man’s wrist. “Really sorry about this,” he said, and then smashed his fist into the man’s jaw.
The man dropped. Steve twirled dizzily and surveyed the bodies. A small foot, pink laces and tiny ankle, stuck out from behind one of the tattered couches. Skirting the sofa, the young man’s worst fears realized, a young girl not much past the age of fourteen lay silent in a massive pool of blood. Steve rushed to her side and probed her neck for a pulse. He checked his own neck to make sure he had the proper location—he found a fierce pounding. He focused on the girl, his fingertips gently kneaded her soft skin—nothing. She had died with her eyes open; his eyes teared over.
Slowly the teenager stood. Barely able to walk straight, he staggered from the room. He found the nearest staircase and drug himself upward, all his strength useless, the dead girl’s eyes burning into his memory. She was innocent. He was prepared to overlook the killing of Savini and crew, but the girl—nothing would ever be the same. It didn’t matter that it was machine-gun fire that killed her. Bryan’s aggressiveness had started the conflict. He looked down at the red M adorning his chest. It now stood for murder. He clawed at the paint, scraping it from cloth until his skin ached.
Better to Die a Hero Page 16
