Better to Die a Hero

by Michael van Dagger

The creature screamed and shot forward, slamming his palms into Ted’s chest. The stench so vile as to cause vomiting became less of a problem as the air expelled violently from the man’s lungs and his body flew back into the wall. The subsequent drop to the floor exposed a large impression in the wall; plaster and paint fell to the carpet.

  Ted fought hard to stay conscious. He didn’t feel any pain really, just the overwhelming urge to close his eyes. However, for his son’s safety, for his son’s life, he fought the sleepiness. Within a second, the creature’s face was an inch from his own. The thing squatted over him like a primitive from man’s evolutionary past. It breathed heavily, angrily into his face. The stink assaulted Ted’s senses and helped him shake off the looming unconsciousness.

  A powerful hand locked around his throat. The beast stood up taking him with it. Dangling at the end of the intruders grip, his own weight working to hang himself, Ted willed his hands to grab out, his legs to thrash in self defense.

  “Stop hurting my daddy! Stop hurting my daddy!”

  Johnny’s pleas sounded as if coming from the end of a long corridor. Ted strained to look down and could see the tiny fists of his son flailing, as best a four year old could, against the monster’s leg. The choking stopped and the monster laid him down on the carpet, even placing a large hand behind his head. Johnny fell to his father’s chest hugging and crying.

  Ted sensed the creature had left the apartment and he stroked his son’s head.

  “Johnny,” he said, “Daddy needs you to go to the phone and dial 911.”

  * * *

  Steve stood feet shoulder width apart, bent over, touching his toes, but ever alert for the approach of his friend. He surveyed the cityscape now engulfed in darkness, all the while stretching his injured body.

  He needed to keep his muscles limber. Even powered up, he could feel his back stiffening whenever he stood stationary for more than a minute. Every part of him started to ache—even his mind. He kept hoping Bryan would never show and that the deadly confrontation would never happen. He would always be able to say he tried to do the right thing and that it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t find Bryan. It was a big city. These were not excuses; they were reasons. Then he thought about Nora and her family.

  He straightened, drawn upward by the oddest sensation. A tickle swirled about his scalp. He focused on the sensation and its origins were deeper than scalp, deeper than skull; it emitted from the surface of his brain. The phenomenon swirled gaining speed then abruptly escaped the top of his head like a miniature twister six or seven inches long.

  He slapped the top of his head, attempting to flatten the whirlwind. The small funnel danced in the same area unaffected by the fingers pawing at it. The funnel bent sharply to the left and Steve instinctively pivoted in that direct. The sensation collapsed as fast as it had appeared.

  He gazed into the blackness; someone large approached. Steve pulled out the small flashlight. It cut through the night and landed on the monstrosity that was Bryan, walking at him with a sense of purpose and a profusion of anger. Steve attempted to ignore the bizarre muscularity covered in pulsating blood vessels and the searing look on that deformed face. He pushed down a great fear and applied his best gaming face.

  “Buddy,” Steve said, holding out his arms, “I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a hero and fight crime by your side.” The corners of his mouth quivered.

  Bryan’s head shook like a rabid dog; saliva and sweat flew. “After the way you talked to me today, you expect me to be your friend.”

  “As usual you were right and I was wrong. I want to fight by your side.” Steve’s heart slowed and the tension left his body. “You mentioned vampires right?”

  Bryan nodded.

  “Let’s say you give me a dose of powder, then we go hunt us some vampires.” The teenager stared at the grotesque face. The smile that crossed its face, exposing misshapen teeth, had nothing in common with his friend’s jovial smile.

  A noise, a shuffle of some sort, emanated on the far side of the roof.

  “That’s one now!” Steve yelled, pointing into the darkness, his other hand dropped to his waistband.

  Bryan’s spin served to remind Steve how fast they were when on the powder. In one explosive move, he ripped the pistol from his waistband, his thumb cocking the hammer.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Troll turned back, the smile gone from its face.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Steve thumbed back the hammer a seventh time, aimed at Troll’s head, and pressed the hair trigger.

  Click

  “Oh Fu—.” A powerful backhand lifted Steve into the air and over the edge of the roof.

  * * *

  At a full gallop, Troll ran bounding from building to building, not above as before, but clinging perfectly to each façade, the mental grip fixing him securely as if gravity had ceased to affect the mutating body. He slowed only to punch and kick out widows along the path leaving a trail of broken glass and startled citizens. Cursing the betrayer, he ran oblivious to the blood flying from his hands. He ran for over an hour paying no attention to direction, his entire being infused in anger.

  He plunged his fist at a window, but halted before contact and skidded to a stop. A man inside the apartment struck him as familiar. Troll positioned himself over the window and peered in. The man disappeared through a door, giving no clue to his identity and yet familiarity remained. Troll scampered to the next window. The man’s back was to the windows and he worked the controls of a stereo. A woman Troll did not recognize sat on a couch sipping a drink.

  The deep rhythmic breathing brought on by the long run seized as his dad turned and moved to the couch taking a place beside the woman. Troll choked. His body needed oxygen. He took large gulps of air, one after another, and stared as his father leaned in and kissed the woman.

  The jerk has a mistress.

  Troll remembered his childhood. How he would run to his bedroom when hearing the man’s car pull into the driveway. He remembered as a child, his idea of what a father was: the man that you hide from, because he will be home soon. He remembered how hiding failed, for the man would eventually seek him out, drag him from hiding, and he remembered the yelling.

  The glass and wood gave way to Troll’s massive body, his mental push propelling the deadly shards away from his flesh. He stomped to the couch, snatched his father up by the back of the neck, and pulled the sniveling face to his own.

  “HOW DO YOU LIKE IT DAD?” Troll leaned in to his father’s ear. “YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE!”

  He grabbed a fist full of hair and meant to lead the man around as he’d been led around so many times. Instead, he found himself holding a hairpiece and staring at a baldhead.

  “You have a mistress and you’re bald!” He cuffed his father upside the head. “Mom is better off without you.”

  Troll held his father firm and forced the wig into the man’s mouth. He then positioned the gagging man in front of the broken window and skipped back two steps. Twice as fast as any Olympic athlete, Troll executed his favorite front stomping kick to the chest jettisoning his father out over the street.

  A whimper from the far corner caught Troll’s attention and he turned to see the mistress huddled and crying.

  “Run whore, before I do the same to you.”

  She was up stumbling for the door before he finished his sentence.

  * * *

  Steve blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the man sitting across the living room, but his blurry reception of a man cleaning a revolver wouldn’t clear. Thick large framed glasses and a strong jaw was all the detail he could gather. After a minute, he believed Stephen King was sitting across the room. When the man smiled, he was sure of it.

  What was the famous Author doing in New York cleaning a revolver? Steve thought.

  He had never lost consciousness after Bryan’s punch sent him over the roof and on to the top platform of the iron fire escape. He didn’t have to fa
ll far for it to hurt. And it did hurt. He fully remembered being carried down the escape and placed on the couch, although so close to blacking out, he couldn’t identify who’d helped him. Except for Stephen King, sitting there, cleaning a rather large revolver.

  “Here you go,” a familiar husky voice said. Someone placed an ice pack to the back of Steve’s head.

  It was the man he’d talked to in the hall. An exquisite room decorated in African art pulled into focus and the man helped him sit up. He guided Steve’s hand to the cold compress to hold it in place. Disappointment set in as Steve glanced to the man working the firearm and saw that it was not the famous author, but a thirty-something look-alike.

  “This is my friend Ted and my name is Henry, we met in the army,” the man said.

  Ted nodded and Steve returned the greeting.

  “Let me show you something,” Henry said, taking a seat beside the shaken boy. He picked up a 45-caliber cartridge that sat on a coffee table cluttered in gun parts. He held the shell up to the light. “This is the round that was chambered in your pistol and this is its primer. There is no strike mark on this primer. Your firing pin is broken.”

  Still too sore to fully appreciate the lesson, Steve examined the shell he’d been handed and confirmed with a nod that the brass surface was indeed unblemished.

  “Son, you didn’t do any practice shooting did you?”

  “No.”

  “Son,” Henry’s voice turned serious, “you never go into battle with an unproven weapon.”

  “White boys,” Ted said, continuing to clean his revolver. Steve laughed with the two of them even though it caused his entire body to ache.

  “You guys learn that in the army?” Steve asked.

  “That,” Henry replied, “and a movie, GHOST AND THE DARKNESS with Michael Douglas and Val Kilmer.” Again, the three of them laughed.

  “I wish I’d seen it,” Steve said.

  “But you done all right,” Henry said, patting Steve on the shoulder. “I watched you stand your ground with that monster.” Henry turned to Ted. “I have never seen anything like that before. I took the Troll stories to be a hoax and then I see this kid standing toe to toe with that thing trying to get a bullet out of his weapon. I thought for sure his neck was broken the way that thing hit him.” Henry bolted off the couch. “That was the biggest, ugliest thing I ever saw. Yeah, you did real good kid, stand’n up to that thing.”

  Ted finished cleaning his pistol and held it up for Steve to see. “This is a .357 revolver. It doesn’t jam and it hits almost as hard as a forty-five.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Henry said. “Me and Ted will be taken turns on the roof. Whenever you feel well enough, you feel free to use the phone.” Henry picked up a shotgun and walked to the door. “What’s your name kid?”

  “Steve.”

  “You almost had that freak,” he said. “Yeah, Steve, you did real good.”

  Steve sat smiling, holding the icepack to his head, pretending to graciously accept the compliment. He wanted to pull himself off the couch, find Bryan, and put an end to the nightmare. This was the last time he’d be super powered and the last chance he’d have at taking on Bryan. He wanted off the couch, but he couldn’t stand. Every time he tried, the room got dark and he was hit with the urge to vomit. So, he sat on the couch unmoving; he sat there a failure.

  7

  BETTER TO DIE A HERO

  CHAPTER 18

  Steve knew it was unwise to lift without a spotter, but he didn’t care. He labored and pressed the barbell, bearing two hundred and fifty pounds, and placed it back on the sturdy bench. The clang of metal filled the garage. He sat up, toweled off, and wiped the sweat from the bench’s vinyl cushion.

  Two-fifty was good, probably as much as the strongest senior football players could lift. Still it meant nothing. Two days ago, by his own estimation, he could press over a thousand pounds. It would have been nice getting into a gym that supported such capacity and testing the Mongoose’s full strength, capturing his best bench press for the record. Only Nora and George would know, that for some short time, he held the title—strongest man on the planet. Bryan or more accurately the Troll creature he’d become, now held the title.

  Pangs of guilt pushed its way up from the teenager’s center; these things he pondered were the least of their worries. Still, looking down at the body the powder endowed, he couldn’t help but be pleased. Only the slightest fat roll remained and his tapered shoulders and a strong chest completely over shadowed it. He liked his new physique. He thought it ironic that it would get him caught all the sooner. The kids at school, aware of his dieting and jogging, would attribute his weight loss to those activities, until Bryan was brought to justice. Instantly, scores of students would do the math and spread the word that they knew the identity of the second hero. His new shape would confirm their suspicions. A few of the smart ones, Nora’s friends, would come to suspect her as the third.

  Maybe they wouldn’t say anything, especially after he and his uncle turned up dead. Maybe they’d be smart enough to stay silent.

  He prayed that they were smart, at least smarter than himself. He’d gone after Bryan with a broken gun. How stupid. This nightmare could have been over. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again. The mobsters would meet a working gun.

  “Give it your best shot,” Steve said, throwing the towel to the ground. He stretched and twisted at the waist, the soreness in his back barely noticeable. The powder left in its wake a young athlete capable of taking great bodily punishment and he had no intensions of giving up without a fight. Hell, he might even take the fight to them.

  In the news, most wise guys looked to be middle-aged matzo balls. The two he’d fought in the alley were nothing special. What could they send up against him that he couldn’t give as well as he got. They would eventually get him but not before he inflicted a heavy toll. He was capable of killing. If not for a broken firing pin, he would have killed. He would exact such a high price from the mafia they wouldn’t bother looking for the third hero—the female.

  Steve checked his watch. The local news was past its first fifteen minutes, the segment where the Troll’s rising death count took place. He couldn’t stand to watch the interviews of grief stricken family members. George was watching. Anything he needed to know, George would relay. He put on his shirt, went into the house and pulled a can of chicken noodle soup from the cupboard.

  George shuffled into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. “I got a call today from an old friend. He’s a patient at Dr. Sahbiny’s clinic. Rumor has it Bryan’s dad has entered an alcohol treatment clinic. Turns out he’s been drinking on the job for several years.”

  Steve turned. “I knew the guy was a creep, I didn’t have a clue he drank.”

  “Do you think Bryan had any idea?”

  “If he did he didn’t say a thing about it.” Steve’s apprehension built. He knew they would soon have to discuss the news report.

  “Bryan killed again last night and it’s getting worse. He broke into two homes last night. One man has a broken back and they don’t know if he’ll walk again and Bryan tossed another out a seven story window.”

  “Did they look like gang-bangers or shoot at him?”

  “No, they looked like regular guys, going about their business in their homes, when Bryan busts in on them and assaults them. The news is calling the attacks completely unprovoked.”

  Steve dumped the contents of the can into the pan. “How long can this go on?”

  “Not much longer,” George said. “The Governor says he’s ready to declare an emergency and call up the National Guard.”

  “Wow, there could be weekend warriors with m-16s on every building in the city.” Steve sat down. “Bryan’s fast but he’s not machine gun fast. They’ll get him and when they do, we’ll only have days, maybe a few weeks if we’re lucky, before they find out his identity.”

  “Maybe he’s mutated enough no on
e will be able to identify him,” George said.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied, sinking into the chair, “his skull may look totally deformed but he’s got a mouth full of fillings that haven’t changed. He was scheduled to have four impacted wisdom teeth removed right after graduation. I’ll bet his dentist has a recent set of x-rays.” He leaned into his hand and rubbed his forehead. “Here I sit, hoping my friend gets blown to bits so no parts are identifiable.”

  George reached out and squeezed his nephew’s shoulder. “Don’t feel guilty, your friend no longer exists. That thing, it’s not Bryan.” The old man reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table. He took in a deep breath and covered his trachea hole as he did when he wanted to speak the clearest possible. “Bryan, he was a damn good kid.”

  “Yes he was,” Steve said.

  * * *

  “Please, call me Troll or The Troll,” he said into the plastic phone wedged between his chin and shoulders. He leaned into the refrigerator, pulled out a jar of mayonnaise, and placed it on the counter. “Just making myself a sandwich. I get hungry patrolling the city. You’d be proud of me mom.”

  He adjusted the handset. “Ran into dad yesterday. When he gets home, you might want to ask him about it—I don’t like going out this early, in the daylight, but if I don’t eat right away, I get sick, maybe you could have dad write out a prescription—Hang on for a second.”

  Troll continued piecing together a sandwich, when he heard the door of the apartment unlocked and opened. The panting of a woman carrying items into the apartment let him know there was no immediate danger. He kept the phone pinned to his ear and worked on his dinner. An attractive female rounded the corner, holding a small child.

  “Do you mind,” Troll said, “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

  The young mother stood frozen and her child pointed to the toy phone. “My phone,” the tot said. The woman, child held tight, dropped a grocery bag and raced out the door.