Force

by A.R. Rivera

Other Means Of Travel

  Inside the protective night, I move through the parking lot, searching for the most common car in an unremarkable color. Near the entrance to the theater, several groups of teens are chattering and having fun. As they pass, I notice another group getting out of a beige sedan only a few spaces from another of similar make and model.

  I stop and light up. Smoking. Waiting.

  In the mid-nineties security cameras in mall parking lots were not as common they’d become in the years following 9/11. Even the lots that had them didn’t have high-definition. So all I have to do is wear winter gloves and a baseball cap, which don’t stand out in this weather anyways. Once the lot clears, I’m golden.

  With a screwdriver from my pocket, I make my way over to the furthest lot corner of the lot, just inside the parking structure, and get to work on the first license plate. It comes off quickly and I’m on my way to the second car of similar make and model, three rows away. The second plate sticks a little and I have to stop and pretend to search for my keys while another group of people passes. After the coast is clear, I get back to work.

  The plates are exchanged in no time. Next step, I cough and simultaneously jam the screwdriver into the drivers’ side door lock. The lock sticks, so I jam the thing in there a few more times until the lock pops open and I climb inside. The ignition proves less trying since all I have to do is pop off the cover of the steering column to cross a few wires. The Honda’s got just over a half tank of gas when I hit the freeway.

  This is how it goes.

  Changing cars when I need to, exchanging plates with other vehicles of similar models and color. I don’t know how effective the method is against getting caught, only that I was never caught when I used to do things like this for fun. My first and only year of College was pretty wild.

  A couple times I have to make major changes. At a gas station in Oklahoma, as one guy goes inside to pay for the gas he’s just pumped, I jump in his car. A few miles outside of town, I get nervous and ditch the truck. It’s only a few hours of walking until I come upon a bar with a row of motorcycles. I find the biggest, baddest looking bike and take the one parked next to it after switching the plates.

  The trip is exhausting and disgustingly long, driving day after day, but Eli’s maps come in handy more than once.

  One morning, as dawn breaks, I’m looking upon a familiar skyline—the one I have ever and never seen.

  New York City.

  On the other side of the bridge, the crowded streets are congested. Far worse than any LA traffic. The sun is blocked by tall buildings; the streets are noisy and confusing, bustling with pedestrians and taxis. People of every kind are yelling or jogging, walking, working, and eating.

  I pull to the side of the road to buy a local map and start searching. Once I find Crosby Street, which is semi-residential, and start looking for an apartment over a bakery. Shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. There’s more than one section to Crosby.

  After only an hour in the city, I am at a loss. I have never seen so many apartments so tightly packed and nearly everyone has some sort of business operating on the ground floor. Dry cleaning shops, bakeries, delis, barbers, and tailors... I’m in way over my head.

  I have searched nearly every building, asked everyone I came across. Other tenants and managers, rude strangers. I’ve called out their names. All for nothing.

  I have no idea how or where to continue. I know my mother said New York City, but seem to remember something about a village, too. As far as I can tell, though, I’m in lower Manhattan.

  Grumbling gasps catch my attention.

  Several people look towards me and I turn around as a shrill cry, unmistakably a woman’s, sails through the crowded street. A man with a hot dog cart collapses his giant yellow umbrella and starts wheeling away. Several people rush from a doughnut shop out into the street and I know that is the place that the scream came from.

  I have to fight my way through a group of people standing near the doorway watching to get inside the tiny shop.

  Inside I find a man, tall and menacing, in a trench coat. His back’s to me as he looks down at someone crouching in a corner beneath a small table. I think I recognize the sneakers and waste no time grabbing the nearest chair. The back of it is shaped like a raised doughnut with pink frosting and sprinkles. I send it crashing down and as soon as the man hits the ground; I realize he isn’t Daemon. He’s got no beard, and he’s old. He isn’t wearing any clothes under his trench coat. And the boy hiding under the table isn’t little G. He isn’t a boy, either, but a woman with short hair whose traumatized because she’s just been flashed by a flabby stranger.

  As people gather to congratulate and chastise me, sirens begin to wail.

  When I turn to search for a way out the back he’s suddenly, inexplicably, there. My own Methuselah is speaking to me.

  “Jonas, come with me.”

  This version of my father is so like and unlike my own dearly departed, with the same frame and renewed vigor—the man that baffled and frustrated me to near frenzy with his passivity.

  The relief in finding him is overwhelming. Like a spark in my chest that grows warm with joy. But it’s short-lived. Drowned out by more sirens, which must be out front by now because it’s all anyone can hear. My younger father, his eyes wide with worry, pulls me into the nearest hallway and points up a nearby stairwell. I follow lightly with a spring in each gait. A contrast to his notably grave stride.

  Once we reach the landing, he sets a hand on my shoulder. “Is everything alright? I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  It is so good to see him. His arms rest at his sides while mine give a crushing embrace.

  “This is... new.”

  I hear his discomfort and hold my laugh. He’s so much the same and yet not—my familial stranger. Holding him is a double-edged sword. It helps fill the void and eases a little pain. Even if he’s not my dad, even if the embrace wasn’t uncomfortable for him I have to let go.

  “Jonas, let go.”

  What really hurts is listening.

  “Where is he?” His brow is furrowed. The old, bushy mustache is no more than a shadow, a pause between shavings.

  I don’t know exactly how I know, but I can tell by the look, Daemon is the nameless fear he referred to in our previous conversations. He had called him something else. Said he tried to kill him before we met. Daemon tried to kill me, too. Then, succeeded with my father, his future self, or counterpart if Eli is right.

  The present fear in his face is easy to read as he makes no attempt to hide it when I answer.

  “I lost track of him and came here to make sure you’re all safe.”

  He nods, turning to lead me up the next flight of stairs. At the next landing, he hooks left down a narrow passageway. We pass one door marked in some type of Hindi script and enter the second.

  It’s an empty room with an open window. My forty-ish father climbs through the open window and out onto a fire escape, bidding me to follow.

  Across the alley is a nondescript brick building that looks exactly like the one we’re in. There’s another fire escape zigzagging up the side. Windows with people in them stare out in various directions. Laundry sets in windows to dry even though there’s ice on the sidewalks.

  If not for dumb luck I never would have found this place.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  He gives direction with his eyes. “What I’ve got left is down at the end of the hall.”

  Carrie. The loss feels like yesterday.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  He draws his hand from his hip pocket and sets it over mine. “You did what you could. Now, I need you to do one more thing.”

  Money. It’s a big wad of cash held together by a rubber band. It was in his hand, but now it’s resting in mine. “What’s this?”

  My fathers’ eyes are dull, his tone somber. “I need you to take them away. Would you,
Jonas? Hide them where he can’t find’em.”

  “What? You want me to take your family? Why?”

  “Because he’s here, Jonas.”

  “In what universe is abandoning them a good idea?”

  “Listen to me. I saw him in the city this morning. It’s only a matter of time. He always finds me.”

  “Gerry, there are millions of people in New York, how could he possibly know where to find you? I’m the one who sent you here and I barely could.”

  The air is heavy, quiet despite the noise of the city.

  He gives a sorrowful grin. “When he’s come for me, I—”

  “That’s why I’m here.” I toss the wad of money back at him. “I’m not going to let him anywhere near you or them.”

  He shoves the roll back at me, pleading. “No. I can’t keep running.”

  I press the roll of cash back, again. “What makes you think he’ll stop with just you?”

  “He won’t. That’s why you have to take them. Put them somewhere that he can’t find them!”

  I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen and you’re wasting time arguing. You have no idea what you’re up against!”

  My father squares his shoulders. “Why do you think I walked away? Because everyone who’s taken this cross has ended up dead. That’s the way it is for all of us. I accept that, but there’s nothing that says I have to play by his rules.”

  As my sentient father speaks, a spot catches my eye. A twinkle or fleck of yellow. A ray of sunshine or a splotch of bright paint between the dull red bricks across the alley, but it’s out of place. Too deep in the shadows between buildings.

  Instantly the splotch transforms from a speck to a fiery sheet that engulfs the corner of the building. A billow of black smoke sweeps up into the sky as Gerry and I stare.

  In three heartbeats, the corner of the parallel building bursts away. A massive wind shoots chunks of the outer wall onto the street below. The sound is a wallop to my ear drums, the hot wind blasts us back through the window. Somehow, I keep my eyes on Gerry. He hits the ground, facedown, in the empty room, but I keep going, tumbling all the way into the hall.

  The sound doesn’t stop. It makes the entire building shake. I work up onto my feet, calling out for Gerry. Alarms are blaring, people are screaming, and the man I once thought of as my younger father is still lying face down. He’s just a few feet away, but I can tell he can’t move. His head is twisted too far to one side. With him lying on his stomach, I shouldn’t be able to see this much of his face. Still, his eyes are closed, and that gives me hope because I know from experience that when a person dies their eyes don’t close. They just relax and stay half-open like Death is trying to play some sick joke.

  I’m moving, touching his neck, checking for breath. His side and back are covered in bits of brick and drywall but none of it looks to have even torn his clothes.

  I call out, yelling for my younger self. I don’t know where anyone is. I can’t tell which way the stairs are. When little G appears, so scared and small, he’s talking and I can’t hear a thing. How can I hear the ring of sirens in the street and not the sound of his voice less than a foot away?

  “Take him inside!”

  Little G’s lips are still moving.

  “I can’t hear you!” I point out the window. “There was an explosion!” I say, grabbing his arms while little G grabs his father’s legs.

  Another boom racks the building across the street and the blowback knocks us both off our feet.

  Alarm bells halt as the building groans. The lights go out, and pieces of what I guess are the walls or ceiling form dust around us. The lights flash back on, and bits of plaster and debris cover everything like fresh snow. Even the people running past us to get to the stairwell.

  It’s like damned war-zone.

  It takes too long to get them both inside what looks like a one room apartment on the opposite side of the building. We set him down behind the door and I check Dad over once more. In the crease of his elbow, I think I feel a pulse.

  “He’s going to be fine.” I lie, checking my backpack. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do not open this door for anyone, no matter what! If anyone tries to break-in, hide!”

  With that, I am back out in the hallway, guessing right at the direction of the stairs. The donut shop I came through on my way in has lost its glass storefront and half the dining area. There are a few people hiding under tables near the back.

  Out on the street, its chaos. People are running in every direction. Some carrying large TV sets, some with no more than tear-stained faces. Others are holding themselves and crying while more people are staring. Passers-by are shouting for the people inside to come out. One woman is helping a man bandage his head with her shirt sleeves.

  A crowd is gathered on the road in front of the building across the alley, where the explosions are coming from. It’s a mix of uniformed police, firemen, and concerned citizens—some with injuries. They seem to be coordinating, trying to figure a way to get to the people trapped on the higher floors inside the building while others run out from the one I’ve just left.

  Fire trucks are arriving. Men in bright yellow and orange jackets extend hoses, spraying at the blaze but it doesn’t look like its helping. There are also cops trying to clear the perimeter, grabbing and ordering everyone that’s in the way to clear a path.

  Absolute chaos, I think and then understand smacks me over the head: it’s because Gerry was right. Daemon is here.

  The adrenaline of this revelation clears my head and I survey my surroundings with renewed focus. Watching flames lick up the side of the building and inexplicably halt at the top corner of the roof near the back of the building.

  I fight my way through the heat of the alley to find a better spot to check out this anomaly. Maneuvering around a stinking dumpster, I cover my face with my sleeve and look up. Directly overhead, the uncharacteristic blunt edge of a grouping of flames catches my eye.

  It’s as if the fires pressing against an invisible wall. Just above the stunted end of the flames stands a dark figure with outstretched arms. He’s about seven stories up, shrouded in smoke and ash, but I can tell who it is. His tattooed head and shaggy beard are unmistakable.

  I curse his name.

  The figure sails from the edge of the rooftop into the air and floats down with the ashes. Unhurried and light among the bedlam he’s fashioned.

  I shouldn’t be surprised by his ability to do impossible things. I’ve seen it before, but damn, what a party trick. He’s practically flying.

  But I won’t gape. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  When he hits he hits the ground I’ll be in perfect attack position.

  A screeching sound shoots up from the alley behind me. When it gets too loud to ignore, I risk a quick glance back and find that long metal dumpster screeching towards me. Swinging to one side, I should miss it completely, but the damned thing turns to widen its’ path like its’ possessed and out to get me.

  What the hell?

  I jump back and over, veering behind an old wooden electric pole. The metal dumpster hits the post and bounces back.

  Looking back to Daemon, I find him ten yards down the alleyway. His feet are planted far apart. His black trench coat swings in the hot wind coming off the blaze. The sound of sirens and cries cannot drown out his evil cackle.

  He raises one arm, his hand half open as if clutching an invisible object. I notice a shadow over my head as his raised hand forms a fist.

  And then I hear it: the loud crackle of protesting metal. Like a car accident. The shadow that fell upon me shifts and I look up to find the dumpster hovering over my head.

  I’m hearing it break, watching it crumple like a toy car under an elephant. The mass shoots to one side, ramming into the side of the burning building, sending bits of brick into the alleyway and then shoots back, straight at me.

  I jump away, but the wooden electric pol
e I was hiding behind is cracked in two. Live wires spark and trickle to the ground amid the rubble as what’s left of the dumpster smashes down, nearly on top of me. I roll away, tucking my knees to my chest.

  This is crazy. He can levitate and throw massive metal objects?

  Scrambling back to my feet, I find Daemon turned away and tilting into a full run.

  I’m on him in before he makes the end of the block.

  Stretching for his coat tails, the filthy material slips through my fingers before I can grasp it and the distance between us grows.

  “Daemon!”

  His kicks are high and quick; a blur breaking into the roadway in between alleys.

  When he hits the middle of the three-lane road, Daemon turns his head, staring into oncoming traffic. More horns sound off as his right arm shoots out. His open palm slams down, flattening the front end of a taxicab just before it hits him as if he’s protected by some invisible wall. The front end of the cab folds like a lawn chair. The windshield bursts. The top half of the driver flops out.

  Daemon stops his running and turns back staring unconcerned, with dead eyes while the rest of the roadway becomes a parking lot. People are jumping from their cars and shouting, some angry, others afraid, but he doesn’t see any of it. He’s watching me. I realize I’m standing still, too, watching.

  What the hell is wrong with me? He’s there for the taking: the nemesis to my superhero. I came here to kill him yet, I can’t find the balls to close the deal.

  A motorcycle cop appears just behind the crashed taxi. The cop steps off his bike just as Daemon reaches out the same hand. It’s clutching air again, and the motorcycle lifts off the ground as if it’s following Daemons' direction. He’s the conductor of orchestral chaos, lifting the bike ten feet high without touching it. The cop isn’t moving but has an idle hand resting on his holstered gun while his mouth gapes in blundering surprise.

  “Shoot him!” I scream as Daemon swings his hand forward, launching the motorcycle forward in a mirrored move. It rips toward the mouth of the alley. Right. At. Me.

  I jump away, landing a shoulder roll and come up on my knees, still on the sidewalk. Every person in the vicinity has got their mouth hanging open now. Some are releasing screams but most are shocking into silence.

  Daemon has already twisted into a run, heading into the next alley before I make it into the crowded street, but I catch up in a heartbeat because screw him. He’s going down, even if I have to go with him.

  It’s hard to catch my breath. I haven’t quit smoking and it’s going to cost me. Ignoring the pains in my side and chest, I push myself to move faster down the next alley, knocking past more trash cans and hopping fences. The sounds of sirens and the stench of rubber dissipates as we leave the burning neighborhood.

  Building after building flies past. I can’t close the gap and Daemon’s showing no sign of wear. It doesn’t matter how far or fast he runs, I’ve found him and he won’t get away.

  Up ahead, the alley ends. Daemon turns his head, I guess to gauge my distance.

  I push harder. Breathe deeper. Move faster. My side aches.

  Suddenly, he cuts into a doorway. I slow but not enough to make the turn without hitting the frame. My good shoulder stings.

  Inside, the small building looks like another enclosed apartment complex. I come around the corner in time to see the hem of Daemon’s jacket slink past a second tight corner.

  No, it’s a stairwell.

  My legs are burning as I tromp upward, following the shadowy figure as it cackles.

  Asshole.

  Round about the seventh flight, the spiral ends in a doorway. I shove through it and find myself on a flat rooftop.

  The sudden bright of the unencumbered sky blinds me. Fighting not to blink, I make out the sounds of feet slapping and charge towards them.

  There’s a network of air ducts, tubing, and air conditioning units to maneuver around. I come around one particularly large component and stumble upon a brawl.

  The sight of a guy in jeans stops me. He’s not Daemon, but I do catch his trench coat flapping in the breeze.

  It’s Daemon and another guy. They’re... fighting.

  That isn’t the right word. A fight implies some level of opposition. From what I can tell, the poor jeans-wearing bastard he’s got in his charge doesn’t stand a chance.

  Daemon is no more than five feet away. He has a short, fat knife in one hand and the guy’s throat in the other. He’s shoving him against the side of a bulky air conditioning unit. The guy’s young, maybe twenty. His feet are wiggling as he begs. A few feet past them, a young girl is covering her mouth with her hands.

  I’ve arrived just in time to understand that Daemon is stabbing the boy. I don’t see the blade, only the end of the handle as Daemon punches it into the guy’s chest. Three times.

  The man falls on a pile of torn wrapping paper. Below his elbow is a crushed party hat.

  I’ve seen a thousand things worse than this on television. I just saw a guy in a taxi eat glass for breakfast. But this... this is something else. This is a genuine murder. Up close and personal. And disgusting.

  Even though I know too well that Daemon is a murderer, it’s still surreal when he turns to face me. I watched the video of him choking my father but am still stunned at the brutality; his disgusting satisfaction. The same look I saw when he wrapped his filthy fingers around my dad’s neck.

  “Where are my stones?” He hisses.

  I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve thought almost constantly about this moment, pursued it across time and space and when Daemon turns to me, all I see are the red eyes of the snake tattoo on his scalp. They’re staring at me, burning into me, like the eyes of an evil painting. They don’t move but they see. They calculate everything.

  My skin is crawling from his sickening grin. It’s probably the same look he had when he shot me. I might know for sure if he hadn’t done it in the back.

  “You’re a coward.” Daemon says, slowly stalking towards me.

  My arsenal’s not what I hoped it might be. Apparently no one stashes guns in their cars. The only weapons I have are the charges Eli made and the stones. I had to bring those, in case he got away.

  Inside my mind, I picture the fear I’m feeling is black liquid, pouring into an empty bottle. I picture myself tossing it away, leaving only the rage.

  Good.

  “That’s big talk from someone who constantly attacks people who can’t fight back. Have you ever fought on an even playing field?” His gaze shifts to the guy who’s become a listless, bloody pile. “I bet you gave him a chance to leave quietly.”

  “Is this even enough?” He takes off his trench coat with a challenge, tossing it behind him. That bloody knife lands on top.

  Assume nothing, I think, reminding myself how I underestimated him before. It doesn’t matter what happens, so long as he stops breathing first.

  He comes in fast. Not as fast as I remember, but still pretty quick. I veer to one side and strike. As I lean into the follow through, he delivers a hammer to my face. His knee. My nose explodes. I shake off the sting and ignore the dribble to catch him with a wicked headbutt. His head swings up and back, accentuating a new slice over his eye.

  I gave too much credit. Without some kind of advantage, he can barely hold his own. I know he can’t hold mine.

  A shot to his gut, another to the jaw. I grab his shoulder, planning to knee him in the stomach, but he twists away, leaving me with part of his shirt collar in my hand. Daemon’s wobbling now, staggering back and away. I notice for the first time, a mark on his shoulder, pink and puffy, like a burn scar.

  I’m on him, watching every flick of his eyes. They stray towards the knife resting on the ground. He shifts, ready to go for it and I dart, grabbing him from behind.

  But then his feet fly over his head and, suddenly, I’m on my back several feet away, fighting to take back to the breath that’s been knocked out of me
.

  The young girl that I saw when I first got to the rooftop, she was dazed, watching her friend bleed out. But not anymore. Now she’s screaming. Maybe she finally understands what she saw. Real trauma takes time to soak in, I guess.

  When I move my hand from my blistering side, it’s red. The bastard stabbed me. The cut looks small. It’s not bleeding much and doesn’t hurt enough to concern me right away. If anything, it means I need to work faster. Daemons standing beside me, just out of reach. There’s nothing in his hands except his jacket as he gently takes it up and puts it on.

  Standing takes concentration. Going over the rapid sequence in my mind, I know he made it to the knife and used it. I’m grateful it’s short. But how did he get up so fast?

  I don’t see him move this time but go down again. The outside of my knee starts pulsing.

  Daemon moves away with that same, twisted smirk. “You’re wasting your time. You cannot kill me.”

  As I get back to my feet, he stretches his arms out the same way as before, when he sailed from the top of the building down into the alley.

  “Get back here. I’m not finished with you!” Keeping most of my weight off the one knee, I head towards him.

  Daemon winks at me. He fucking winks, raising a small black and blue bag. “Maybe you are not finished, but I am. I have what I came for.”

  I recognize the little pouch because Eli made it. He cut the pieces for the new rubber casement from his own diving suit and I spent hours hand-stitching and double-gluing the seams. The original rubber pouch for the stones was old and cracking.

  Now he’s got it. Daemon’s got my stones. The rocks he came for. The ones he killed my father to get.

  Panicked, I rush at him, but Daemon is way ahead of me. He steps off the ledge before I get anywhere near him.