by LE Barbant
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See you back in the Steel City,
Chris and Lee
PS:
Looking for something fun, fast, and thrilling? Check out Chris and Lee’s thriller series, The Devil’s Due.
Here’s what reviewers are saying:
"Fast paced action with flair. Felt like reading a Jack Reacher book with a little dash of superhero thrown in for measure. Loved it, can't wait for the next one," Amy
"Great read, very fast paced, loved the story! I just felt like I could never put it down. A very suspenseful action novel!" Curtis
Here’s what people are saying: This one is a bit longer, but EXACTLY what we were hoping for:
“I was pleasantly surprised by this book. I understand the author had just started publishing a year ago but this was already his fourth book and first of a new series. This one fascinated me enough to try out and I was not disappointed. The story itself goes back to something I crave in my favorites, which is to have something of the fantastic/paranormal/legendary genre happening within a somewhat normal setting. The author(s) did a great job of weaving in and out of the hero’s mysterious back story, which we still don't fully know, while distracting the reader with an immediate issue which needs dealt with…Plus this is a fast read. I technically started it over a week ago when I was just taking a peek in passing since I didn't have my other books with me at that time. That peek turned into the first 25% in about an hour. However, I had to put it down to finish my other books before coming back to it this week which only took another two days to read. Now I'm anxious to see what takes place next and find out more of our hero's history!” Amazon Five-Star Reviewer
Sound interesting? Grab The Devil’s Due here.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
L. E. Barbant is co-host of the remarkably mediocre Part-Time Writers Podcast. When he’s not writing (or struggling to pay the bills with his day job) Lee spends his time reading everything from Greek dramas to zombie thrillers, babysitting his four monstrous nephews, and wishing he could fly. The Catalyst is his debut novel but if his superhero career doesn’t pan out, he’s planning on giving full-time writing a shot.
He lives outside of Pittsburgh with his lovely wife and a cat named Cat.
C.M. Raymond holds a PhD in philosophy, which qualifies him to write superhero stories but not much else. His home is in a river valley of Western Pennsylvania. Outside of reading and writing, he loves to spend time with his family in the woods and wilds or the city streets.
THE CASTING
By LE Barbant and CM Raymond
First Edition
Copyright © Smoke and Steel Books
JULY, 2016
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people or events are entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
The Casting is dedicated to our readers.
Yes, you.
And to Carl Sandberg,
our bard and inspiration.
PROLOGUE
A shoulder bumped King’s as he shuffled through the crowded Oakland sidewalk. He smiled and pressed a wrinkled page into the hand of the solidly built undergraduate trying to pass.
“They’re real, man. The monsters are real. And it matters. Matters to me, you, and all these people.”
Jaw dropped, the kid looked at King like the street hustler had green horns protruding from his forehead. He was used to it. Spreading the gospel required thick skin. He grabbed the kid by his puffy Patagonia and pulled him close. “I know you think you’re OK in this bubble, but you’re not. You’ve been lied to. Wake up to the truth.”
The student wiggled free of King’s grip and backed away without turning. The kid thought King was mad. They all did. But playing the numbers took a touch of the crazy. He had talked to hundreds, if not thousands. Tens had believed. But the tide would turn, little by little.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
King raised his arm in a salute. “It’s cool, brother. When a giant metal freak busts through your dorm, then you’ll see. I’ll be waiting.”
The kid disappeared into the crowd, and King searched for his next mark. He couldn’t waste time.
It was all mathematics.
He continued down Forbes, spreading his homemade pamphlets like he had for the past two months.
“Believe, brother,” he said, pressing the page into another hand.
The Abercrombied frat guy crumpled the paper and threw it on the sidewalk. “Fuck you.”
“We’ll all be fucked when they come again.” King smiled.
The King of Oakland peered into the typically gray November sky. Snow would come soon, but it wouldn’t slow him. The streets were his throne, day and night, summer and winter. Even with all of the rejection, he felt lighter than ever. It was a high like he’d never felt before. He’d found his purpose.
“Come on, man. You haven’t given up yet?”
King spun, taking in a familiar face. “Arnie, man. What’s up?”
“People think you’ve lost your shit.”
“Lost it? I found it. I’ve been called.” King paused. Images from the back alleys of Oakland and the fight in PPG Place came rushing back—fire and steel seared into his mind. “Listen, man. People are rising up all around our fair country because the media isn’t doing their job. Fair and balanced bullshit and whatnot. But they’re missing it. Missing it all, right here in the Steel City. There are people sweeping the truth—mind-bending, world-altering truth—under the rug. We need to embrace the Second Amendment, man.”
Arnie's face wrinkled. “You mean the First, right?”
“No man. The Second. The right to bear arms. Words are the new guns my man, and I’m not going to holster this bitch.” King waved his stack of papers in front of his old friend. “Just come out for a meeting. Come hear me out. Hear the others.”
Arnie walked away without another word. The dismissal stung, but King swallowed the pain.
It was all mathematics.
Sooner or later, the ugly truth would reveal itself.
King would be prepared.
PART ONE
BROTHER, I am fire
Surging under the ocean floor.
I shall never meet you, brother—
Not for years, anyhow;
Maybe thousands of years, brother.
Then I will warm you,
Hold you close, wrap you in circles
Use you and change you—
Maybe thousands of years, brother.
“Kin,” Carl Sandburg
CHAPTER ONE
The garage doors at Voodoo Brewery had been closed for several weeks, an indication that winter had finally fallen on the Steel City. Voices from the two dozen or so people milling around inside the bar filled the high-ceilinged space with a pleasant din. It was the sound of happiness. It was the sound of peace.
Sipping his beer, Elijah leaned back and took in the scene. Chem, Rhett, and Willa laughed, adding to the sound of alcohol-fueled comradery. He missed the joke and wondered whether or not it was directed at him.
He didn't care.
Everything had finally calmed down, and for the first time in over two months, Elijah felt at ease.
"You look good up there, pretty boy," Chem said, breaking Elijah's contemplation.
Rhett and Willa laughed, their eyes glued on the replay of Kinnard's speech on the wall mounted television. Through the large screen, they could see the young speechwriter standing stoically behind his boss, the recently elected mayor of Pittsburgh.
Elijah caught Willa's eye and smiled. She returned the gesture for a second, then looked down into her glass.
"How'd you get that new gig so fast anyway?" Elijah asked, pivoting his gaze to Rhett.
"I can be very convincing." Rhett's eyes danced as he drank his cocktail. "Just told him to trust me."
Willa mumbled someth
ing under her breath, but Elijah couldn’t make out what it was. If anyone else heard it, they kept their replies to themselves.
Since their battle at City Hall, the group had been inseparable. Elijah hoped that fondness made up some small part of their new team dynamic, but the skeptic in him knew that it was mostly self-preservation. Rhett’s friend Jillian, the blogger for Keystone Voice, had all but cleared their names of any involvement with the death of Mayor Dobbs and single-handedly dispelled the monster myths floating around the city. Dobbs tried to use mechanical suits to exacerbate the city’s fear, exposing Elijah and his friends for political gain. Instead, everything that had happened—the videos of a giant metal monster and eye witness accounts of monsters running around the city—were all chalked up to the former Mayor’s political machinations. The citizens believed the lie.
Although the public had mostly moved on, Rhett had informed them that the police were still on the hunt for those connected to Dobbs’ murder, which kept Elijah and his friends watching their backs. It was a pretty sure bet that the incarcerated Blackbow operatives that manned the metal suits would keep their mouths shut. Tim had explained that silence was the company’s modus operandi—it's why they were paid such hefty sums. If they talked it would undermine their whole operation.
A voice croaked from across the table. "So, Machiavelli, your brother going to finally show up? This is your party after all."
Tim Ford sat slumped in his chair; a short wooden cane balanced by his side. He looked as though he had aged thirty years—only to be hit repeatedly by a bus. The man’s hairline had crept back at an alarming rate, and wrinkles wore deep grooves across his face. The serum that Chem and Willa had created provided Tim with tremendous energy. After using, his already considerable strength more than doubled, and he moved with an uncanny speed, faster even than Rita. But the effects had a limited time span. And each time it wore off, Tim seemed to crash harder than ever. If it wasn’t for the small doses that Chem continued to provide him with, the mercenary probably wouldn’t be standing. But his growing dependence on the substance worried everyone, and Chem was afraid that a greater dosage would only accelerate the effects. The scientist spent nearly every waking moment in the lab, trying to reverse Tim’s condition, but the mercenary convinced Chem that a short trip to the bar would help him clear his mind.
Rhett shrugged. "I don't know. Ever since Paul’s inclination that I should work for Kinnard, I haven't seen him around much. He's like a ghost. Every night I get home, he's either in bed already or out—doing whatever the hell he does. But I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s been this way since we were twelve or thirteen. He’ll be back." Rhett laughed, “And probably at the worst time.”
Elijah scanned the group and tried to read their responses to Rhett’s latest excuse. Despite his loquacious demeanor, the speechwriter obscured details of his past—and his present motivations. Elijah didn’t doubt that Paul had the power that Rhett described, but his total absence added to the mystery that shrouded the newest members of their group. It kept Rhett outside of Elijah’s circle of trust. He and Willa locked eyes again. Although Tim and Chem had warmed to Rhett fast enough, she retained her doubts as well.
"Maybe he's hanging out with a fish called Wanda. I haven't seen her much either," Tim said a little louder than a whisper.
Chem shook his head. "Rita? Nah, she's just creeping around the city streets like she does. Apparently, she's also been keeping close to Skylar. Those two have a thing."
"Poor kid," Willa said, shaking her head. "All she went through with the accident and then being locked up in that cage for months. I don't know how she made it. At least she’s back with her mom again."
Tim cleared his gravelly throat. "Sylvia? The girl would be better off in foster care."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Willa shot back.
"Listen, Luna Lovegood, her mom is cracked. Mark my words.”
"Yeah," Rhett said, "she made those Robocops that almost killed all of you. Not to mention the drone she used to spy on the city."
"She was being maternal," Willa said. "Don’t forget that it was your old boss that kidnapped her and Skylar. He forced her to build those things. What did you expect her to do?"
Rhett held Willa’s gaze, unblinking. Whatever guilt Rhett felt, it sure wasn’t showing.
Tim interrupted the staring contest. "Maybe not put the entire city in danger," he said, the last word turning into a phlegm-filled cough.
An awkward silence fell over the table. Its occupants focused on their drinks, letting the bar sounds wash over them. Elijah sighed, sick of the reoccurring fight.
"What a party,” Chem finally said. “I'm having more fun than a eunuch in a whorehouse."
Elijah couldn't help but chuckle. Hoping to follow Chem’s lead and break the tension, he stood and raised his glass. "Rhett," he said, "you did a hell of a job getting us out of a load of shit. For that we're grateful. I don't know what Paul sees in the future, but whatever it is may it be the best for you and for Pittsburgh. As my old gram Franny used to say, 'May you get what you want, may you get what you need, but never what you deserve.'"
The sound of clinking glasses added to the din of the bar.
"Here, here," the others said, throwing back their drinks.
Rhett opened his mouth to respond, but a deafening blast drowned out his words. The noise was accompanied by a gust of wind that whipped across Elijah’s face, blinding him.
Then, nothing.
A palpable silence filled the room.
Every soul in the bar sat frozen in time, like statues in a wax museum.
In the middle of the brewery, three figures stood in dark robes, their faces veiled behind loose hoods. One of them had their hands raised and Elijah could just make out what sounded like poetry.
CHAPTER TWO
Pittsburgh, with its three rivers and rainy weather, perfectly suited Rita's new life. But, despite its accommodating climate, she loathed the Steel City. The place was indelibly linked to her transformation, to the monster she had become. Like the decades-old mercury poisoning its waterways—a testament to the city’s industrial past—Rita’s personal history polluted the place. Pittsburgh had wounded her at a primordial level.
Bitter thoughts consumed her as she sat in her “home”—the dank drainage culvert that made up her residence. Positioned only yards from the Allegheny River, her lair provided convenient access to the rivers, which could take her almost anywhere within the city. While the crude dwelling matched her monstrous exterior, it grated against the aesthetic life she was raised to love. The artist in her longed for the beauty of her childhood home and the vibrant world that she had left behind.
But that world was no more. Her memories were all that remained, a shadow of the woman she used to be and a haunting reminder of the idyllic life kept from her by her deformities.
She decided to go for a swim in hopes that navigating the Pittsburgh rivers might distract her from the malaise of loss threatening to swallow her whole.
Breaking the frigid surface, Rita felt instantly revived. The icy water slowed her cold-blooded heart, which made her—in ways—more at ease. She preferred the cold; another novel preference since the change.
Her webbed hands pulled at the water, propelling her with a prodigious speed against the current. Her beady black eyes darted about, scanning the banks for signs of human life. The other river creatures fled upon her approach.
Not much different than on land, she thought as she sped upriver toward her destination.
Traveling by waterway had its perks. Unencumbered by traffic, she could move about the city more swiftly than the average urban dweller. But her life seldom called for haste.
Her amphibious condition increased her strength and expanded her senses, but the loss of her humanity brought with it constant lament. Still, she held onto a portion of hope. Rita had given up her leverage over Chem, but she knew that he wouldn’t abandon her. He would find the cure for her mu
tant form. Trust had not formed easily between the two of them, but ever since the summer, gratitude grew where suspicion once lived.
Closer to Chem and his friends than she’d been to anyone since her changes. But Rita was still miles away. She had written off true human intimacy years ago.
Until she met Skylar.
Webbed feet flopped noiselessly across the slick rocks as she crept toward her passageway. Away from the rivers, she had two prime options. Alleyways were easiest but contained the inherent risk of exposure. Tonight, she opted for a subterranean path. Lifting the manhole cover, she dropped into the world beneath the city.
Rita exhaled. Being below, away from humanity, gave her comfort.
The labyrinthine system of underground sewers took some time for her to master. Each attempt to open up a new part of the city required hours of exploration before she could memorize the correct path. In the early days following her accident, she would get disoriented often, but she had since developed a sixth sense for navigation through the dark.
Despite her predator’s sense of smell, the pungent odor barely registered as she waded through the slop dumped into the sewers. Necessity had made it easier for her to stomach many things that would have been unintelligible to previous versions of herself.
And truthfully, the sewage barely overpowered her own distinct stench.
An intersection forced her to pause. She had only been visiting this destination for a few months. The mental map of the city below the city was still taking form and this section had not yet worked itself into her bones.
