by LE Barbant
She knew it was foolish for her to be out, but logic didn’t dictate her current action.
Rita was driven by love.
From her post, hidden behind a hefty row of shrubs beneath a broken street lamp, she had a clear view of the building’s glass entryway. She had counted a half dozen men, armed and in uniform, leave the building. A shift had ended. Others entered, replacing those heading home or out to the local bar.
The station would be packed with men and women trained to kill.
Minutes crept by.
When the changing of the guard ended, Rita initiated her approach. She hoped that the transition would be enough of a diversion to aid her mission. Keeping low, she darted across the street, her yellow raincoat fluttering behind her. A dumpster opposite her target building offered cover, if only briefly. She crouched. Leaning against the cold steel, her heart was steady, and her predatory sense of smell on full alert.
Rita was always cautious, her vigilance driven by her animal instinct for survival. But that night she had a different motivation, something that transcended self-preservation, transcended her needs entirely. With no immediate threats detected, she leapt from her position. Using the dumpster for support, she grabbed onto the landing of the second story fire escape with a single clawed hand. Rita swung herself up and over the railing.
Barely making a sound, she scrambled up the iron staircase and onto the roof.
From her new position three stories up, she had a clear view of the adjacent rooftop. No entrances meant no cameras, which littered the other sides of the building. This wasn’t a surprise; she had done her homework.
Seven meters, and maybe a half, she thought, just before she made the jump.
Rita cleared the distance with room to spare.
She rolled on the rooftop of the Pittsburgh Police facility and came to a silent stop.
Easy.
****
Rita had always been small.
She inherited her short torso and thin frame from her mother. When she was a child, it made her the brunt of many jokes. But in high school, she learned to make the most of it. By dressing in brightly colored clothing and growing out her hair into a voluminous afro, she made sure that despite her tiny stature, she would be seen. Back then, she despised her invisibility. Now, while crawling through the compressed air vents of the Pittsburgh Police station, she counted it as a blessing and used it to full advantage.
Rita’s transformation forced her to move quietly and unseen through the world. This inevitably led her to find creative ways in and out of buildings. Her tiny frame and slippery exterior made it easy to access passages most wouldn’t even consider entryways.
Pittsburgh’s finest were no different.
She only had a vague notion of where she was heading, but Rita was confident that the network of ventilation ducts would lead her there without human contact. Nevertheless, she moved with a quietness honed over several years of caution. In her life, a hasty move or an unguarded sound could mean exposure or worse.
Forty minutes into her search, Rita found what she was looking for.
Through a vent in the ceiling, she could make out the word in dark letters on the door: EVIDENCE.
She crawled twenty more feet before finding an opening above the room.
The storage room was dark, but Rita employed her senses to ensure the space was empty before removing the vent and dropping to the floor.
Rows of shelves, locked behind sturdy wire cages, contained evidence collected by local officers and detectives. It was surprisingly full, despite Pittsburgh’s reputation as a peaceful city. It took no time at all for Rita to discover her prize—a damaged military-grade exoskeleton. It stood out amongst the rows of plastic boxes. Memories of the blood-soaked City Hall came to mind. Then she thought of the Mumfords.
While held hostage by Mayor Dobbs’ goons, Sylvia Mumford was forced to design weaponized suits for his Blackbow mercenaries. One of the suits, a large hulking mass of steel armor was used as an expensive imitation of Elijah Branton’s molten monster. But the other two were different. Lighter than their tank-like counterpart, the exoskeletons enhanced the soldiers’ strength and speed.
Rita hoped they might serve another purpose.
She opened her clenched webbed hand. The fluid in the vial looked benign, like filtered water from the tap. As an artist, Rita knew a fair bit about chemistry. But the work Chem did far outpaced her tinkering with oils and acrylics. She had no doubt that Chem’s supply could easily perform as advertised. She held it up to the light and considered the power of the liquid, hidden in a form which appeared so mundane. Veiled force was all the more powerful.
The solution fizzed on contact with the metal locker. An acrid smell filled the air and temporarily overwhelmed her sense of smell. But the acid did its job, and with a light jerk, she broke the lock and opened the door.
That was the easy part.
Her planning had gotten her this far, but the next couple steps required some improvisation. The suit was heavier than she expected, and there was no way it was going to fit through the air ducts. Tim, juiced up on the serum, had disabled both of the suits, leaving them impotent. Piloting one of them was out of the question.
Rita considered disassembling the suit and carrying it to the rooftop in pieces. It would take some time, but she was certain that Sylvia would have no problem putting the puzzle back together. She dragged the heavy machinery into the center of the room and searched for tools.
A loud voice interrupted her movements. “Well, well, well, you are an impressive specimen. I wondered if we’d get a chance to meet.”
Rita spun, keeping the suit in front of her like a shield.
A large man wearing a finely tailored suit stood in the dim light. His slightly crooked nose was overshadowed by wide-set eyes. A cruel grin completed the picture.
Rita’s eyes cut to the door. It remained shut. Entering through the door without her hearing would have been impossible. Which meant that he either followed her through the air vents, or he had been lying in wait the whole time. Judging by his size, it must have been the latter.
Why couldn’t I smell him?
“They said you were unique, but I had no idea you’d be so capable. It’s a shame you’ve cast your lot with that group of weaklings. I could use someone like you. Your skills could prove valuable. And that rage… But alas, you’ve made your choice.” The man paused and rubbed his chin. “I appreciate you unlocking the cage for me, darling. Now, step away from the suit and we can end this quickly.”
A low gurgle emerged from her throat, but she lowered the suit to the ground and took a half-step back.
“Smart choice, for an animal.” He advanced to pick it up.
The moment he lowered his eyes, Rita seized her opportunity.
Fangs bared, she leapt toward the brute. Rita preferred stealth to confrontation, but the predator in her loved the look of terror in her victim’s eyes.
A moment before impact, his hands lashed out with a speed unexpected for someone of his girth. As if prepared for the attack all along, he caught Rita in midair and slammed her into a cage-covered wall. Stars flashed as her head smacked into the metal. The sound of steel rattling filled the room. With his meaty hands wrapped around her throat, the man leaned in, squeezing with full force. She stared into his eyes, inches from her own. They were at once wild and vacant. Something animalistic was hidden beneath a veneer of humanity. A sneer cut across his face below the crooked nose.
Rita scratched wildly at his arms and drew blood, but the man’s grip didn’t waver.
Darkness impeded upon her vision.
Since her transformation, there were times she wanted nothing more than to taste death, but now she hungered for life.
She thought of Skylar in her wretched chair.
Desperate, Rita grabbed the cage behind her and drew up her feet as high as she could. With her last ounce of strength, she thrust her powerful legs. The kick landed squarely on hi
s chest.
He staggered at the blow.
Air rushed into her hungry lungs as she dropped to the floor.
Without hesitating Rita jumped on the man, her pointed teeth sank deep into his neck.
Foul blood filled her mouth.
With a rage-filled scream, the man ripped Rita from his body, a chunk of his skin went with her. He threw the tiny creature across the room, and she landed hard on the concrete floor before rolling to attention on her hands and feet.
They stared at each other. Ten paces separated the two—the disabled metal suit between them. Rita smiled, the man’s blood staining her teeth. A low rattle emanated from her throat. Seeing the wounded fueled her desire for the kill. He was hers, and she knew it.
With one large hand holding his wound at bay, the man’s eyes, once confident, widened in fear.
He reached his free hand across his body and into his jacket. Rita looked for cover, but instead of a gun, he drew a small metal canister.
“This isn’t over, bitch.”
Ripping the pin of the grenade free with his teeth, he tossed it toward Rita’s corner of the room. She dove as the blast erupted behind her.
Time stood still, then she landed with a sickening thud.
Rita watched the man heave the metal suit over his shoulder and stepped through a hole blasted in the back of the police station.
Water rained from the emergency sprinklers above and a bright yellow light strobed in the room. She shook her head, trying to bring herself back to reality. The clatter of the alarm hardly pierced the ringing in her ears. There were precious few seconds before a team of officers would arrive.
Pushing back the pain, Rita ran towards the exit created by the explosion. She cursed her failure and followed the man’s path.
On her way out, something caught her eye.
There in the opened evidence locker sat the second exoskeleton.
****
The shrill chirping of birds alerted Rita to dawn’s approach.
Most of the winged creatures had flown south for the winter. All that remained were the sounds of the stubborn breeds that refused to leave the frozen city. Rita wondered if they pictured her the same way.
Whether by luck or fate—Rita had no idea—but she managed to make it out of the police station without detection. Cutting through alleys, she dragged the dead exoskeleton out of town. Since her baggage precluded the use of the river, Rita opted for a less customary route. She borrowed a shopping cart from the local supermarket and wheeled the suit toward the mostly deserted train tracks permeating the city. After several hours of strenuous pushing—and one close call with an early morning freight train—Rita arrived at her destination, the Mumford residence.
She broke into Sylvia’s garage, which doubled as a workshop.
There with her head down on the large work table slept Skylar’s mom.
Rita tried to push the cart forward quietly, but she failed to avoid a metal garbage can filled with scavenged parts. The clatter of metal on metal shattered the early morning stillness.
Sylvia woke with a start.
Her hand snatched a wrench from the table.
“Come any closer, and I will fuck you up.” Sylvia’s words were laced with venom.
Rita stepped out from the shadows.
“Rita, what the hell are you doing here?”
She raised a weary arm and pointed toward the shopping cart.
“I brought you something. For Skylar. I…”
But her knees buckled before she could finish.
Rita collapsed.
The world turned to black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The further the Uber driver edged down Highland Avenue, the sweatier Rhett’s palms got. His heart rate increased in equal proportion. Rhett prided himself on his ability to control his body’s natural quirks and tells. But with Jillian, all bets were off. He was once again a sweaty junior high boy, working up the courage to ask out a girl.
Pathetic.
He wiped his hands on his pants and smiled at himself. Perspiration indicated his true feelings for the blogger. And after their last meeting, it was impossible to convince himself that he didn’t like her. Unfortunately, the night’s events weren’t purely for pleasure. He had other business to attend to.
He had offered to pick Jillian up on his way to East Liberty. Not having a car, it would have meant having the driver stop over at her place on its way to the destination. She cooed into the phone, told him he was sweet but insisted on meeting him at Capri. Her independence only deepened his desire.
Capri Pizzeria and Bar was a down to earth joint, where hipsters taking part in the gentrification of the neighborhood could grab a pie shoulder to shoulder with the remaining true Jackson Street locals. In addition to its twenty-inch, sixteen-cut pizza, Capri was home to the weekly Steel City Poetry Slam Open Mic Night. Rhett had thumbed through the #SteelCitySlam tweets daily since the meeting with Crane.
Ben would be there.
He hadn’t missed a single meeting for the past eighteen months.
Rhett pulled up to the bar and ordered an Old Fashioned. He knew that his date would be a little late, shrug it off, and order a gin and tonic.
Jillian was a creature of habit.
The crowd grew thick as he waited for his drink. Poets and their followers greeted one another with hugs and large smiles. Two girls gave each other quick kisses on the cheeks, euro style. The poets were a tight-knit community but were always happy to see new faces in the establishment. It was their chance to shine.
A group of thickly bearded men, each wearing all black, nodded and smiled to Rhett as they placed drink orders.
After stirring his drink with the little plastic sword, he sampled the mix. Rhett had once read that the manly way to order the drink was sans fruit. Esquire be damned. If that’s what it took to be a real man, the speechwriter would gladly embrace his femininity. He pulled the cherry off between his teeth and went back to combing the crowd.
Ben hadn’t arrived yet. It would be a terrible stroke of luck for the man to miss his first ever Capri Slam the only night Rhett needed him to be there.
No matter. He’d be found one way or the other. Compared to some of the things Rhett had done over the years, this was a piece of cake.
Rhett pulled out his phone and checked for a message from his brother. Nothing. After leaving Jillian’s place, Rhett had assumed that his brother was in some sort of trouble. Paul usually hated texting, but the barrage of messages on Rhett’s phone suggested dire straits. When he arrived at their place, Paul was nowhere to be found. Instead, a note, penned in handwriting almost identical to Rhett’s, lay on the table.
Its message was short but far from simple:
I had a dream. Blood-stained robes, blue eyes gone dark forever.
The wizard. She’s going to die.
Even several days after the fact, the thought of that note made Rhett’s blood run cold.
Paul’s premonitions had guided the twins across the country, and he had no reason to doubt his brother’s gifts. But never had they taken the form of a dream. Paul received feelings and intuitions that they should meet someone or go somewhere. But this picture of death was lucid. Willa was in trouble.
Rhett had immediately called his brother. No response. Paul’s premonitions had never failed them. But Rhett believed that his brother’s gift had come to them for a reason. Maybe he could change fate; maybe he could save Willa.
For that, he needed information.
About to give up hope, Rhett saw a tall man push his way through the door. His arrival garnered cheers from the crowd and he crossed the room with movie-star swagger. He wore dark fitted jeans, a white untucked button-up, and a man scarf that could be bought for five bucks outside any number of train stations throughout Europe. His hair was pulled back into a dirty blond man-bun, which accentuated his receding hairline. From the work Rhett had done stalking the poet on Facebook and Twitter, he knew that he had found hi
s mark. This was without a doubt, Ben Stewart, the emerging star of the Pittsburgh slam scene.
“Ben,” the crowd sang in unison, offering confirmation.
The man smiled, waved, and made his way to a table in the corner, reserved just for him.
Jillian passed through the doors in the wake of Ben’s triumphal entry. She received no fanfare but deserved more than anyone in the room. While Ben was the talk of the slam scene, Jillian was blowing up the blogosphere. Her assignments of late were editorials and social commentary, rather than down-home descriptive reporting. But she was damned good at it, which meant a lot coming from the communications snob.
“What the hell are we doing here?” Jillian asked as she approached the bar.
“Nice to see you too,” he responded. “Gin and tonic?”
She pulled the stool out and perched on top. Rhett noticed she had taken extra care with her hair. The red ringlets were perfect, landing on a blouse he hadn’t seen before. He waved to the bartender.
“Is there any other drink?”
Rhett raised his glass. “Old Fashioned. Manly enough to keep the fruit in it.”
The two talked about nothing in particular: traffic, the weather, local sports teams. Rhett hardly paid attention. His ability to actively listen while not listening at all was uncanny.
“No, really, what the hell are we doing here?” Jillian finally asked again. Her volume increased as she tried to speak over the first of the open mic participants—a portly guy either living in the dorms or his parents’ basement.
“Can’t a guy dabble in the arts?”
Jillian snorted.
“So, now you’re a snob?” he asked. “Well, next time I’ll try and find something that’s up to your high standards.”
“If I even agree to a next time. A little cocky, aren’t you?” Her arched eyebrow undercut the rebuke. “So, what’s up with your man cozying up with the frackers?” Jillian asked, changing the subject.
