“Apparently they thought he was dead in a car wreck?”
“Shouldn’t they have dental records to confirm that sort of thing?” asks Matt.
“Huh. Yeah, I don’t know. Are teeth flammable?”
Matt laughs. “Well, I’ll be thinking about that while I’m working the grill today.”
- - -
A couple of hours into the workday, my phone buzzes with a text. After a couple of minutes, it buzzes again, then several more times in rapid succession. Curious about what’s going on, I find a minute to sneak away and check my phone, where I see several texts from Brian:
Hey Fireburner
you there?
had a rough night last night
Check me out
Following that text is a selfie of Brian, his eyes closed and head lolled over the back of a chair for comedic effect. The sizable black eyes he has are no joking matter, though, nor are the split lip or bleeding ear. He looks like he’s lost a fight or two since I left him at By the Beans last night.
“Man, what happened?” I text back, then pocket the phone and return to the counter before anyone remarks on my absence. Brian’s clearly waiting for my reply, though, because my phone buzzes again right after I get back. It’s killing me not to look, but there’s a family walking in through the door, and there’s no way I can check my phone in front of them without getting a serious reprimand.
They order with painful slowness while my phone continues to vibrate silently in my pocket, demanding attention. I dutifully take their order and direct them off to the waiting area. Then, after scanning the parking lot and seeing no arriving cars, I knock a dozen napkins from the counter onto the floor at my feet. As I crouch down to pick them up, I pull my phone from my pocket and thumb open the texts. Smooth as can be!
got jumped leaving the coffee shop
Think I’m seeing double haha
you there?
this is important
“@ work,” I send, trying to minimize my motions, but over my shoulder I see Matt with an eyebrow raised. I guess my maneuver wasn’t that smooth after all. I mouth “sorry” to him and put my phone away, only to have it buzz insistently as several more texts come in.
This is starting to frustrate me. Brian works in a hospital; if it’s something serious, it’s not like he needs me to tell him where to get help. I want to hear his story, but he knows I’m not supposed to be messing around with my phone on the job.
Frankly, this level of inconsideration isn’t like him. Maybe they put him on some sort of pain killer with weird side effects. Depending on the drug, it can cause anything from rage to incontinence to hysterical laughter. A drug that makes you act socially clueless toward your friends doesn’t feel like it’s outside the realm of possibility.
I’ve got a break in less than an hour, anyway, and whatever Brian’s got going on can wait at least that long. Brian seems to have come to his senses, since after the most recent flurry there’s only one more text, maybe ten minutes later, which I figure is probably just an apology of some sort.
I entertain myself for the next hour by making up stories about what the texts say. My assumption is that they’re an explanation of his injuries, but since I can’t think of any reasonable way for him to have gotten beaten up, I make up unreasonable ones. Brian got in a fight with the server at By the Beans. Brian was texting while walking and smacked into the back of his own ambulance. Brian opened a can labeled “Mixed Nuts” and took spring snakes right to both eyes.
When I finally get a chance to read the texts, though, all of the humor drains out of me. I stand stock-still, staring at my phone while the words sink in:
then you’d better leave work
or I’ll kill him
This is followed by another picture of Brian, still with his body draped uncomfortably over a wooden chair, but taken from far enough away that it’s clear that the camera is being held by someone else. Also, his arms are visible in this shot, taped to the chair.
The texts below the picture read:
4417 Somersland Rd
don’t do anything stupid
See you by 1
It’s already past 12:30. I can still make it there in time, but I’m literally going to have to run. I race back out to find Matt.
“Matt! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I need to leave right now. Family emergency!” I say, waving my phone at him as if that explains anything.
Matt frowns. “Dan, this isn’t really okay.”
“I know, I’m so sorry, do whatever you need to. It’s not your fault, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” I babble, backing toward the break room. Matt shakes his head but doesn’t stop me, and I turn and sprint for the exit.
I can’t sustain the sprint for long, but the knowledge that my friend is being held by potential killers keeps me running at a faster-than-normal pace, at least. My plan to get into shape after my broken foot healed has been spottily executed at best, but even the intermittent efforts I put in help me here. I’m puffing and pouring sweat, but I’m still going.
My thoughts whirl as I run. Should I call the police? No, these guys’ll kill Brian if I do. But if I don’t, they’ll probably kill me, then kill him afterward anyway. I need them there to back me up. Maybe I can call as I get there? But what if Vince has someone watching the outside?
I’m forced to stop to wait for traffic at a busy street corner, so I take the opportunity to screenshot the text conversation and message it to Officer Peterson, along with a single word: “Help.” This is probably not as good an idea as just calling 911, but I feel like he’ll handle the situation better than some generic cop. I don’t think I could accurately explain what’s going on while I’m running for my friend’s life, anyway, and I don’t have time to stop. It’s 12:50, and I’ve still got the better part of a mile to go, with several more major streets to cross.
At 12:58, I hammer on the rusted door of the warehouse at 4417 Somersland. My shirt is soaked through with sweat and I’m panting for breath, hunched over with my left hand braced on my knee as I hit the door again with my right fist.
“I’m here!” I gasp in between breaths. “I’m here.”
The door swings open and Vince Amano stands inside, gun in hand, smiling maliciously. “You look terrible, Dan! Come inside where we can talk.”
I straighten up and step into the building, immediately scanning the area for any threats. So it’s sort of embarrassing that I’m promptly clobbered across the back of the neck with something heavy. I’m driven to my knees, staring stupidly at the blood and sweat streaming off of my face to patter on the concrete floor. Then the beating starts in earnest, vicious kicks into my sides and bats whacking over my back, and I instinctively curl up with my arms over my face.
The suddenness and brutality of the attack, combined with my exhaustion, put me purely on the defensive at first, but as soon as I think about stopping them instead of just protecting myself, the fire rises up. I smell charred wood and hear one of them curse as a bat clatters to the ground.
The blows stop almost immediately as my attackers back away, but before I can get to my feet, Vince says, “Dan, I have a gun to your friend’s head right now. If you make a single motion — anything beyond lifting your head from the ground — I will end his life immediately. Tell me you understand me.”
I raise my head painfully and look across the poorly-lit warehouse. Brian’s there, taped to the chair as I’d seen him earlier, but awake now. Next to him is Vince, gun in hand as promised. But next to me, a length of pipe in his hand, is also Vince. And on the other side, near a smoking baseball bat on the ground, is Vince.
“Do you understand, Dan?” the far Vince repeats.
“Yeah,” I croak out. But I really, really don’t.
“Great,” says Vince. “Four, if you would?”
I have no idea what he means, but apparently the Vince closest to me does, as he brings his pipe down across the backs of my calves, smashing my shins into the concrete.
I scream and a lick of greenish flame spurts out of the end of the pipe, licking over Vince’s hand. He drops the pipe and kicks me in the ribs, and I collapse back to the ground.
“Looks like I was right,” two of the Vinces say together, while the one who just kicked me scowls, sucking on the burned edge of his hand. Gun Vince adds, “Show me how you did that.”
I am hopelessly behind in this conversation. I’ve just run several miles, been clubbed over the back of the head and beaten with bats. My best friend has been abducted and tied to a chair by evil triplets, and they want to know how I did it? I genuinely can’t figure out what he’s asking, so I fall back on an old standby: sarcasm.
“Did what, get kicked in the ribs?” I gasp. I mean for it to sound tough, but I’m drooling blood and having a hard time focusing, so who knows if I manage it. “Come over here and I’ll show you.”
“Clever, Dan,” says Gun Vince, and backhands Brian with his weapon. The chair rocks back on two legs and Brian cries out, his head snapping painfully backward, then lolling forward to his chest as the chair settles. Blood begins running from a gash along the side of his forehead as he slowly raises his head again.
“I don’t like clever. I like answers. Show me how you set things on fire.”
I’ve spent so much time worrying that good people would think I was some kind of monster if they found out what I could do. I never stopped to wonder what the monsters would think of me. I think being an object of horror to regular people is better than being an object of interest to monsters.
“It’s not a trick,” I slur. “It’s just a thing I can do. I don’t really think it can be taught.”
“You’d be surprised what I can learn,” all three Vinces say simultaneously, then look at each other with amusement. When they laugh, it’s perfectly in unison — not the sound of a group of people laughing, but the sound of one man’s laugh being played over surround sound speakers. The same noise at the same time, coming from three different directions at once.
“One hates you. Violently. It’s why we’re here,” Gun Vince continues conversationally. “Me, I don’t much care for you, and I’m happy to watch you suffer, but in the end you don’t really matter at all. If he were here, you’d be dead already, and we’d never learn anything about your little ability.
“So in short, the reason you’re alive is that there’s something we want to learn from you. It’s in your best interests, and the best interests of your friend here, that you show us. Because if you’re useless…” He points the gun at me and mimes shooting it, complete with making a little “pchoom” noise with his mouth.
I can’t see a way out of this. Basically, he’s right. If I want to keep living, I’ve got to stall for time, and the way to do that is to cooperate. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stand up. Slowly.”
I do so, not that I have any other way of standing up right now. My legs, back and sides are screaming at the beating I took, and as I change positions, the blood rushes to my head and makes it throb like it’s about to split open at the seams. I feel a trickle from my eyes, and I can’t tell if I’m crying or if my head really is bursting, and it’s blood. I really hope I’m crying.
“Show us on the bat,” he says, gesturing with his gun to the charred bat near my feet. The two Vinces near me have each taken a wary step backwards, and are watching me closely. “And if I feel so much as a warm breeze over here, I will put a bullet in your friend’s brain.”
I stare at the bat, and think of escalation. “Uuuuppp!” I whisper, raising my hand, and the entire bat bursts into white flames.
The nearest Vince laughs, a short, startled bark. “Did you just say ‘up’?” he asks, snickering.
Gun Vince smiles, too, but it’s humorless. “Now tell me how you did that.”
I struggle for words. “I, um…think of the bat, and then…intensify the idea of it, I guess? And yeah, I said ‘up.’ That and raising my hand helps to…I don’t know, focus it, maybe. I don’t think it’s really required, but it helps. It’s…it makes sense in my head.”
“What can you set on fire?”
“Anything. Everything burns.”
“Even people? One can’t work in living organics.”
“I wouldn’t set a person on fire!” My mind immediately flashes back to the robber burning in Vince’s car, screaming as his skin bubbles away, and I feel sick all over again.
“But could you? Four, Six?”
On either side of me, I catch a glimpse of movement, and I tense up against the expected blow. Instead of punches, though, I hear fists slapping palms, and look around to see them staring intently at each other and, incongruously, playing rock-paper-scissors. After several rounds of identical throws, the one on my left throws paper to the other’s scissors, and with a grunt steps forward, rolling up his left sleeve. Once again, I have no idea what’s going on.
“Set my hand on fire,” he says reluctantly. “A small one!”
“What? No!”
His left hand pistons out, rocking my head back and making me see stars. “Do it!”
I try to get my hands up to defend myself, but Vince clearly knows what he’s doing, and continues to pepper me with shots. In rapid succession, I catch one in the ear, one in the temple that makes my head swim even more, and two in the nose. I hear a crack after the second hit to the nose and my face flares with pain, and blindly I lash out with my fire. There’s an immediate scream and a thud.
“Don’t move a muscle,” says Gun Vince, a tremor in his voice, and I can see that he has the gun pointed at me. On the ground at my feet, the Vince who was punching me is rolling quickly side-to-side on his stomach, his left hand pinned beneath him. Wisps of smoke sneak out from underneath him, and he’s swearing almost continuously but already climbing back to his feet.
“You’re going to come with us,” says Gun Vince. “One might be able to learn what you do, and that’d be a pretty valuable trick to have. Kneel down.”
I stare at him, and he gestures with the gun. “Kneel down now, or I will shoot out one of your knees.”
As I start to sink to the ground, a walkie-talkie on his belt crackles. “Car pulling into the lot.”
All of the Vinces freeze, and the walkie-talkie continues, “Two cars. Cops getting out. Back exit is still clear. Move!”
“Looks like you won’t be coming with us after all,” says Gun Vince, and then a lot of things happen all together. I lock eyes with Brian, who makes a small tug at the tape holding him to the chair. Throwing both hands into the air, I fall to the ground as Brian’s tape all explodes into gouts of flame.
Vince fires his gun at me as Brian, screaming, bursts from the chair, fiery ropes of duct tape dripping from his arms and legs. He slams into Vince’s chin with a rising uppercut, knocking the gun away and sending Vince staggering backwards. The Vince to my right darts for the gun, but it glows cherry-red as he approaches it and he modifies his run to pass it by.
Brian has grabbed the chair and is running after Gun Vince, who’s yelling, “Out the back, go!” The Vince whose hand I burned kicks the still-burning bat at me as he runs by, and as I’m rolling away from the fiery baton, the front door slams open and someone yells, “Police, on the ground!”
I’m already there. For once, I’m finally ahead of the game.
Seconds later, a weight hits my back, pinning me to the cement and knocking the air out of me. “Don’t move!”
“Get your foot off of him!” says a familiar voice. Peterson. “Anyone else in here besides these two?”
“Group just took off from the back lot. Partial plate is CZ1,” comes a voice over a radio.
“Check it against stolen cars,” says Peterson. I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay to move, Mr. Everton?”
I wheeze and nod, which is probably not the most convincing response, but Peterson helps me roll over and sit up anyway.
“I got your text,” he says, and I half-laugh.
“Yeah, well. It’s good to see you.”
“Mr. Everton, I can’t help but notice a number of things on fire here again.”
“Brian! Is he all right?” I try to stand up, but Peterson puts his hand on my shoulder again, this time pressing me down.
“We’ll get him to the hospital. I’m not a doctor, but his damage all looks superficial. You look worse.”
I’m glad to hear that, because I feel terrible, and if Brian looked worse I’d be seriously worried about him. Things are grating in my side when I shift positions, which I suspect is not good news for my ribs. Blood is still trickling down my neck from the initial hit, my legs and arms feel raw from the pummeling, and my nose is a star of pain in the middle of my face. I lick away some fresh blood and say, “Yeah? You should see the other guy.”
Peterson gives me a serious look. “We’ll need to get a statement from you as soon as you’re able.”
“I can tell you right now, it was Vince Amano.”
Peterson looks uncomfortable. “Mr. Everton — Vince Amano has been in police custody all day. There’s no way he was here.”
I take a deep breath, which is a terrible idea and hurts tremendously. “I…okay. Can we get to the hospital? I’ve got a lot I want to tell you.”
- Chapter Thirteen -
Officer Peterson doesn’t leave my side for the next four hours, which is how long it takes me to get processed into the hospital, checked out, diagnosed and patched up. I’d like to believe that it’s because he’s sincerely concerned for my well-being, but it seems a lot more likely that he’s not letting me out of his sight until he can get the story out of me.
To his credit, he waits calmly the entire time, and never once pressures me to start talking before I’m ready. Not that I would with all of the hospital staff and patients buzzing around, anyway. I’ve just about come to terms with telling Peterson what’s going on, which is basically just confirming the weirdness he already suspects. I’m still not ready to shout to the world at large that I’m a total freakshow.
Making Friends (The Experiment Book 2) Page 8
