by David Jobe
He shook his head chuckling and began to walk toward the front door. Red brick interlaced with a couple white ones made the walkway look beautiful and made Lanton's head hurt. The spacing wasn't consistent but didn't feel random either. It was like he was looking at a math problem he wasn't sure he knew how to decipher.
The officer on the scene was Officer Garcia Martinez, who raised a brow at him, but offered his hand. "Martinez."
"Lanton," he replied, offering his own hand. "Sorry, friend of mine gave me one of those energy drinks and I think I drank it too fast."
Martinez chuckled. "Watch it with those things. They speed up your heart and if your heart can't take it, blamo. I'm calling in for you next,” he said it with a grin, but something about it felt ominous.
"Uh, sure,” Lanton replied, feeling unsettled. Not by the officer, but by the words. "So, what can you tell me?"
Martinez opened his notebook and flipped through a few pages. "Call came in about two hours ago. I was on the scene 21 minutes after that. Deceased was in the garage, wife out here smoking a cigarette. I pronounced the deceased dead and started the process. Coroner’s been here for about an hour now."
"Yeah, sorry. I just got told I was handling this case. Came over as soon as I could get out of the office."
"Were you there when the kid," he made a gun with his hand and pointed it at his chin. His head cocked back and he stared at Lanton while saying "I'm motherfucking Bulletproof, yo."
Lanton chuckled. "Yeah, something like that. I got out before they figured out whose gun he got, and I promise you that you don't want to be anywhere near that guy when they come for him."
"Yeah, that's a Taylor move right there."
"What did the wife have to say?" Lanton wanted to move the conversation away from his friend's fuck up. "I heard something about wings?"
"Something?" Martinez laughed. "Oh, man, that guy has a beautiful set of wings. My Grandma would have loved to see him walking around with those things. She would have slapped me upside the head and asked me how I couldn't believe in angels."
"You didn't believe in angels?"
"I was like six man. I still thought Superman was real, and that Santa was the one giving me the hook-up. I wasn't concerned about spiritual things. Give me my fruit loops and let me watch my G.I. Joe in peace." He shook his head, his eyes showing that he remembered something. "She was a good old lady. And the way I hear it, this guy was on his game. Sad that getting wings made him go this route. I am sure he could have brought hope to a bunch of people."
"You mean, like selling himself as an angel?" Lanton wasn't sure he liked that idea at all.
"Naw, man. Just showing people something new and kinda cool. I wonder if he could have flown with them."
"Did Mrs. Morivan say how long he had had the wings?" Lanton had his own pad out and wrote down things that he hoped would help decipher this outbreak.
"She said he didn't have them when she left for work this morning. When she came back, he was in the garage as you will see him now."
"Any note? What time did she get home?" Lanton wrote questions as he asked them.
"No, note, but the gun is still with him, his thumb still in trapped in the trigger guard. Wife says she was home about ten minutes before she called. Said she found him almost immediately, but then couldn't find her legs to get to the phone for that time," Martinez looked at his own notes while he spoke.
"What type of weapon?"
"Sawed off shotgun. Double barrel. Looks like he just got done sawing it off too. Wife said it was an heirloom and when she left this morning it was full length and hanging above the fireplace."
Lanton groaned. "Jesus, a double barrel shotgun. Both barrels used?"
"Looks like," Martinez admitted. "It's a mess, I am warning you. Coroner says it is one of the worst she ever had to deal with."
Lanton nodded, frowning to himself in thought. "Anything else I need to know?"
"Neighbors say they heard something that might have been it around nine tonight."
"So just minutes before the wife got home?"
"Sounds about right,” Martinez closed his notebook. "You mind if I cut out? Been a long shift and not a very pleasant one."
Lanton nodded and clapped Martinez on the shoulder, "I hear you. Been far too many of those lately. Head on home. Have one on me."
Martinez nodded, "This city is losing its shit, if you ask me. Suicides are way up, and now we have superheroes playing fisticuffs in the streets. You ever seen those cities after two superheroes fight it out? It ain't good for the normal folk, I promise you that."
"No, no it isn't." Lanton watched Martinez get in his car and wandered inside the house. He realized after Martinez had left that he should have asked after the whereabouts of Mrs. Morivan, but he found that wasn't necessary. She was in the kitchen staring into a cup of what smelled like coffee. Her eyes did not leave the cup as he entered.
"I am sorry for you loss," he told her.
She just nodded at him, but did not move her eyes from whatever secrets might lurk in that cup of coffee.
"I won't bother you anymore. Is it this way to the garage?" He pointed at the door opposite of the one he had entered.
She nodded again, and he found himself wondering if she heard him at this point.
He walked across the kitchen trying to make as little noise as possible. As he eased the mystery door open, he knew that it was the door to the garage. The acidic odor, mixed with the pungent aroma of gunpowder told him that he had found the place. He stepped into the room and eased the door closed behind him, waiting to hear that faint click before doing anything else.
He saw the coroner first, sitting on the far wall, leaning against a tool rack. She was busy on her phone and looked to have not heard him come in the room. Behind her on the wall were spots of red that Lanton did not need forensics to tell him what it was. His eyes drifted to the floor and there he saw the body.
Then it happened.
Before him, the body lay stretched out, huge white wings stretched out from one side of the garage to a foot from the coroner. The wingspan on this man would have been impressive to say the least. He wore faded jeans and a white t-shirt now ruined with red. As Lanton's eyes fixed upon the corpse, he was dizzy again. This time is flashed over him with a suddenness that tried to rob him of his ability to stand. The world swam in waves before his eyes before he was able to get his focus back. Once it did, he watched as the body of Morivan floated from where it lay to being upright, shotgun resting below where the chin was. Time seemed to flow backward as the specks of blood and bits that decorated the wall flew off of the wall, back toward their origin point. Once there, they began to collect and reform as smoke drifted down from the ceiling, back into the two barrels. It felt like he watched a play and God had set the show on rewind, yet at half the speed. There was no sound as all of this happened, just the eerie silence as each slow frame played out for him. Morivan's head solidified, revealing an aging man with tears staining his weathered cheeks. Lanton watched as Morivan walked backward to the workbench and began reassembling the barrels of the shotgun. In reverse motion he stuck the barrels on and began to saw the blade in reverse as more and more the barrel became solid again. Then he set the gun down on the workbench and spent a long time staring at it in consideration, his white wings twitching every couple of minutes. Then a can leap from the trash into his hand and the hand raised up to his mouth. The greenish liquid contents vomited out of Morivan into the can, and then the can sat next to the gun, displaying its name just enough for Lanton to make out the "Supe" written in white over a green logo. He didn't know the drink, but as he watched Morivan took several more sips of it before walking backward with it and the shotgun toward the doorway that Lanton now stood before. Just as the back of Morivan was about to touch Lanton, who could press himself no further against the door, the images vanished.
He was there in the garage, and the headless corpse of his coworker lay in the center of t
he room, his head decorating everything in droplets and chunks. Lanton stumbled. Feeling his stomach beginning to unload. He raced to the garbage can just as his stomach emptied the contents out through his mouth. Just as his bile streamed out, he could see the can Morivan was drinking from. The label read in bold white letters, "Super Power!" and underneath in cursive white letters read "Energy drinks for the everyday hero!"
Lanton slumped against the trash can, his head swimming and his stomach still a rage of anger and acid. He pulled the empty energy drink from his pocket and read it. It was made by the same people who made Super Power, Patton Industries. "Fuck," Lanton whispered to trashcan.
"Yeah, it's quite the mess," the coroner said from somewhere behind him. "Worst I have seen in years."
Lanton wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket before pulling himself up straight. He was thankful that the coroner had mistaken his exclamation and issues for the mess that was around them. He had no intentions of letting anyone know about what he just witnessed. He knew what it was, at least in theory and he wasn't going to become one of the ones he now held the responsibility of handling. He looked up at the coroner and froze. Behind her, standing in the darkest shadow of the room was what he could only imagine was a demon. It reminded him of the poor boy he had found hanging in his room, only this one was older and quite alive. He stood behind the woman, smiling a broad grin that revealed sharp teeth and malicious intent. It winked at him, and then slid backward as if the corner was no longer solid. In seconds it vanished into the darkness, leaving Lanton to wonder if he had seen it at all. He knew he had, but had no idea what it meant. Was this also part of his power? Were there demons out there that only he could see? He did not like the thought of this at all. "This is going to be one hell of a night."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brian laid his head on the back of the seat in front of him, letting the rhythmic hum of the bus sooth his nerves. The spectacle outside the police station was more than just a debacle, it was a nightmare. The pain in his chin was a grim reminder of his attempted foolishness. To make matters worse, the news had cut the shots they had taken of his last act of attrition and made it look for all the world that he had used the press conference to establish a name for himself. Bulletproof, no less. He could have thought of a dozen different names that would have sounded ten times better than something as generic as Bulletproof. Besides, the name just screamed for people to shoot at him, using higher and higher caliber until one punched his ticket for good. They had cut the feed to zoom in on his face, and his glassy eyed realization of his power, and his surprised statement sounded more like bragging when they put it on the news. Again and again that clip was played, always preceded by "this may be shocking to some viewers." Brian doubted anyone was shocked by the violence, but more so by his arrogance and bravado.
At least the police around him had seen it for what it was. No, sooner had they ushered him away from the flashing bulbs and onslaught of questions before they had him sitting before the prison shrink. She was a good looking lady, though she seemed to have little love for him or his activities. They had spoken for only a short length, but in that time he had discovered that she had a good idea. His was granted a power, if not two. If he had no qualms about killing himself as payment for him crime, why not then serve as a figurehead for anyone else who might try to take up a life of vigilantism? Why not stand before the judge, admit his guilt and face the consequences like an actual adult? While those appealed to him, the justice of it, at least, it was what she had said next that had caught his attention. That the government had sent someone to speak with the teacher also incarcerated in the woman's detention block, the fire throwing one. They had discussed being sent to a nearby lab so that they could study her powers and get to understand what it was that caused this shift. The shrink had suggested that if the government could get a handle on what was causing this sudden outbreak of people with powers, then they might be more equipped with people like the flame throwing teacher who decided to use their powers for personal gain. He had agreed to allow the shrink to contact the government, and that he would talk with them about helping out, but that he would first stand before the judge and admit his guilt in killing two people.
A hand on his shoulder brought him from his thoughts back to the bus ride that they had promised would be short. He lifted his head to find Agent Simmons of Homeland Security standing over him. The whole team of six or seven agents were outfitted in what he was told was state-of-the-art counter-terrorism gear. It was a rather impressive looking red and black padded outfit that he was assured was flame proof. It wasn't like the firefighter suits that were bulky, but instead resembled more of an athletic material with padding underneath it. Though he hadn't been told, he guessed that the padding might be for bullets. Agent Simmons smiled at him from behind a glass plate that was the whole of the front of his helmet. "You need something to drink, kid?" The words were muffled and coming out of a speaker in the throat of the outfit, but Brian got the gist of what he had asked.
"Yeah," he admitted, leaning back in the seat. His hands were bound by a large metal set of handcuffs that he was told were usually used on people high on PCP. From what Agent Simmons said, people high on PCP had a tendency to act in ways that seemed to make them more powerful.
After assuring Agent Simmons with a wary laugh that he was not on any drugs, let alone PCP, he was cuffed with the stronger handcuffs. Brian tried hard to keep his arms still because he knew without a doubt that if he flexed on accident, the handcuffs would shatter like glass hit with a hammer. He had already ripped the door off of his first cell on accident, just trying to slide it out of his way. That was a dangerous period, when corrections officers had stormed his tiny cell with batons ready while he knelt with hands over head professing that it was an accident.
"We have a cooler up front. I'll grab you a cola. You like that new drink, Hercules?" Agent Simmons offered him a reassuring smile and began to walk up the aisle from the back of the bus to where four similar agents crowded around the school teacher with guns drawn. They too wore the impressive looking red and black suits, but their eyes held no compassion for the cop killer fire thrower.
Brian held no compassion for the woman as well. He understood that his own murders were the result of an accident, while hers was blatant and vicious. In addition, Brian respected police officers, except for the one time he got one in trouble by stealing his gun. He felt kind of bad about that as well. Kind of. The dude was a douche. The school teacher, he knew, had no respect. He doubted that she had any respect for any of them. He suspected that if she saw her opportunity to escape, she would do just that. He also suspected that if he got in her way, he would find out if his body was fireproof as well as bulletproof. He was in no hurry to do that.
Outside, the freeway they were on looked crowded but moving at a fair clip. He could see orange barrels as they passed them. It seemed that this freeway was always under construction. They had already been on the road for about twenty minutes, and he was told that they were about to hit the turnoff that would lead them straight to the county courthouse. He was eager to finish this and pay for his crimes. He prepared himself for what he assumed would be next at court. He could only imagine that when he got off the bus that he would be screamed at, maybe even had things thrown at him. The fact that he would be in such notorious company would not help this in the slightest. Part of him wondered in perhaps someone would decide to take a pot shot at him or the school teacher. He remembered watching a video somewhere of Lee Harvey Oswald as he was escorted by the police somewhere. This guy had lunged through the crowd and had shot Oswald dead with he thinks maybe three or four shots. Brian had to admit that he had no idea if he was bulletproof everywhere or even if several shots at the same place might break through. All he knew was that he really did not want to be shot dead by some vigilante looking for justice that Brian himself was looking for.
The bus hit a bump and the front windshield made a crackin
g noise. Brian looked up to see Agent Simmons stumbling backward, the back of his red and black helmet now with a large hole in the back of it. What Brian could see within the helmet made him gag. He knew what he saw even before Agent Simmons stumbled and turned to face him, Hercules can still in hand. The front glass of the helmet was shattered and there was a nickel sized red hole in Agent Simmons' face, just above the right eye. Agent Simmons stumbled, eye seeming to focus on Brian as he took one more step and collapsed in a heap in the aisle way.
Brian was up before he could comprehend that he had moved. The cuffs shattered and he lunged to drop down beside Agent Simmons. "Hold on,” he told the dead man, not knowing what to say. In his mind he could hear the soda can as it fell from the agent's hand and rolled under a nearby seat. Brian hadn't been thinking and now found himself with three high-caliber assault rifles pointed at him. They were screaming for him to get down, to get back, and to freeze all at the same time. All Brian could think to respond was to yell back, "Somebody do something for him!"
The school teacher turned to gaze over the back of her seat, no pity in her eyes, and a sly smirk on her red lips. "Nothing to be done for that one."
Her words were punctuated by the sound of glass breaking again and one of the agents, a female, dropping her gun and grasping for her throat. Between her gloved hands blood spurted out in life ending amounts.
"Oh, god," was all Brian could manage. Now the remaining three agents were trying to find cover while still holding their weapons on Brian and the school teacher. Brian kept his hands up and in clear sight, not wanting to be shot over a misunderstanding. He did not doubt that the agents were on high tension and that any false move could be a barrage of bullets to test his theory on being bulletproof. He looked at the front windshield and saw the two bullet holes that had pierced the glass. Beyond, he could see that they were approaching an overpass. As he watched, someone stepped out in front of the bus about fifty feet from the front of it. Brian was worried that they were going to run over someone to add to all the death being handed out today, but then he saw that it was a man, but a creature made of dirt. "Look o–” He tried to say, but again he heard the sound of glass breaking and pain exploded through his head.
