The Duals (An Urban Fantasy Thriller)

by Karen Hayes

  Spreading my arms wide, I cling to the wall. Chris' warm hand covers mine. His touch feels like an electric shock. I do my best not to jerk my hand away. What the hell's going on?

  Back in the apartment, the sound of the door being forced is replaced by an unholy racket. I promptly duck round the corner and press my back to the wall on the other side.

  Gradually my mind registers the pain in my grazed arm and back. I don't care. The main thing is, I managed to stay put.

  We're now facing the back yard squeezed between two blank rows of buildings. The wall below is lined with mesh storage lockers stuffed with broken crates, lawn mowers, old children's swings and BBQs. A wire fence separates the back yard from a littered lawn that belongs to the house opposite. Streetlamps glow in the distance. The street is empty and quiet.

  The fire escape is to our left, six windows away. The pipe leads toward it. The back yard below is empty. This is our chance.

  I nearly jump when Chris' hand touches mine. I hurry to move along, giving him enough space to follow me.

  We've done it!

  We climb over onto the fire escape and hurry downstairs. Chris' pounding footsteps behind me rattle the rusty railing. I get to the last step, climb over, hang on the last rung of the ladder and jump down onto the soft, springy ground.

  Chris lands next to me with feline expertise.

  "Where's your car?" I ask, remembering he'd mentioned it earlier.

  "It's parked about a block away," he points in the direction of the house's front entrance.

  I bite my lip. I'm not going back that way. We'll have to go round and return in a different way.

  I peer at the wire fence. The mesh seems to be slightly loose by one of the posts. As if reading my thoughts, Chris walks over to the fence and pulls the mesh away with remarkable ease, almost ripping the whole sheet off.

  It makes a God-awful noise. I shrink, expecting our pursuers to arrive any moment. They've already been in the apartment... they know we've escaped and have probably worked out our escape route... in which case they must be expecting us to come here.

  We've got to get out of here pronto.

  I dive into the hole. Chris follows. We run across the neighboring yard. Broken glass crunches underfoot. We can't see jack: the only light is in the apartment block windows in front.

  We ran toward it. I throw my weight against the misshapen and peeling back door, then pull the rusty handle: nothing. It's locked - and judging by the state of the back yard, has been locked for quite a while.

  Chris motions me to step aside. He walks over to the door - which looks tiny next to his frame - and shoves it with his shoulder. The lock and the hinges creak and buckle. With a snapping sound, the door opens reluctantly, revealing a dark hallway within.

  I stare at Chris. What makes him so unnaturally strong? "How do you do that?"

  With a shrug, he enters the house. I follow him, groping around blindly in the dark. I promptly stumble over some steps and have to grab onto his offered hand.

  The prickling sensation comes back, weaker this time as if I'm getting used to it. It's like some kind of electric current running through us. A very peculiar feeling. I'm pretty sure no other human being has experienced anything like it.

  We climb the stairs. The stairwell stinks of mold. A weak lightbulb glows at a distance. We walk out into a lobby, then cross it, heading for the front door. The moment I can see a bit better, I let go of Chris' hand.

  Finally, we stand by the front door.

  "Wait," he runs upstairs, then immediately comes back down again. "All clear."

  We slide out into the fresh night air. The street looks identical: same red brick buildings, leafless trees and rows of parked cars. The gray shadow of a late passerby appears at a distance, then re-enters the surrounding darkness.

  The place is dead quiet. It's so late it's actually early.

  We steal down the sidewalk streaked with lamplight, reach the intersection and turn right.

  "There it is," Chris nods at a black sports Chevrolet coupe.

  The car is a beauty. It probably costs a fortune. Now why am I not surprised?

  We climb in. Chris shoves the key in the ignition and turns it. The engine coughs and dies.

  Frowning, Chris restarts the car. Same thing. Again. And again. Nothing. The car is dead as a dodo.

  I hear a popping sound. Smoke begins to billow from under the hood. I pull Chris' sleeve and we hurry to get out.

  "What the-" he says through his teeth as he opens the hood. Tar-black clouds of smoke envelop him.

  I keep watch nearby to make sure no one is heading our way. At the moment, the street is deserted.

  "Here, look," he calls me. I walk over to him and peer at the engine. Everything inside is black and covered in soot. What am I supposed to be looking at?

  He points at a sticky black belt covered in soot, smoke billowing from a metal cylinder directly underneath it.

  "Cut clean, look," he says.

  So someone must have taken the trouble of messing with our car just to make sure we didn't get away? I think I know who that might be.

  I'm about to say as much but don't get the chance.

  They're coming.

  I can sense their approach. A familiar shiver runs through my body. This feeling is totally different from what I experience when Chris touches me. This one feels more like a panic attack. It makes you want to bolt and run for your life till your shoes fall apart.

  Chris looks startled too. I think he can sense the same thing.

  I can see them now: two men. They're enormous. I think I've seen them with the nurse.

  They approach us so fast I can't even react. Chris steps toward them and punches one of them in the face. The man goes flying into a wrought-iron fence opposite, wrenching it from its mountings and landing on top of it.

  Chris then attacks the other one who dodges his blow, ducks under his hand and hooks his arm around his throat, trying to strangle him. Chris backs off toward the parked car until both collapse on top of it, literally crumpling the roof under their combined weight, showering the tarmac with broken glass.

  I just stare at them open-mouthed. These aren't human beings - these are cartoon monsters! And my new companion seems to be in the same league as them.

  I shake my head, trying to get a grip. What am I doing standing here? I need to help him!

  Chris is struggling under his attacker, trying to wriggle himself free. His face turns crimson. What if they knock him out now? I'll be on my own again... And what if-

  "Get off him!" I scream, hitting him with my backpack. "Let him go!"

  The man freezes. I recoil, bracing myself for his response attack.

  "Let him go," I repeat in a suddenly hoarse voice.

  The attacker doesn't seem to notice me. Slowly he releases his grip on Chris' throat and stands up, waiting obediently.

  Unhesitantly Chris lands another couple of punches, knocking the guy out. Then he leans forward, sets his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath.

  What the hell's going on?

  I stare at the scene wide-eyed. The guy actually obeyed me! He really did! So it wasn't my imagination, then. Both the nurse and the cab driver obeyed my orders too. At the time, I was too scared to give it any thought. But now I knew it: I could make them obey me if I issued an order in a loud confident voice.

  What's wrong with me? Am I a witch? Or a freakin' psychic? Nothing like this has ever happened to me before!

  My chest feels heavy and strangely bloated. There's a metallic sour taste in my mouth. It feels heavy too. I know that they're going to do whatever I tell them to. I can feel it.

  Admittedly, it feels good. Being able to protect oneself is a good thing.

  Chris stands up, peering into the dark. "Behind you!" he croaks.

  I swing round just in time to recognize yet another guy. The Latino with the circle beard. A fresh scar runs across his cheek.

  He is standing almost wi
thin my reach. He must have jumped the broken fence. How come I didn't hear him?

  With a crooked grin, he reaches under his jacket. Hi, guapa," he says.

  "Don't move," I command.

  Once again my tongue feels heavy. The air seems to ripple.

  The guy freezes. His dark eyes glaze over, losing all expression. His Latino face, however, is tense: his black eyebrows knitted, his nostrils flaring. His neck muscles are taut as if he's straining to turn his head.

  "You must remain motionless for another hour," I tell him, then dart off. I need to put as much distance between myself and this place as I can.

  Chris catches up with me and we hurry away together.

  My head is crowded with disjointed thoughts. I can control other people! Not manipulate them into doing something I want - no, I can submit them to my will for real.

  I remember the recent attack near the club. Then, too, I shouted something - after which the attacker pressed the gun to his own chin. How awful! Why would I tell him to do something like that? Why didn't I just order him to stop, or drop the gun or just put him into a deep sleep?

  Good job I didn't tell Chris about it. No idea what his reaction would have been. Would he have believed me? Or would he have begun to avoid me? Back there by the club, he fought our attackers like a man possessed, meting out blows right, left and center with lethal precision.

  What happened to us there? Who were we? Were we some sort of X-men, mutants on the loose? Should I start thinking of an awesome nickname and a costume to match?

  We keep moving north toward Hudson Heights. I can't hear any pursuit. Only when we're completely out of breath, we slow down to a fast walk. I keep thinking about my new ability. What did I feel when I told the Latino guy to freeze? How did I do it? I just willed him to stop. There was this confident ring to my voice as if I knew that he had no choice other than to obey me. As if he had no other option.

  The two guys before him - the nurse and the cab driver - hadn't had an option either. They'd had to obey me. I'm beginning to understand it.

  My side is in stitches from all the running. I have to slow down. I wipe my sweaty forehead with a sleeve, trying to catch my breath. We walk past a row of six-story apartment blocks, past a park and some playgrounds and turn off toward the embankment.

  Three large bridges loom ahead. They run parallel to each other, their squat concrete pillars sitting firmly in the water. We walk below them, listening to the unending traffic noise overhead. This city never, ever sleeps.

  We follow a winding footpath toward a skatepark. A few kids hang out in its graffiti-covered precincts getting stoned, oblivious to us and the rest of the world.

  Gingerly we skirt the shadows, seeking shelter under bare treetops. Neither of us wants to stay in full view of the kids or the bridge commuters. We walk past the skatepark until we find a nice quiet place under the bridge and sit down on a concrete block by one of the pillars.

  Not the best place to stop for a break if you ask me but at least we're keeping a safe distance from the group of homeless tramps glaring at us from the pillar next to ours. Further down the bank the trees part, revealing a tar-black river framed with concrete.

  There isn't much traffic under the bridge; an occasional car would approach us from the left, the sound of its motor rising to a roar as it speeds past us, its beams bathing us momentarily in their light as the car disappears from sight. On the other bank, a rattling locomotive pulls a freight train under the bridge.

  A familiar feeling floods over me: darkness, cold and silence fused into one.

  A memory shatters my brain. I'm inside an overturned car. Its deformed roof is below me. I look up and see the seats covered in dark wet spots.

  The car is growing cold. So are the spots. So are the two dead bodies that used to occupy the front seats.

  I freeze. Why this memory of all things? I so hoped I'd never remember that day again. It makes me feel awful.

  I breathe on my hands to warm them. Clouds of mist escape my mouth. That's not warming anything. Chris offers me his jacket but I refuse and shove my hands into my pockets. I must look like one of those miserable tramps myself.

  "You okay?" Chris asks.

  "Not really," I reply, sniveling.

  What next? We abandoned the car. Whatever money we had was Chris's.

  I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He's sitting with his legs apart, fists on knees, confident and alert as he keeps a watchful eye on both the river and the tramps. He looks too posh and classy even in cheap, plain clothes. He just doesn't belong in my world.

  His parents must be well-connected. Me, I'm just a foster kid with no one I could call family. Not normal, I know. Normal people are supposed to have families. And if said family is rich...

  "Where are your parents now?" I ask.

  He casts me a sideways glance. "Why?"

  "Do you think they might help us? They could hire you a lawyer or some bodyguards. Or both. They could get us out of here. Take us somewhere safe."

  He frowns and turns away, pretending to be interested in the luminous display of tower lights on the opposite bank. "It's better we do it ourselves."

  "Why? Okay, my foster parents wouldn't lift a finger to help me. But we could use some... some help, that's for sure."

  He swings round toward me. "I said no," he snaps with an evil glint in his eye. "We can do it. We have our powers," he nods at me. "You can convince everyone that nothing happened. No idea how you do it but I'm used to weird things by now."

  Yeah right. Wish it were that easy! I might get shot before I get the chance to open my mouth.

  I take a deep breath. A very deep breath, Sarah. Just like this... good girl.

  I purse my lips and stare first at the play of light on the dark waves, then at the tramps huddling together nearby. What's wrong with the man? Judging by his clothes, the way he speaks, his manners, his car and his Ivy-League past, his parents could help us if they really wanted to. But he just won't have it! You'd think we'd need any help we could get in order to get out of this - beep - predicament. Just look at him! It's not only about him, you know. It's about me too.

  Never mind. Did he just say I had the powers? Well, he asked for it.

  I brace myself, one last time repeating the phrase I've prepared, then turn to Chris. "You're gonna call your parents, now. Get your phone out and dial their number. Tell them to help us," I enunciate every word, investing all my strength into them.

  My words feel heavy. There's the same metallic taste in my mouth. I can do it much better now.

  Chris stares at me, unblinking and unmoving. I search his gaze for the same glazed-over expression I've seen in the eyes of all the others: the cab driver, the nurse...

  He furrows his brow. His face darkens.

  "Did you just try to pick my brain?" he explodes. "Trying your tricks on me, eh?"

  Oops. Didn't work. I wonder why? The sensation was identical, even stronger than before. But it didn't seem to affect him, of all people.

  He clenches his fists. I edge back. I'd hate him to lose it again like he did in that memory of mine when we were jumped next to the club.

  His breathing is fast and shallow. His eyes glisten in the dark, reflecting the lamplight. He's gloomy as a thundercloud.

  "My mother died," he finally says. "My father won't help us. And you'd better start thinking how we're going to get out of here. My family and its money is no business of yours."

  I literally jump. Who does he think he is? I don't need his money! Or his family! I only wanted to help him! And he, instead of-

  "You can stuff your family!" I spat out. "I'm trying to offer a solution! But we have to play hard to get, don't we? You were the one who told me about that silenced gun! You wanna get killed, right? Well, be my guest! I just can't see why I should die with you! Is it because we see the same things? Or because we used to have a past? That means nothing, I repeat, nothing! Go and screw yourself!"

  Of course I wasn't ex
actly right. I wish I hadn't mentioned his mother. Only now I'm beginning to understand how much he annoys me. Such a perfect little shit, a rich daddy's boy.

  He thinks he knows it all! Well, sorry mister, you don't. He knows nothing. He knows nothing about me, he knows nothing about living rough. If we get arrested, he'll get a visit from an expensive lawyer who'll bail him out in no time while I'll get stitched up for a nice long stretch in jail - or even worse, in the looney bin.

  Chris grits his teeth in silence. I don't care. He can do what he wants now.

  Not that it makes me feel any better. I watch a yellow leaf spin in the wind as it's drawn toward the river.

  "I was looking for you," I rub my frozen hands together. "I thought you could help me. Apparently, I've been wasting my time. We're not X-men. We aren't going to fight the bad guys and bring them to justice. We need help. I need to get out of here. Unfortunately, I have neither the money nor a place to stay."

  I know I sound desperate. I hate the sound of my own voice. I'd love him to come with me, I really would. Not just because of the money. He may drive me up the wall but he also makes me feel different. Safer, sort of. Stronger. It's as if I've been pumped up with energy. I really shouldn't push him away.

  "We don't need help," he finally says. "But we do need to stick together. At least for the time being. Arguing won't solve anything."

  His jacket rustles. I turn to the sound. He gets up, watching me warily, then proffers his hand. "Let's go to the station. Just please stop messing with my head."

  Chapter Seven

  Chris

  THIS GIRL can drive you mad, I can tell you. Pigheaded little missy. Of course we need help! What does she know about me or my family? Nothing. I really felt like walking away and leaving her there under the bridge. Still, I didn't do that. That would have been just as stupid as her attempt to control my mind.

  At the moment, we are a team whether we like it or not. So we have to act like one. If one of us gets caught the other won't last long, either. So we have to get out of this mess together, pulling each other out.