Outcasts

by J. S. Frankel

  Slowly, cautiously, we edged over to where she’d pointed. My nerves were on edge, as I expected something to jump us at any second. After a few angsty moments, we reached the spot. Sure enough, there was a hole. I had the feeling that if I put my good hand in, I’d find slime. I did.

  “Ick,” Callie said when I pulled my hand out. It was covered in organic ooze.

  After wiping it off on a nearby bush, I started to think about things. Whoever had engineered this thing had created it to break down fast. They had to be clever. Very clever, so much so that any future creation would be probably be upgraded and therefore more dangerous than ever.

  “Mitch.”

  Callie’s voice made me turn around. She was trembling, and I put my arms around her. “Are you going to be all right?” I asked.

  She offered a nod. “I guess you’re thinking that I’m acting like a girl.”

  “Well, you are one, but no, I was pretty piss-scared before, too.”

  I had been but didn’t want to let that tidbit be known at the time. Now, it didn’t matter if everyone knew or not. Callie wiped the sweat from her face. Her makeup was ruined, with black and dark green smudges on her cheeks. She didn’t seem to mind, though, when I mentioned it. “I had to take it off, anyway,” she said in an offhand manner. “Sleeping in makeup messes up your skin.”

  She dug a handkerchief and compact from her bag, did a quick wipe job, and put things away. “Thanks.”

  What was she thanking me for? “Uh, call me dense, but what for?”

  “For saving me from becoming a briquette.”

  “Oh.”

  Callie then leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. Her eyes then widened. “Oh god, my mother, that thing...”

  Say no more, and we flew to her home as fast as I could go. As we neared her house, I checked for signs of genetically engineered monsters. Nothing. All was as it should have been—normal. Callie breathed a sigh of relief as we landed. “At least this house is okay.”

  In the distance, I heard the sound of fire engines. I’d have some explaining to do later on, but felt I had to lay things out now. “Um, sorry about tonight,” I said, fumbling for the right words to say. “I didn’t know that thing would show up.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t know, either.” She fell silent then, looking at her shoes. “What do we do now? Is it worth contacting the police?”

  If the police weren’t going to help me, they probably wouldn’t help Callie or her mother, either. “I’ll do my best to stay around. We don’t live far from each other. I’ll be here for you.”

  “I will, too.”

  This time she made the first move, grabbing me and kissing me full on the lips. I returned it, holding her tightly, feeling her warmth and strength and holy crap, this was incredible, better than the previous times! “Then let’s do it again,” she whispered once we’d broken off our kiss.

  Her mother chose that moment to open the door and her eyebrows arched when she saw us holding each other. She also took in my shredded shirt and immediately assumed the worst. “Can I assume you kept your pants on, Mitch?”

  Oh damn, I’ll have to start carrying spare shirts with me. “It’s, uh, not what you think, ma’am.”

  “Then what is it?” Far from the motherly, supportive ‘tude she’d shown me in our prior talks, now pure frost coated every word.

  “Nothing happened, mother,” Callie said with a hint of exasperation. “You didn’t see any monsters lurking about, did you?”

  “What?”

  Apparently not, as Mrs. Winston shook her head. “What’s going on?”

  Quickly, we filled her in on the details. Her eyes widened at the mention of the creature, but she responded with, “No, it’s been very quiet. This is the countryside. Nothing ever happens here, but I’ll call the police, just in case. Maybe they can do something.”

  Uh-huh. No, they won’t. “Just be careful, ma’am. That thing wanted me, not Callie.”

  Callie and I made a tentative agreement for next Wednesday night. I jetted up into the sky. Lucas had always said to check the surroundings just in case, but I found nothing.

  At home, first things first—perimeter check. My hand had already stopped hurting, so let’s hear one for regeneration. The lights were still on, which meant that my mother was waiting up for me. “What happened to your shirt?”

  Once again, I filled her in on what had transpired, and she immediately got on the telephone to the authorities. “Talk to Chief Sullivan,” she said after giving him the basics. She then handed me the receiver.

  Sullivan’s voice came through. “Mitch, I’ll come over tomorrow morning, and we can go to the area if you want. I already got a call from the fire department. They said there was a small fire, but nothing they couldn’t handle.”

  Yeah, put out fires, but don’t believe me about monsters. Holding back a snarky reply, I thanked him and said I’d be out at the site tomorrow at nine. After hanging up, I told my mother that maybe she should be elsewhere.

  “Where am I going to go?” she asked, the fear plain to hear in her voice. The tone of fear, though, soon changed to defiance. “This is my home. I’m staying.”

  Security—we really had none. My mother decided she’d had enough and went to bed. I stayed up on the alert and thought about the creature. How had it managed to track us? It had to know where we lived. It knew me, yet hadn’t attacked me here.

  I had more questions, and there was only one person who could answer them. I had to find Lucas. If I did, then maybe I’d get some answers.

  Chapter Ten: Disappointment

  Chief Sullivan had asked me to come at nine. He’d been of no help so far, so taking matters into my own hands, at eight, I flew out to the forest where the creature had made its appearance. The smell of scorched wood still hung in the air, and there were numerous puddles where the fire department had done its work.

  At least my hand had healed up. Regeneration rocked, but scoping out the area came first. After locating the spot where the hole was, I stooped down to get a better look. A voice off to my right said, “You’re not going to find anything.”

  Getting up, I saw Agent Dornier standing a couple of yards away. This guy was good. My hearing was above average, yet I hadn’t even heard so much as a branch crack. Black-suited as usual, he had his shades in place along with a black fedora. “Do you wear that costume every single day?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I do, but the hat’s an accessory. Anyway, you’re not here to check out my wardrobe.” Reply given, he took a package of gum from his pocket, shook out one piece, peeled off the wrapper, and shoved the stick in his mouth.

  He chewed it with gusto, popping a few bubbles, all the while gazing around in an unconcerned fashion. It didn’t appear as if he wanted to shoot me. His manner came off as relaxed, not hostile. “Why did you show up?”

  The chewing stopped, and his expression turned deadly serious. “To warn you. You, especially, but your friends as well.”

  “I already got warned by a scientist. He’s dead, and—”

  “Yeah, I know,” he interrupted, chopping the air with his hand and spitting out the gum into the wrapper. He then put it in his pocket. “Guess who did it?”

  Curiosity got the better of me. “I know who did. Something a secret government group created, right?”

  “Bingo.”

  A gust of air brought the stench closer to home. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and then murmured most conversationally, “You’re making a lot of people nervous, including the bigwigs in Washington.”

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No, and if you’re smart, you’ll forget you ever saw me. But I came out here to warn you to be careful. Certain...” He paused as if searching for the correct word. “Certain elements in the upper echelons of our nation’s capital are not happy. They’re worried about you, Lucas, and what he knows.”

  “Lucas is gone.”
/>
  A smirk appeared. “Is he? Check around. You may find him yet. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Lucas—he was the key. “So help us find him. You know, don’t you?”

  Dornier shook his head and his smirk faded. “Nope. Haven’t got a clue. My orders come from up top, and they say hands off. That’s why the FBI and regular law enforcement officials haven’t been around.”

  An expression, perhaps of regret or something else, appeared. “I’m contravening departmental policy by talking to you. But you should know how things are. If I were you, I’d back off. If you care about the people you’re with, then you’ll shut up and leave things alone. Maybe you’ll live longer.” He cocked his head to one side as if assessing my psyche. “Still, I’m guessing you won’t, will you?”

  I was in too deep, already. “I have to know why.”

  With a sigh, he pulled his hat down, obscuring his eyes. “Then good luck, space cadet,” he said before melting into the forest.

  And I was alone. Lucas—I had to find him. While wondering where to start, the sound of engines interrupted me. As I was going out to the edge of the forest, a few vehicles had already pulled up, including Sullivan’s cruiser. A photographer had gotten out of his car and was in the process of taking pictures of everything, while another man took samples. A third began to make a cast of the impressions that had been left upon the earth.

  Only a few members of the Portland Fire Department were on duty, busily cleaning up, while Sullivan hung back to observe things. As we waited, he heaved a sigh. “I got the call from the Portland police this morning. They asked me out here.” He massaged the back of his neck as if to get rid of an ache only he knew. “I can’t handle this. I don’t have jurisdiction. Even if I did, I doubt that I could do anything.”

  He’d said that before. “So what can you do?”

  A shrug greeted me. “I’ll have a couple of the volunteers look in on your house, but that’s my limit.”

  Later on, after returning home, I called Joe and asked him to come over. Once he did, I filled him in on the details about Dornier’s warning. His only comment was, “He was right. We need to find Lucas.”

  Good luck with that. His cellphone number no longer worked. It was a cinch we’d get nowhere with Washington. Dornier had mentioned someone in the government, but who? If we tried cracking government files, chances were the men in black would pay us a visit. However, they would be the wrong men in black, those who shot first and then left, and never asked any questions.

  Pushing myself to think outside the box, I posited the idea of homeless people being arrested and asked Joe to check it on my computer. In return, I got an expression that indicated dubiousness to the max. “You want to tell me why?” he asked.

  “Lucas told me he had a small apartment in Tacoma. See if any people were admitted to hospitals but with no identification, like homeless people.”

  His expression reminded me of a cat about to heave up a fur-ball. “There are probably a lot.”

  “Just try it.”

  He dutifully typed in the information, and all we got were assorted news stories of people who’d gone missing over the past year. Lots of names, none of them Lucas’, but then another thought rattled in my brain. “If you were the government and you wanted to hide someone, where would you put them?”

  A thoughtful look appeared on his face as he caught the drift of what I’d been thinking of. “I’d put them either in an old-folks home or a veteran’s hospital, maybe a private hospital or something.” He rubbed his head in a furious motion. “Ah man, there have to be at least, I don’t know, a lot of those places.”

  “So narrow things down. Look for people who’ve gone missing in the past six months or were admitted as veterans to those facilities.”

  According to the information, Tacoma had around thirty such facilities. While Joe searched, the pictures of people flashed across the screen. It all seemed hopeless. For all we knew, Lucas had been killed and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Canada.

  Something flashed on the screen, an out of focus picture, but it looked familiar. “Stop,” I said excitedly. “Go back to the last news site.”

  Click went the keys and voila! A grainy image appeared. It was Lucas, all right. Same hair, same hatchet face, but his eyes were blank, as if not realizing where he was.

  A man was found on the street in Tacoma, Washington, badly beaten. When paramedics arrived, he claimed to have no knowledge of who had attacked him. Ronald Garvin, age sixty-one, was a former corporal in the United States Army Reserve. He’d served honorably in various conflicts around the world. He was taken to Tacoma Veteran’s Rehabilitation Center for further observation...

  Ronald Garvin? This didn’t make sense. Lucas had worked for the CIA, but...

  Oh, wait! Conspiracy buffs would love me for this. “Clever of them,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “They give him a fake identity.” I peered at the information from the hospital’s website. “Good cover. Half the people here are veterans who have PTSD. The other half probably have Alzheimer’s or something like that. It makes sense to hide him there.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Flying over had taken seventy minutes. This time I wore my cut-out shirt and met Joe outside the hospital. A few younger men and women in wheelchairs and on crutches were taking in the sun. Some of them were missing legs or arms, while others wore horrible burn scars. Serving their country, they’d done their bit and had paid for it. I felt sorry for them, but there was nothing I could do to help them.

  One of them, a man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, was limping around on prosthetic legs. The metal gleamed in the sun. He seemed to be happy enough, but then I noticed his eyes. They were blank, empty, staring at nothing and no one. He blinked at us and then shuffled off.

  Before we entered, Joe whispered, “Do you think anyone will recognize us?”

  It was a possibility. “Maybe they will. Let’s fly the friendly skies.”

  Since getting nailed wasn’t part of the plan, I took Joe around to the side of the building, let my wings out, grabbed his hands, and flapped my way up to the roof. Fortunately, we saw no one, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching us all the same. Paranoia ruled. “Let’s get this done,” I said, feeling skittish.

  According to the floor plan, the patients were housed from the third to the seventh floor. As we entered the corridor on the top floor, a smell of disinfectant combined with the odor of unwashed bodies and pee entered my nostrils. Other patients passed by us, not bothering to look in our direction.

  As luck would have it, Lucas’ room was on the fifth floor, indicated by a small nameplate—Garvin—and we entered. The room was the same color as the outside, off-white, but there was no smell. At least the nurses had seen to that. Lucas sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in a pair of ratty old pajamas. He was staring out the window and singing a song under his breath. It sounded off-key, and it jangled my nerves. “Mr. Lucas, do you remember us?” I asked.

  Lucas stopping singing and slowly turned his head. “Hello. Do I know you boys?”

  Aw hell, he didn’t. The vacant look, the flatness of his voice, and the slack jaw showed us he’d moved into his own private world. I forced out a smile along with pitching my voice low. “Um, sir, your name is Mr. Lucas. Do you remember that?”

  “No, my name is Ronald Garvin.” No hint of recognition from him whatsoever.

  Trying again, I said, “My name is Mitch, Mitch Kessler, and this is Joe Chambers, my friend. You sure you don’t remember us?”

  His eyes were empty pools of limbo. “No. What day is it today?”

  “It’s Wednesday, sir.”

  He mulled my words over, his mouth working. “Wednesday, they give me meatloaf on Wednesday. I like meatloaf.”

  Oh, man, darkness had fallen, and I tried to keep from shouting with frustration. “Sir, don’t you remember anything
about us?”

  “I like ice-cream, too.”

  Joe leaned over to whisper, “Man, we’d better leave. This isn’t going to work.”

  Not just yet. “Mr. Lucas, look at this.” I glanced at the door to make sure it was shut, and then went over to close the curtains, just in case. Then I let my wings out but kept my claws in. “Don’t you remember this?”

  He stared, and his lips began to tremble. More than that, though, ever so slowly, his eyes lost their vacant look, replaced by one of almost-comprehension.

  “I... I saw those once... in a dream,” he said, the words coming out haltingly, as though he was struggling to remember. “It was about flying boys... spinning people... but it was only a dream.”

  Awareness was a short-lived thing, as the blank look once again emerged. “It was a dream, though. When I dream, I’m unhappy. I’m happy now.”

  One second later, his mouth went slack, and he turned his head away. There was nothing left to do but to leave. As we walked out, he began to sing that off-key song again, and it made me feel even worse.

  In the hallway, a few other patients were in the process of walking by, all of them staring at a scene only they could see. A short, slender, middle-aged man wearing a white doctor’s robe strode over to us, his face red with anger. He resembled Dustin Hoffman, but had none of the actor’s seemingly good nature, and he shook his finger at me. “What were you doing in Mr. Garvin’s room?”

  Yeah, he’s pissed. I was pissed off, too, and if he kept shaking his finger at me, he’d soon resemble a Rorschach test. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Mr. Garvin’s personal physician, Doctor Wallis.” He puffed out his skinny chest. “And I demand that you leave this place instantly.”

  Joe piped up with, “Is there a Dr. O’Hara here?”

  Wallis blinked and stammered, “There’s... there’s no one here by that name.”

  Lousy acting—Wallis sure as hell knew, and I picked up on it. “You know,” I said. “It’s Noelle O’Hara.”