by Brian Cody
“Nope, sorry, Erik. He’s had nothing to tell of late”, Turrisi sighed.
“It’s been almost half a year”, Erik growled as he flipped his phone along his desk.
“Wait; uncle? Stories?” Shawn grunted.
“What?” Turrisi humphed as he turned to Shawn, “yeah, he tells us police stories every once in a while. Maybe I can tell you a new one next time he calls me.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to hear one”, Shawn replied.
“Anyway”, David interrupted, “continuing on from what we were talking about. I can get you in tiptop shape for anything the five-oh decide to throw at you! And we can start it off by getting salad at CeCe’s tonight.”
“Sorry, dude, I can’t really spend money this semester”, Turrisi remarked.
“Then I guess I can’t really get you a workout. The only way it’ll work is if you go to CeCe’s tonight”, David replied.
“What? Are you…? Fine, just this once”, Turrisi moaned, “but, seriously, only this one time. I can’t spend money after this.”
“Yeah, ‘atta boy!” David replied with a handclap. “All right, let’s leave in thirty and beat the crowd of students.”
“What crowd?” Bryen asked as he adjusted his glasses. “Campus is still a ghost town; there shouldn’t be many students there.”
“Exactly; we’ll have it all to ourselves”, David replied with an arching grin as he stepped from side to side. “Get excited, ladies, because this is officially going to kick off our best semester, yet!”
***
“Okay, so maybe I miscalculated”, David suggested as he sat in the center of a table occupied by himself and seven others. His voice barely carried over the howls of children winding through the lanes between a dozen tables to return to their seats, to rush to the buffet line on the left side of the room holding another thirty patrons, or to head to the game room in the back of the restaurant. Intermingled with those youthful and immature screeches were the retorts of those children’s parents or guardians; the guttural chuckles and sonorous exclamations of other college students at other tables or within the booths along the walls; and the electronic tunes of the 1980s playing within the backdrop and creating an outdated but catchy undercurrent.
“Well, technically, it’s not your fault”, Shawn suggested as he sat across from David with a plate of assorted pizza slices, some of which were in the process of being eaten. “B-money was the one who said it shouldn’t be crowded.”
“Way to go, B”, David remarked as he turned to Bryen on the right end of the table with a plate of organized pizza crusts in front of his resting left arm, while he held a cup with two straws in his right.
“Hmm”, Bryen grunted as he stared into space, his eyes glazed, and his shoulders rising and sinking from each strident, youthful cry.
“Hey, B-money”
Bryen looked left, towards the center of the table, where Darren sat along Nate’s right and across from Erik with two empty, stacked plates in the middle of his tray. “Hi”, Bryen grunted as he lowered his cup.
“Can I have a hug?” Darren asked with a widened beam.
“No”, Bryen replied.
“Please?” Darren asked, to which Bryen shook his head. “Please?” Darren asked, his intonation rising into a chirping serenade.
“No”, Bryen replied as he lowered his cup and thrust his chest to belch.
“Dang it, B-money”, Darren mumbled.
“Here it is”, diverted Darren’s attention to Bryan Brown looking towards the television screen on the restaurant’s front corner.
“Here what is?” Darren asked.
“The new NASCAR promo to showcase the racers’ long awaited update in capabilities: turning right?” Nate suggested as he bit halfway into a pepperoni slice and dropped the remaining half to his plate.
“No”, Bryan Brown replied, “it’s the news report I was telling Darren about last night.”
“What?” Shawn asked as he turned to Bryan Brown. “About that bridge?” he asked before glancing to David, who leered.
“Well, no, but I heard about that too”, Bryan Brown replied as he glanced to the screen. “There’s been a vigilante in Lynchburg roughing up burglars, carjackers, and muggers over the past two years. There haven’t been any leads, but Wednesday night, a group of carjackers were recorded confronting and then being wailed on by the guy in a parking lot two miles from campus.”
There were cameras?!—Nate inhaled a mouthful of his soda, covered his mouth, and tightened his chest to conceal the convulsion brought by the insufflation. He lowered his cup still held in his right hand and stared at his plate before looking up, placing his hands under the table, and squeezing his fists.
“Oh yeah”, Turrisi replied. “I heard about that on the radio on my way back down. The police have found no leads, and, up until Wednesday night, they weren’t even sure it was the same person. I hear he’s caused, like, ten grand in property damages.”
“They’re showing it now”, Bryan Brown called as he pointed to the screen.
As a newscaster spoke, the words ‘FBI RELEASES EDITED VIDEO OF LYNCHBURG VIGILANTE’ scrolled along the ticker.
The screen then flashed into a dimmer display, grainy by the streaks cutting across the image and colored sepia by the orange glow of the nearest street lights hanging over a line of vehicles and illuminating seven persons. Within the first few seconds, one of the carjackers was launched backward by a hooded person, and, within the next moments, the hooded person charged headlong into the group, swinging in lanky and haphazard thrusts, but bringing the carjackers down one by one.
“Oh snap”, David coughed as he watched an individual in the bottom-left of the screen pull out a firearm and open fire. The hooded assailant didn’t move to evade—perhaps to jump or stumble away—but, instead, covered his arms; in the next instant, the video flashed, causing the occupants of that table to seize. Then, after several moments of static, the video reappeared, with the gunman slamming onto the windshield of another car and the hooded assailant standing and appearing, as far as they could tell, unscathed.
“Uh, what?” Erik asked as he crossed his arms, “did anyone else see a gun get pointed at him?”
“Maybe he dodged the bullets”, Turrisi chuckled as they watched the hooded assailant’s right side become illuminated by an increasing, white glow. The hooded assailant turned, the onlookers leaned in their seats, and a vehicle sped into view, hitting the assailant head-on in a glass-cracking strike, and sending him on an aerial spiral before he hit the ground. The video flashed again to return to the newscaster.
Silence enveloped the group as their attention returned to reality and to the strident happenstances and intermingling aromas permeating the air. Some of their mouths opened, some of their eyes widened, and, as they turned to one another, they inhaled—then came a cry. In a piercing wail that resounded atop the majority of the restaurant’s noises, Darren heaved and vomited a burst of expedient and rolling cackles. As he continued, others joined, chuckling, wheezing, and covering their mouths to keep themselves from producing a noise as thunderous as his.
“Did I see that correctly?” Shawn bawled as he rubbed his forehead. “That guy got hit by a car!”
“Nate!” Darren coughed as he reared back and held his stomach, “did you see that!?”
“Yep, that’s funny. Serious injuries are funny”, Nate humphed.
“Klinge, are you kidding me?” David asked as he thrust his head, “That was gold!”
“I bet he was all proud after beating up that last guy”, Darren remarked as he turned; “that dude was like, huh, I’m pretty awesome—blam!” Darren held in another wave of cackles before turning to Nate and slapping his right shoulder. Nate tensed as Darren’s large hand cupped his shoulder blade, and Nate gasped as a torturous pain burgeoned from the top of his arm and cascaded through his body. His eyes widened, but, with a grimace, he kept his jaws shut even as a groan rolled through his throat. He then leaned
, his body tightening, and his head shivering.
Don’t hold it in or you’ll pass out; don’t hold it in or you’ll pass out! Say something; say something; say something_—Nate looked around and, examining the other college students and their Igneous attire, surmised that among them would likely be an RA ready to reprimand him for swearing. “Jesus!” Nate bellowed. He gasped. Around him, his dorm-mates looked on, some of their eyes widened, some of their eyes squinted, but all of their gazes frozen.
“Klinge”, David began as he leaned with a salad fork in his right which held a blade of lettuce, “the only reason you should be using our Savior’s name like that is because we’re about to be raptured, but, seeing as we haven’t been raptured and I see no one around here who could double as the Son of God, I’m going to have to say: watch your friggin’ language! There are kids here!” David shoved the lettuce into his mouth and chewed. He glared at Nate, but Nate stared at the floor, his gasps growing heavier and longer, and his pupils dilating. “Klinge?” David called before glancing to the surrounding tables.
“Nate, you all right there, bud?” Shawn asked as Darren poked the top of Nate’s shoulder.
“Klinge, this isn’t funny”, David began as he aimed his fork for Nate’s face, “here comes the airplane_”
“What?!” Nate barked as he reared up, his forehead gleaming with perspiration, and the remainder of his face a diminishing red.
“You looked like you were about to lose consciousness”, Turrisi noted as David retracted his fork.
“Did you hurt yourself or somethin’?” Bryan Brown inquired.
“Sorry”, Darren moaned.
“Oh, no, it’s nothing, I_” Nate lifted his right shoulder, and started to roll it, but stopped and then shook.
“What’d you do to your arm?” Erik asked. “You should probably get that checked out.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine”, Nate sighed as he lifted his right fist and then squeezed it, his outstretched and bent arm shaking as he did. “I think I pulled something when I was working out on…Monday”, Nate replied as he lowered it.
“Pulled it?” David scoffed. “If you’re still having trouble with motion, it could be way worse than that, Klinge. We’re talking sprains, dislocations, heck, even fractures. What area hurts the most?”
“I—I don’t know, the shoulder…I guess”, Nate replied as he grabbed his cup with his left.
“Okay, I’m going to list some muscles in that area, and you can tell me which ones you think are the causes of the pain. If the muscles confuse you, you can always explain what motions hurt.”
“No, you don’t have to do that”, Nate replied while shaking his head.
“You’ve got the Deltoid, the Supraspinatus, the Infraspinatus, the Teres minor_”
“Piekarsky”, Nate muttered.
“The Teres major, part of the Triceps brachii, the Trapezius_”
“Piekarsky”, Nate repeated as he lifted his left hand, “I’m fine.”
“The Subscapularis, the Coracobrachialis_”
“Dave, I’m serious; I’m fine; it’s just_”
“Heck, it could even be the Pectoralis major or the Latissimus dorsi; when it comes to weightlifting_”
“PIEKARSKY!” Nate snarled as he hammered his right fist onto the table. The eating surface rumbled, and Nate’s visage, once more, bloated with scarlet. The onlookers shook, and, even as the soundings of the buffet continued around them, they were still. David’s own right squeezed around his fork in an almost crushing clasp, not from surprise or reflex, but from an external force travelling through his fingers. “My arm’s fine”, Nate gasped as he dragged his right arm to his side. “I just gotta ice it and lay off weights for a while…right?”
“Yeah…yeah”, David murmured. “So, are we just about ready to go?” he asked as he looked around.
“Yeah, I’m good; I still got some unpacking to do”, Turrisi noted.
“All right, well let’s head out, boys”, Shawn called as he pushed out his chair. In one rising and disheveled mass, the remaining seven organized their plates, compiled their used napkins and empty or near-empty plastic cups, and rose from their chairs, while two or three conversations were whispered between them. David was the last to stand, his left pushing against the table while his right gripped his fork. He looked down at his right, looked around as the rest of the group started for the exit, and then opened his fingers.
He glared at that fork, first noting its decreased width due to his momentary loss of control over his strength, but then, as he examined it further, a linear flash appeared before his eyes—a bolt of electricity that leapt from the fork and jabbed into his pointer. David looked up and around, examining the expressions of his dorm-mates and finding none of them reacting to a similar shock. Too strong for static electricity, but if it had been my phone, my leg would’ve been burned… David lowered the fork and then glanced to Nate who exited with Darren and Bryan Brown behind him. Then, while squinting and squeezing his fists, David turned to the television screen, watching as the hooded assailant’s footage was replayed, and then gaping as he watched the Mustang’s windshield and the top of the hooded assailant’s right shoulder contact with the force to incapacitate a normal human. David hummed, glanced to the exit where Erik and Bryen held the door open, and, while smirking, walked after them.
Chapter Five: 16–17 January
“But yeah, my schedule’s not too bad”, Erik spoke as he faced the ceiling, his body below the neck being concealed by his dull green comforter. “Dude, just think: after this semester, we’ll be seniors”, he remarked as he looked to the right to see the corner of David’s desk, with the glow of the desk lamp reflecting off of the tan furniture and emanating a dull, soft radiance within that dark room.
“Dude, I know”, David replied while clicking his mouse. “This year’s gone by really fast.”
“Well, wait; aren’t you technically a senior?” Erik asked, with the latter half of his words extending into a yawn.
“Yeah, but I have at least another semester to go; so, who knows, you can call me a senior or a junior”, David remarked.
“A señor”, Erik yawned.
“Señor—I like it. Makes me sound dignified”, David remarked as he faced his computer.
“Where’s B-money?” Erik asked as he rubbed his eyes.
“Who knows; doing B-money stuff, I guess”, David replied as he clicked again.
“Sounds good to me”, Erik yawned before rolling to his right.
David was still for the next few seconds, unblinking as he listened for minor stirrings. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, and then thirty; David inhaled, stood, stepped back, and looked to Erik’s loft. There still was no motion, and, as David looked on, Erik’s torso undulated with extended breaths. “Garcia?” David whispered, to which he received no response. “Garcia?” he repeated with a slight rise in volume. “Erik? Crazy Asian?” he continued, his voice rising from a whisper to a low mutter. Erik was silent, save for the slight increase in volume from his somnolent breaths. David nodded, looked to the door to ensure that it was both shut and locked, and slinked to his desk.
He sat as he double-clicked his mouse, directing his browser to the farthest of three tabs, and to a search listing titled ‘January 15th Vigilante Lynchburg’. Fifteen search items contained all of the terms; of those fifteen, ten were local and international news sites, three were videos, and two were blogs. David scanned the videos first, his cursor sliding past them and continuing towards the news sites until his hand stopped. The third and most recent video—uploaded that day—bore an extra second of content. It could’ve been a one-second advertisement, perhaps a slide or a list of credits, as David opened it in a new tab. David then selected the tab and found the same grainy video which he had seen earlier. He motioned his mouse to close the tab, but stopped as a flash occurred. David leaned, paused the video, and expanded it to encompass his screen before playing it from the beginning.
The first twent
y seconds played in an identical manner to the news report, but, as he watched one of the carjackers aim a gun and squeeze the trigger, a vibrant flash occurred along the bottom right of the screen—a momentary, pale radiance that erupted from the hooded vigilante. David motioned his mouse and replayed that scene once, twice, and then three times, scanning over the speed of that sudden flash—an instantaneous speed—and taking it to memory; David then let it play, but, like the video played earlier that day, it went to static before reappearing to find the gunman unconscious and the vigilante unscathed.
“Crap”, David mouthed as he closed the video, closed the page, and then returned to the search listing. He looked past the news websites and came to the first blog. He selected it, and, flashing before him, the headline ‘Lynchburg Vigilante Strikes Again’ appeared in bold. Under that, in subtitles, were the words ‘What the Police Don’t Want You to Know’. David skimmed the paragraphs, hovered over the words ‘flashes of light’, and looked over mentions of the weight and build discrepancy of the hooded vigilante and the carjackers who had been felled. David scrolled but then paused as he came upon an image of a gape leading into an apartment building. Debris was scattered within the gape, and the gape itself was a jagged concave. David scrolled past, finding the words ‘authorities believe an explosion was the cause of this mysterious…’ Then, after skimming and finding ‘however…’ he leaned, his hands closing along his seat as he read about the power outage that the building had suffered despite the ‘explosive’ gape being away from the power lines.
David lifted his right. He recalled the momentary shock and the outburst which had accompanied it; he thought of the car collision he had viewed, the injury Nate bore, and then the bridge. David looked up with hands squeezing as he recalled the phone call with his father, the warnings he was given, the pronouncement of the danger into which he had put himself by rescuing others from danger. He shook his head. Just coincidences...they don’t know. I’m one of ten thousand other normal students on this campus… “I was a couple minutes ahead of the bridge”, he mumbled.
