by C. S. De Mel
Varick narrowed his eyes. “You lot take off. Frank, take care of Alex—don’t know how large Scorcher’s blanket over this area is.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “And what about you? Don’t tell me you’re going back...”
“I have to.”
Stanley scoffed at him. “Are you stupid? You just got shot.”
“Nothing debilitating.”
Frank placed a hand on Varick’s shoulder. “I understand your desire to help over there, but this is a large-scale battle. Bruce and Santos—they have their powers. The police have their weapons. You, on the other hand, are planning to fight with neither. If you go over there now, you’re liable to get yourself killed.”
“I still might be able to help the situation. I won’t know unless I go.”
“I need your help here. Like you said, how many more of Scorcher’s men are posted around here, we don’t know. Bruce wanted you here, Varick. To help get his son out of harm’s way.”
Varick blinked. He had responsibilities here too. If anything happened to Alex while he was gone, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
“Don’t worry about me, Varick. I’ll be fine,” Alex reassured. “You do what you think is best.”
Varick’s cell phone began to vibrate. He was still racking his brain on what to do. He answered the call:
“Yeah?”
“Varick, it’s Roy. The fight’s over... Come back to the manor.”
Varick went wide-eyed. “It’s over? What happened?”
There was a brief silence on the other end. “Just get back here...”
Varick hung up the call and looked at the others. He knew something was wrong.
“What is it?” Frank asked.
Varick clenched his fists anxiously. “We have to go back.”
***
Paramedics tried to get Santos onto a stretcher, but he pushed them aside. “Laura, take me to Bruce. How’s he doing?” Laura stared at Santos, not knowing what to say. He waited anxiously for a response, but she said nothing. Santos’ eyes grew wide. He placed both hands on her shoulders. “Laura...where is Bruce?”
She bit her lip and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She pointed behind her where a small circle of people were. Santos walked towards them; his legs were shaking. He pushed past the crowd—and there he was. Paramedics had Bruce on a stretcher. Roy Cameron, Henry Schucker, and Captain Morring were by his side. Santos stood frozen in place.
Roy walked over to Santos. “They tried to resuscitate him. He’s gone.” Santos slowly walked up to Bruce. He stared down at his lifeless body and the crushing reality of the situation bore down upon Santos all at once. He was completely and utterly overwhelmed.
Varick and the others had returned to the battlefield. “What happened?!” Varick demanded, as he pushed to the front.
Varick, Frank, Alex, and Stanley convened around Bruce’s body. Frank’s eyes grew wide. “Oh my god...” Alex didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what to think as he stared down at his dead father. Stanley placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder and hung his head. Everyone present was feeling the pain.
Varick balled his hands into fists, then glared at Santos. “How did this happen?”
Santos couldn’t bring himself to look anyone in the eyes. “I—I don’t know.”
“It was Scorcher,” Roy answered.
Varick turned to Roy. “Scorcher? Scorcher did this to Bruce?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t believe it. Scorcher has never been a match for Bruce.”
“He shot him right out of the window. Everyone saw it.”
Varick blinked several times before turning his attention back to Santos. “...And where were you?” He marched right up to him, inches from his face. “WHERE WERE YOU?!” Varick roared, shoving Santos with both hands.
Santos fought hard to restrain his tears. “I didn’t see him coming...he got me...”
“Yet here you stand instead of Bruce... You were supposed to have his back.” Varick gritted his teeth. He raised a fist to Santos, then lowered it. Instead, he vented his anger on the nearest squad car. His punch smashed clean through the driver’s side window.
“Hey! That’s my car!” an officer yelled out.
Captain Morring took the officer aside. “Let him be.”
“Varick...” Santos wanted to explain what happened. “There was something different about him tonight...about Scorcher...” Before he could finish, Varick turned his back to him and stormed off. Santos felt such terrible pain, not caused by the physical wounds Scorcher had inflicted upon him. He opened his mouth to call out to Varick, but no words came out. He couldn’t say the words that he desperately wanted to speak aloud... To say that he did everything he could.
Laura stood by Alex. She wiped her tears to hold up a brave front and embraced him in a hug. “Alex, I’m so sorry.” Alex looked down at his feet and remained silent.
***
A wet snow had started to fall. It was the first hours of a new day. A new year. A new millennium. Santos had been aimlessly walking the streets for hours since the incident. He had finally stopped in front of his church. It was once a place he could go to unburden himself from the trials of life. A refuge. His sanctuary. But not anymore. Nevertheless, he went inside.
3:40 a.m.
He ran a hand down his damp hair and over his face. He was soaked to the bone. Santos sat down in the nearest pew in the back row. The only lights in the church were the few candles by the altar. He raised his head to look up at the cross.
“Well, here I am again,” he said aloud. He felt lightheaded; his eyes were red. He had a sudden urge to laugh. Just burst out laughing. He stifled the notion by biting down on his fist. Tears began to well up again. “He’s really gone...” He shook his head. Why did this happen? He was always able to make sense of the tragedies of life. But there was no end to it. They would continuously accumulate until despair finally threatened to swallow a person whole. It was a never-ending sea of tragedy.
“Where was I?” Santos asked aloud. “I was attacked and left for dead.” He stared intensely at the cross, grinding his teeth. “Where were you?” His fist lightly tapped on the pew in front of him. “Where were you...” He hit the pew harder and harder. “WHERE WERE YOU?!” He stood up with a burning anger that he had never felt before. His hands heated up as he squeezed the backrest of the pew—the wood crumbled in his hands. He was breathing hard, and his hands were now glowing. He raised his fist...
“Peter?” Father Christy had emerged from the rectory. “Peter, is that you?” He rubbed his eyes and squinted in the dark. Santos yelled out and put his fist through the back of the pew. “No, don’t!” Father Christy rushed over. Another punch, another hole. Father Christy tried to restrain Santos’ arm, but lost his grip the second Santos took another swing. He resorted to slapping Peter on the shoulder instead. “Peter! PETER! Get a hold of yourself!”
Santos dropped his hands and looked over his shoulder. “Bruce is gone. They killed him.” He collapsed onto the pew and buried his face in his hand.
Father Christy took a moment to run his fingers over the charred wood. He dusted the ashes off his fingertips, then sat down beside Santos. “Peter, what happened?”
“He’s dead...” Santos repeated. “So many dead...”
Father Christy held Santos’ wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. Father Christy looked into Santos’ bloodshot eyes. “What happened?”
“Scorcher. He was in Greenwich Village, sharp at midnight. He came to the manor. Our home.”
“How did he find out where the manor was?”
“I don’t know... He destroyed everything. The manor is in ruins.” Santos’ eyes grew wide as he recalled the horror. “He had an army with him... They went head-to-head with us and the NYPD. So many killed...and Bruce was among them.”
“Peter...” He put an arm around Santos. “I’m sorry. Bruce was a truly extraordinary person. This is a terrible loss.” Father Chris
ty just then realized that Santos was still wet from the snow. “Peter, let me get you a blanket to dry yourself off. You’ve been through a lot.” As Father Christy stood up to fetch a blanket, Peter suddenly began to recollect aloud:
“In the manor, I was going in and out of consciousness,” Santos said. “From where I was lying, I could see him... Bruce.” Father Christy sat back down. “Right through a hole in the ground-floor ceiling—Bruce was upstairs, and he was fighting with him. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. I don’t even know if I was immobilized by my injuries... Maybe it was my fear...” Santos stared at Father Christy, who didn’t say a word and allowed him to speak his mind. “I don’t know if God exists...but tonight, I think I saw the devil.”
“What are you talking about, Peter?”
“In the manor—I saw something. At least, I think I did.”
Father Christy looked at Santos, concerned. “What did you see?”
Santos opened his mouth, then closed it. He bit down on his lip hesitantly, then shook his head. “Never mind, forget it.”
“Talk to me, Peter.”
Santos stood up. “I’m done talking. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s nothing here for me anymore. I’m leaving the church. Leaving New York.”
“Wait, you’re not thinking clearly, Peter. Don’t make any rash decisions—you need time.”
Santos stared at Father Christy with a look of disdain. “Time for what? I never knew my real family. Bruce was like a brother to me, and now he’s gone.” Santos looked from one end of the church to the other. “I used to find solace here. And now, standing here—all I feel is anger.”
Father Christy studied Santos. “Peter, when you say you’re leaving the church...are you suggesting that you are leaving the faith?”
Santos stared off into the distance and focused on an arbitrary point on the floor. “I don’t know. All I know for sure is that I have to leave New York. I need to.” Santos extended his hand. “Thank you for everything, Father.”
Father Christy was stunned. But after a moment’s pause, he shook Peter’s hand. “I wish you the best of luck in your future. Safe travels.”
Santos glanced at the damage he had done to the church bench. “I’ll cover the cost of that somehow.”
Father Christy shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve done a lot for this church and the community. We’re in your debt, not the other way around.”
Santos nodded appreciatively. “So long, Father Christy.”
“Wait, let me get you something warm to wear.”
Santos flat-out refused. “No. Thank you.”
Father Christy nodded his head with a halfhearted smile. “Okay.” Santos made his way to the doors. “Goodbye, Peter. When you’re ready, God will call you back.” Santos raised a hand as he walked, to acknowledge that he had heard Father Christy, but he didn’t look back. Father Christy watched Santos walk out of the church and into the cold, snowy night. He didn’t feel good about letting Santos leave in the state of mind he was in. But he had spent decades listening to people’s problems and understanding them. He knew when someone’s mind was made up—when there was nothing to be gained by talking. He said three silent prayers after Peter had left. One for the men and women lost in the Greenwich Village battle. One for Bruce. And one for Peter.
***
Saturday, January 8th, 2000
It had been one week since that fateful day. The masses had gathered from far and wide for Bruce’s funeral—from all over the world to pay tribute to the fallen hero. This small, seldom visited cemetery in New York had never seen such a gathering.
Alex was tuning in and out. For all he knew, he could have been standing on the grounds all by himself. It had been one week, and yet all he could feel since his father’s death was a strange numbness that didn’t seem to lift. The gloomy afternoon with rolling clouds felt like an outward manifestation of the cloudiness in Alex’s own mind. Varick, Frank, Stanley, and Laura were all with him. Even Leonardo was here, with a cast on his rear leg. Charlie Walker, the youngest of Bruce’s foster brothers, had flown in from Los Angeles to attend the funeral. He had come with his wife and two children: Ken and Alice. Ken and Alice were close childhood friends of Alex that grew up with him when the Walkers were still living in Manhattan. They were by his side as well.
Alex had been introduced to so many people since the beginning of the funeral service, that he had fallen into a tedious routine of thanking and accepting consolation without mentally registering names or faces. He was truly grateful for their support, but in the state he was in, he simply could not process it all. Everything washed over him in a blur.
Frank nudged Varick and Charlie and pulled the two aside. “So, has it been decided? Where Alex is going to go?”
“I would be more than happy to have him live with us,” Charlie said. “Ken and Alice would love the arrangement as well.”
“No, I’ll look after him,” Varick stated firmly. “I’ve spoken with Alex about this, and he doesn’t want to leave New York. He wants to continue with his training. I can provide that for him.”
“Are you sure, Varick? Is it safe for him to stay in New York?” Charlie asked.
“Well, he can have more time to think about it, but I don’t think he’s going to change his mind.”
“He’s a brave child.”
“Can I suggest something here?” Frank interjected. “Well, obviously, you’ll need a new place to stay, and it shouldn’t be an advertised location.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“For you and Alex to stay with Stan.”
Varick narrowed his eyes. “Are you joking? With your idiot brother? I’d probably wring his neck within the first week.”
“If you plan to stay in New York, you need to lay low. Staying with Stanley is a good idea.”
“And Stanley would be okay with this?”
“Of course he would. Despite outward appearances, he respects you, Varick.”
Varick sighed. “Well, if Alex doesn’t mind... God, but he just irritates the hell outta me.”
“I think this will be good for Alex too. Regardless of what you may think of Stanley, he’s a good guy. He’s the kind of person that Alex needs to be around to lift his spirits. Because you know for the next few months, it’s going to be hell for Alex.”
Varick nodded and reluctantly gave in. “Fine. I’ll try to put up with him, then.”
“Good.” Frank patted Varick on the back. “By the way, where the hell is Santos? Have you seen him?”
Varick stared back darkly. “No.”
A safe distance from the crowd, Santos was attending the funeral. On an elevated hill he stood, leaning against a tall elm tree. This was his last stop and then he would be off. Everything he wanted to take with him was already packed in the canvas backpack he was wearing. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. Maybe down South...
Once the service was over, so too was his time in New York. Santos sighed. Goodbye, old friend. He bowed his head for a moment, then hitched up his bag and left on his journey.
Slowly, the crowds began to disperse from the lot. Alex noticed that after Charlie Walker had paid his respects in front of Bruce’s grave, he had done the same at the grave next to Bruce’s. Alex glanced over to where Charlie was standing and read the name on the headstone. It belonged to Douglas Walker. Bruce never spoke a lot about his past, and it was only recently that he had chosen to divulge stories from it to Alex. Douglas Walker...Charlie’s older brother and the second oldest of Bruce’s foster brothers. He read the date of death on the headstone—it was evident that he didn’t make it back from the war.
Soon, it was only Varick, Alex, and Leo in the cemetery. Alex had been standing in the same spot in front of Bruce’s grave for over an hour. He felt strange. He could feel his eyes brimming with tears for the first time since it happened. It was all so surreal for him. And more than grief and
sadness, other feelings were rising to the surface first. Varick and Leo were standing back to give Alex his space.
“Hey, Varick...” Alex spoke for the first time since standing in that spot. Varick stepped forward. “They’re going to pay.”
Varick nodded. “You got that right.” Varick watched Alex intently.
Alex clenched his fists, as if trying to puncture his palms. “I’m going to make them pay.”
“You and me both, kid.” Varick placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve got a lot to teach you.”
***
Epilogue – Times Long Past
July 1975
A heavy rain was pouring. Bruce stood by himself in front of the grave of Douglas Walker. He was one of the most reliable people Bruce had ever known. Strong-willed. Kind. The rain splattered against his umbrella and dripped down the treated polyester.
Bruce had returned back to the States like he had always planned to. For nearly seven years, he had undergone rigorous training at one of the pillars of the Omega Ops Legion. He had journeyed to Tibet with Peter, but had come back to New York by himself. Peter planned to stay there a few more years, and when he returned, he could teach Bruce what he had learned.
Bruce was now a nineteen-year-old man. He hadn’t had contact with his family since leaving for Tibet. After seven years, to his dismay, he found that much had changed. The war was now over, but he had enlisted nevertheless. Three of his brothers fought in that bloody war. Flint Pederson and Ned Crawford were missing in action and presumed dead. Only one came back home...and Bruce was standing in front of him. He closed his eyes and ran his hand down the cold granite headstone.
A gentle sobbing brought Bruce back to this world. He turned to see that he was not alone in the cemetery. There was a girl kneeling by a grave. Her hands were sinking into the mud as she wept. She had no umbrella.
Bruce cautiously approached the girl and held his umbrella over her head. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up to see what had stopped the rain. Bruce looked down at her, concerned. “Are you alright?”
