She tilts her head in confusion. Locked in on his gaze, she can see his soul, everything, good and bad that he has done. How is it there is nothing punishable? A few dirty mags as a kid, some illegitimately retrieved documents as a cop, his first time with his girlfriend in the backseat of a classic 1969 Chevrolet Nova, but nothing worth taking his life over. Isn’t this what I do? An eye for an eye? Who is this man? Why is he here, in my assignment? She loosens her grip with the realization that he is one of the good guys.
Randall scuffles behind them on the floor, his hands fumble nervously with the gun. He accidentally hits the clip release button causing the clip to drop from the handle. “Shit!” he stammers, his hands busily attempting to reassemble the weapon.
Vigilare whips her head in his direction, a smile forming on her lips as she sights him in. Bullseye! With incredible speed, she pushes off Tony, lunging at Randall. Her hands viced around his neck, she jerks him to his feet, throwing him up against the wall. He screams, his eyes wide open, providing her the perfect vantage point. She locks in. He is unable to pull his stare from hers. With each evil image, her right shoulder twinges in pain, the gunshot wound coupled with her rampant heart rate causing ample blood loss. Tony gathers himself from the floor. Vigilare’s hands on Randall’s neck turn cool and clammy. Her pulse, once loud and rhythmic grows weak, her breathing rapid and shallow. She attempts to steady herself, purposely focusing, her eyes seemingly unwilling to maintain. Her grip loosening, the room begins to spin, the emerald green light flickers, vanishing. She faints, falling to the floor. Randall slides down the wall gasping for air, his nearly limp body unable to sustain itself upright.
“Vanguard PD,” the identifier bounces off the walls of the hallway, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots.
Tony rushes to Vigilare, rolling her over onto her back, he applies pressure over her right shoulder.
Four officers enter the apartment, cautiously, stealthily, followed by Tony’s stakeout partner, Officer Marks. “Gronkowski?” one of the officer’s recognizes Tony. He motions with his hand, a signal to those following him that the scene is secure.
“Tried to tell them you had it under control, Sarge,” Marks chimes.
The officer instantly on the defensive. “Look. We got a call to this address. We gotta answer that call.”
Tony nods, waving them toward the closed bedroom door. “She’s in the closet. Fifteen-year-old female.”
“Tessa,” Randall gasps, his breath returning to his body.
Tony hatefully points his finger at Randall, seething, “Get this mother-fucker out of my sight.” He wipes at the sweat over his brow, exchanging hands over Vigilare’s shoulder wound to maintain good pressure.
“I saved your life,” Randall defends.
Tony lunges for him. Marks pulls him off, with the help of another officer. “You take him down to the station, and you hold him. I’m booking this piece of shit.” Tony is fuming, nearly spitting with every word. His focus delivers, he returns to Vigilare.
Marks pulls Randall up by his shirt collar, handing him off to two officers who happily escort him from the premises.
“Marks, I need an ambulance, yesterday,” Tony says.
“You got it, Sarge.” Officer Marks paces, near Tony and Vigilare radioing dispatch for medical assistance.
The other two officers have cleared Tessa’s room and are taking her statement in the kitchen as two more cops arrive on scene. “We were in the neighborhood. Heard the call. What do ya need?”
“Tess! Tess!” a woman’s voice cries down the hallway. Tessa’s mother enters. “Oh my God,” she exclaims, her hand covering her mouth upon her initial assessment. “Tess, baby.” She continues to the kitchen, embracing her daughter.
The apartment is busy. People coming and going, voices all abound. Tony is used to such chaos. Why is it then, that he is having problems focusing on anything but the lifeless body he hovers over? He palpates her carotid artery—pulsing, but faint. His hands bare of gloves, he picks the right one up off the wound where he holds pressure. He stretches his hand out, extending his fingers away from his palm, a small cut visible. Unaware of how or when he acquired it (must have been when they were sparring ), it is now soaked in her blood, and tingling. A clot forms at the juncture of his cut, where her blood meets his. His curiosity beyond piqued, he grips the ski mask at her neck and slowly begins to peel it up over her face. Her lips familiar, surely his eyes play tricks on him. His heartbeat enhanced, he continues. With each new facial feature, the chatter in the apartment grows more distant, an ominous feeling befalls him.
“Sarge, ambulance is pulling up out front,” Marks reports, encroaching over his shoulder.
Tony attempts to block Marks’ view by leaning over her, but it’s too late, her auburn hair gives it away.
“Gina?” Marks expels from his lips, his expression deeply disconnected.
Tony identifies with the surreal feeling.
“Pinch me, Sarge,” Marks exclaims with serious intent, offering up his arm. “I gotta be freaking dreaming.”
Tony hangs his head, wishing such was the case. “Tell them to pull up out back. We’re not taking her out the front. You got it?”
Marks nods, his body inert.
“Now!” Tony barks, causing him to move to action.
The other officers hear the rise in his voice, two of them start in his direction, “You need something over here, boss?”
Tony holds his hand out to them, firmly. “I got it.” His body language crouched over Gina is protective in every assertion.
They look to one another, eyebrows raised, throwing their hands up to their shoulders in retreat. Tony eyes them until they return to the kitchen. The wheels of a medical stretcher approach from the hallway.
“What’cha got?” the paramedic at the head of the stretcher inquires, guiding his crew to Tony.
“Gunshot wound. Right shoulder. Cool, clammy skin. Rapid, weak pulse. She fell out...fainted.”
“Get me a line started. Both ACs. 18-gauge. Fluids, fast and furious. Possible shock,” the medic orders to his partner. “You comfortable doing a 12-lead?” he asks the student rider. She nods. “Need to ask you to give us some room.” He pats Tony on the shoulder.
“Sure.” Tony jumps up. “Just fix her, man.”
“That’s what we’re here to do,” the medic affirms.
Tony paces, hovering over them, running his fingers through his hair, watching them work diligently.
“1, 2, 3,” the medic counts as they hoist her onto the stretcher for departure to the local trauma center.
“I’m going with her,” Tony states.
“Got a student rider. No room, hoss.”
“She can ride with him,” he points in Marks’ direction. “I’m not leaving her. She’s my partner, goddammit!” His eyes begin to sting, quenching the urge for emotion, he breathes deeply, calming his voice. “Do you mind riding with Officer Marks?” he asks the student.
She eyes Marks, handsome and tall. “Not at all,” she says with a smile.
Tony grabs Marks, pulling him along as they accompany the stretcher. “You call Chief. Have him pull whatever strings he’s got with the hospital. I want her room ready before we get there. Somewhere secure and out of the way. Two heavily armed officers better be outside her hospital room waiting to greet us. No media, no visitors, no one gets near her. No one.”
“You got it, Sarge,” Marks consoles.
Chapter 8
VANGUARD GENERAL HOSPITAL. Tony sits at Gina’s bedside. She rests in the Cadillac of hospital rooms, safe and secure from the rest of the ward. As per Detective Gronkowski’s request, two armed guards monitor the hallway and entrance to her room. She is listed as Jane Doe, in accordance with hospital confidentiality adherence with Vanguard Police Department in the event of an officer shooting.
She lies still, restrained in the oversized hydraulic medical bed, to which she is shackled at every joint on her body, a safety precautio
n upon report of her superhuman strength. She is stabilized after the medical team worked on her for half the night. It is now four in the morning. A hematologist lurks in the room, Dr. Godfrey. He is a short, thin man who wears a white lab coat suitably adorned with a pocket protector. His bifocals, way overdue for an adjustment, cause him to continuously scrunch his nose to keep them at an appropriate level to his eyes. His rolling metal desk contains a plethora of slides, tubes, and other blood testing paraphernalia. He loads a slide with a smear of Gina’s blood onto his microscope, peering through the tiny lens.
“How come you guys have been taking so much blood from her?” Tony asks. “Thought you were trying to replace that. And are the shackles really necessary?” the disdain resonant in his tone.
“The most peculiar thing,” Dr. Godfrey answers. Lifting his head from the microscope, he peers over his bifocals at Tony. “She is a mystery.”
You can say that again, Tony thinks to himself.
“Her blood is undetectable. Most humans have one blood type accompanied by one Rh-factor. O, A, B, or AB, and Rh-positive or negative. Her blood registers as none of the above. Yet, when it’s broken down to its most basic of components there are traces of O-negative, AB-negative, and B-negative. That is unheard of. Come have a look.” He motions Tony to the microscope.
Tony squints with his left eye focusing his right down the barrel of the eyepiece. “Doesn’t look like anything, doc. All I see is a bunch of circles.”
“That’s it. Those are her blood cells. You see how the center of those little discs are clear?”
“Yeah.”
“Notice how the cells move around within their own space, gently bouncing off neighboring cells, but never sticking to them or overlapping?”
“I guess,” Tony answers, focusing on the tiny round discs as they move under the microscope.
“That’s indicative of healthy blood. The terrain of her blood is good. The toxic load is slim to none. Unhealthy blood, symbolic of an illness or depressed immune system would be sluggish in its movement. It would stick to the other cells, sometimes overlapping.”
“So, this is live blood? How can blood survive outside the body?” Tony suddenly feels like he is ten years old again, in his grade school biology class.
“Oh yes. Blood can survive outside the body for several days. A hearty little thing—blood.” He chuckles at his own dry humor.
“Yeah,” Tony says with a weak smile, unimpressed.
Dr. Godfrey clears his throat. “Back to my point.” He takes the slide out from under the microscope, replacing it with another. “Now, see here.”
Tony peers down into the lens, acquiring an instant headache with the task of keeping up with the amount of little round discs and the momentum with which they move. A faint, sparkling emerald green hue reflects through the glass. He jerks his head up from the microscope, rubbing his eyes. “What kind of blood is that?”
Dr. Godfrey pats him on the back, smiling. “That my friend, is inhuman. Not of this world. Super blood.”
“And that’s her blood? Gina? My partner?” He returns to his chair beside her bed, sinking down into it, sitting forward his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. “But I thought you said the first slide was her blood. How can she have two different kinds of blood?”
He waves his hands in clarification. “She has only one kind of blood, as we all have only one. What makes her unique is that she has three components, three different traces of blood types in her one kind of blood,” Dr. Godfrey attempts to keep his explanation layperson-friendly. “The last slide is her blood, as was the first slide. The key, oxygen.” Dr.Godfrey’s eyes light up, excitement exudes out of his every movement, unable to contain his imagination. “When her blood is exposed to oxygen, external oxygen, that which is outside the body, something magical happens.”
“Super blood,” Tony states flatly. “Like Superman. Superhuman. Don’t tell me you believe all this shit about Vigilare.” He gets up out of his chair frustrated and pacing. “I’ve known this girl for almost a year. She transferred to the department from Chicago. She’s a hell of a detective. Not some Vigilare, super freak. She’s a goddamn human being!” He kicks the side of his chair.
Dr. Godfrey walks to Tony, gesturing for his right hand. Reluctantly, Tony turns his hand palm side up. “You held pressure to her shoulder while waiting on the ambulance?”
Tony nods.
Dr. Godfrey notices the cut on Tony’s palm. “You know the term blood brothers? Native Americans started that tradition. They would cut into the flesh of their palm and press it against another, believing that if they were blood brothers their blood would mesh, smoothly, one into the other. No reaction. No clotting.”
Tony pulls his hand from Dr. Godfrey, dissatisfied with the topic.
“The clumping that occurs when Rh-negative blood mixes with that of Rh-positive is visible to the naked eye. Did your blood react to hers? Clump? Clot?”
Tony’s mind flashes back to the scene at the apartment when he pulled his hand from Gina’s shoulder, tingling and covered with blood, a mixture of his and hers, and how tiny beads clumped together at the incision site of his cut. “What’s that prove? That we’re not blood brothers? That I don’t carry the gene for ‘super blood,’” he accentuates with air quotes, fully annoyed. “Since when did compatibility come down to blood types?”
Dr. Godfrey smiles. “Ah, I see. Your relationship to Vigilare, far exceeds that of work partner.”
Tony turns swiftly to him, grabbing him by the collar of his lab coat. “Don’t call her that.”
“Gina,” he quickly corrects.
Tony releases his grip, walks to Gina, and looks her over limb to limb. Her exposed arms display goosebumps. He pulls the blanket up over her, tucking it in around her body. “What’s Rh-negative and positive?”
Dr. Godfrey is silently pleased with his question, proof that he has an interest, even if it battles with his pride. “Rh is a blood factor. The type of protein found on red blood cells. Most of us are Rh-positive, meaning we have that blood protein. Eighty-five percent of the world’s population is Rh-positive. The term Rh stems from the Rhesus Monkey, linking us to primates.”
“Evolution,” Tony says.
“Exactly!” Dr. Godfrey excitedly walks around the other side of the bed, across from Tony. He looks down at Gina, as if she is some priceless, rare thing. “But what evolution has yet to explain is the remaining fifteen-percent of the population who have Rh-negative factor. Like our Gina here.”
“What’s to explain? If Rh stems from a monkey, we’re all descendants of primates, right?”
“Rh-positive factor links us to the primate. Rh-negative factor has yet to be scientifically determined. Rh-negative blood is of unknown origin. Not one scientist can give a single reason for its existence. Other than to speculate it is a mutation that occurred tens of thousands of years ago.”
“What does it matter, really? In the grand scheme of things? Blood is blood.” Tony paces at the bedside. “When do you think she’ll wake up?”
“If all mankind evolved from the same ancestor, their blood would be compatible. Where did Rh-negative factor come from?” Dr. Godfrey makes his way back to his rolling metal desk, firing up his centrifuge, its purpose to separate blood densities. “Rh-negative blood is found nowhere in nature, except in humans. It nearly acts as though it doesn’t belong here. And, consider this scenario: When an Rh-negative mother is pregnant with an Rh-positive fetus, her body builds antibodies to get rid of that fetus, as if it’s a foreign invader to her body, an alien so to speak.”
“So, now we’re bringing aliens into the mix. Superheroes, super blood, vigilares, aliens...what’s next, predators?” Tony scoffs.
“Why would a mother’s body reject her own offspring? The only place in nature where the same scenario occurs is in mules—a crossbreed between a horse and a donkey.”
“Ah man.” Tony interrupts. “You’re reaching here, doc. Go a
head. When she wakes up, feel free to tell her she’s kin to a jackass. See how far that gets ya?” He shakes his head, chuckling.
Doctor Godfrey laughs heartily, scrunching up his nose, causing his bifocals to come to rest nearer to his eyes. “My point...that fact alone says there may be a distinct possibility that two similar yet genetically different species were crossbred creating the Rh-negative factor in the blood. You see, when breeding livestock, animals of any sort, really, some believe crossbreeding creates an optimal breed, a hybrid, if you will. Taking the dominant traits of one species and crossing them with the dominant traits of another, you get the best of both, creating a stronger, more intelligent, elite species.”
“Well, Gina is all those things. Cream rises to the top,” Tony agrees. “But it’s not because of her blood. It’s her attitude, her heart, her try. That’s just who she is, Doc.”
“But imagine the possibilities,” he says, intrigued, his mind racing. “No one has ever been able to explain where Rh-negative people come from. What is their origin? Is it a true mutation? Or do they descend from a different ancestor? If so, who? Take it back to the Native Americans.”
“Back to blood brothers,” Tony huffs, throwing his hands up in the air, sitting down in the recliner beside Gina’s bed.
“They declared their ancestors were of cosmic origin,” Dr. Godfrey continues. “Were they the ancient astronauts? The missing link between the earth and the stars? The missing link between primate and extraterrestrial? The hybrid man, or woman,” he motions in Gina’s direction.
“Extraterrestrial? Extraterrestrial?” Tony squints, attempting to make sense of this highly educated individual standing in a hospital room justifying aliens. “You’re comparing my partner to E-fucking-T?”
“Well, yes, that might be a good example,” Dr. Godfrey indulges. “Not exactly, but take for instance the premise that his finger glowed. Remember he touched it to Elliot’s cut, and the cut healed?”
Tony shakes his head, disbelieving and disturbed.
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