He simply nodded at the worker.
“Thanks,” he said. He tucked the pamphlet into his pocket.
“The guy at the door will have your clothes and shoes. If they don’t fit, let him know. He can find you replacements. We don’t want you walking around naked and heading back here.” He gave Bill a grin, but Bill didn’t feel like smiling.
He tried on his clothes. For the most part they still fit. The t-shirt was a little snug, but it went on fine. What he was really pleased with was that his trench coat still fit like perfect. It was exactly as he remembered it. The weight of it compared to the paper-thin clothes that he had to wear in solitary felt comforting.
His jeans were fine as well. He’d lost some weight over twenty years, so he had to hitch his belt to keep them up.
Then there were his shoes.
They were Airwalks. It made him laugh because they, too, were the same as he had left them. The soles were modified with little punctures in the bottom. Sure, it ruined the comfort a bit, but they were more useful to him that way than the alternative.
He shook his head at the memories.
There were so many things flooding his mind right now. He felt dizzy.
“Alright,” said the guard at the door, a man with a chiseled face, but kind features. “Looks like you’re all set.” He lowered his voice and handed Bill a rolled up piece of paper. When Bill looked down at it, he saw that it was a twenty dollar bill. “For your cab, since you don’t have anyone waiting for you. Don’t say anything.”
Bill gave the guard a smile.
“Thanks,” he said. It was the nicest thing that anyone had done for him in the course of his time here.
“Now, go get ‘em,” said the guard, and he opened the door to the outside.
If Bill thought that the light in the hallway was bright, he was nearly barreled over by the sight he saw on the steps of the prison. The sun beamed down on him, hot and strong in the mid-afternoon. He had to squint for a few minutes before his eyes adjusted.
Then there was the wind. It caressed his face and ruffled his black hair. It smelled so fresh. He breathed in as much as his lungs would allow and held it there, relishing the freedom.
“Go get ‘em…”
That was exactly what he intended to do.
However, it wasn’t exactly a them he was going to get. It was a who.
He walked down the pathway to the opening in the tall fence and stepped out onto the street.
The prison was in Massachusetts, in a wooded area. Large signs were posted warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers because they could be escaped convicts.
Never fear, he thought with a smile. He wasn’t a convict any more. He was a free man. And he had big plans for his freedom.
Originally he was supposed to serve forty years, but due to good behavior and a little ass-kissing, Bill was released early. It wasn’t uncommon, but it was definitely not something that happened every day - and he remembered every single day of his solitary confinement.
He was only allowed to exercise alone. The only faces he saw were the guards. He learned who they were, though he barely knew their names. Only their titles.
A few cars drove by, but none of them slowed.
“Smart people,” Bill said.
He went over to a bench and took a seat. A few minutes later he saw a taxi drive up.
The car parked in front of him and Bill went over to the passenger door, opening it.
“Are you Flagrant?” the driver, a man with a thick Boston accent, asked.
“That’s me,” said Bill.
“Hop in,” said the driver, and Bill obeyed.
He couldn’t believe how long he had been out of society. A taxi cab felt luxurious.
“Where to, bub?” the driver asked.
Bill thought. He really wasn’t sure. He was so far from home, and the five bucks wouldn’t get him very far.
“I’ve only got twenty bucks,” he said. “Just drive until we reach the city.”
The drive was relaxing. Bill settled in and rested his head against the seat.
It was only a few minutes before the trees started thinning out and houses appeared, becoming denser and denser until he was in a suburb.
Up ahead he could see the towering buildings of Boston.
The driver struck up conversation as Bill watched the numbers tick up on the electronic calculator attached to the dash.
“Nobody would come to pick you up?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Bill. “I doubt any of them even know I’m out, to be honest.”
“Ah,” said the driver. “That’s a real shame. It’s no small thing to step out into the real world again. How long were you in for?”
“Twenty years,” said Bill.
“Shit,” said the man. “That’s quite a hike. And nobody would remember you?”
Bill went quiet, looking out his window.
“One might,” he said. “Jeff Boding.”
The name had been in his head every day since he was put in that horrible prison. He couldn’t shake it, no matter how many self-help tapes he listened to from the prison’s lending library.
“Jeff Boding?” said the driver. “Man, you know some high-class folks if you know that guy.”
Bill glanced at the driver in the rear-view mirror.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“Well,” the driver said with an amused look in his eyes, “Boding is pretty much a household name. I guess you really have been in the clinker for a while. He writes the Super Guy books.” The man paused for a moment, blinking. “Well, wrote, I should say.”
Bill was genuinely shocked. His heart-rate sped up at the information that he was hearing.
He did it. He actually did it. It wasn’t just talk.
Jeff had always gone on and on about becoming published. Bill thought it was never going to happen, especially not with something as crazy as Super Guy. But, here he was, hearing it from a complete stranger.
Jeff had made it.
That made Bill’s blood begin to boil.
“What do you mean, he used to?” he asked the driver. “Did he stop or something?”
“It wasn’t by choice,” the driver chuckled flatly. “He’s been dead for about a year.”
That news felt like a punch in the gut to Bill. He pressed back in the seat. Goose bumps ran up his arms and down his legs and his shirt felt a little tighter.
“Dead…”
Jeff was the one person that he was going to seek out. At the mention of fame, Bill thought that it was going to be easy to find him, which would be a nice surprise. Now that he knew that Jeff was dead, his plans were all messed up.
“He’s the one you were going to see?” said the driver, raising an eyebrow.
Bill’s mouth hung open. He was still reeling with the information. Then he pressed his lips together and straightened his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
The driver continued to drive. The numbers on the dash were getting pretty close to the twenty that Bill had in his hand.
“I can drop you off at the cemetery if you want to pay your respects?” said the driver.
Bill shook his head.
“No,” he said. That would be no use to him. If Jeff was dead, he didn’t have what Bill was looking for. He would have to find it somewhere else. “Drop me off at a library, if you can.”
“Sure thing,” said the driver.
A few moments later they were stopped in front of a brick library and Bill handed the man the twenty.
“Here you go,” said the driver, dropping a dollar and some change into Bill’s hand. “You sure have some strange direction, Flagrant. Most guys who get released want me to take them to a burger joint, or some other seedy place. You? You go looking for a dead guy and then get dropped off at a library. Gonna get caught up on the times?”
Bill nodded.
“Something like that,” he said.
“Well, good luck,” s
aid the driver. Then he put the car in gear and drove off.
The sounds of the bustling city in the distance was carried by the wind to Bill’s ears. He stood on the steps of the library for a few moments, drinking it in. Commotion. Activity. People.
For the first time he could be anonymous. Nobody knew who he was. He could do his research in obscurity and formulate a new plan on his own time.
He pushed the library door open and approached the woman at the desk. The place was quiet except for the occasional cough and the sound of typing on keyboards.
The librarian looked up at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” said Flagrant. “I need to do some research.”
The librarian raised a penciled eyebrow.
“You want to sign on to one of the computers?” she asked.
“Please.”
She handed him the sign-up clipboard and Bill hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to put his own name down, so he made one up. With the fake name scribbled down and the time of day, the librarian pointed him to an empty computer against the wall.
He sat down in the comfortable chair and found himself lost.
A computer…
This one looked a lot more advanced than the ones he remembered in school twenty years ago. Everything was sleek and simplified. The icons were colorful and eye catching.
He reached out and took the mouse, moving to an icon of a globe that ended up being the internet.
Double clicking, he launched the browser and paused. What should he do next? His pulse quickened at the speed of the technology. There was no dialing up. It was all just ready to go at his fingertips.
This should make things easier…
Still, he had no idea what site to go to.
In the top corner there was a little magnifying glass. He supposed that was what he could use to search.
He clicked on it, and a flashing type symbol appeared. It was waiting for him to give it some input.
He sat back and thought about where to start. There were so many things he needed to find out. He needed to know all about Jeffrey and where his life had gone. He needed to find out where his childhood friend had settled down. He needed to know so many things.
But, the first thing that he needed to find, the most important thing, was at the front of his mind, and he typed it in.
“The Vestige.”
3
Disciplinary Action
I sit outside the principal’s office on one of those padded chairs that still happens to be uncomfortable. The bottom is too wide and my legs are not long enough to truly reach the floor. So, I’m sitting forward so that my feet are firmly on the carpet and I slouch backwards so that my shoulders rest against the back of the chair.
Beside me, for moral support, is Mae. She is also slouched back in her chair, and glances over at me.
“I told you not to do it,” she says.
I twiddle my thumbs together and sigh. She’s right. I should have listened to her. But, I was so sure that I could get away with it.
I groan.
“This is not how I thought my day was going to go,” I say.
We sit in silence for a few moments and the sound of voices inside the principal’s office float out.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” says Mae in a tone that sounds forcefully optimistic.
I raise an eyebrow and look over at her.
“You have to say that because you’re my friend,” I say.
She lets out a laugh.
“From the sound of those voices in there, it seems to me like you could use all the friends you can get,” she says.
Not only is my mother speaking to the principal, she is also being scolded by the superintendent and the teacher who spotted me on the roof. They are talking loudly. I try to hear specifically what they’re saying, but I am suddenly distracted by two other students who walk into the office. They come to a stop at the secretary’s counter. They’re talking loudly and animatedly about what else? My father’s comic series.
“You haven’t read it yet?” one of them says.
The other shakes his head. “No. I haven’t had the time. Is it good?”
The first one’s eyes widen and his jaw drops.
“Dude, you are so lucky! Do you know what I would give to be able to start reading the entire thing from the very beginning? You need to borrow my copies. It’s fantastic. This guy ends up finding an ancient relic called the Vestige and discovers that it gives him super powers. It lets him fly and shoot electricity!”
“That sounds pretty awesome,” the second one says.
“Yeah, and that’s not all. Turns out he’s not the only one with super powers. There’s a villain named The Drone. He ends up getting mysterious powers, too, but they’re not as powerful as Super Guy’s.”
“Wait,” said the second boy. “Super Guy? That sounds like a pretty lame hero name. Are you sure that this is cool?”
“I’m serious! You need to give it a try. The name grows on you. They’re working their way to a ridiculous showdown.”
“So, where does this relic come from?” asks the second.
“There are lots of theories,” says the first. “Some think that it’s a Native American relic from a long forgotten time. Personally, I think it came from space. Maybe aliens sent it here. Nobody really knows for sure. They’re supposed to give us the final answer in the finale. But, that doesn’t come out for a while. There’s going to be a movie, though.”
Suddenly the door beside me opens and Mrs. Mills pokes her head out. Her expression is stern.
“Shaun? You can come in now.”
I glance at Mae, and her eyes are sympathetic. She forces a smile.
“Good luck,” she says.
“I’m going to need it,” I reply, getting heavily to my feet and head into the office like I’m marching off to a battlefield. I really don’t want to be there.
The door is closed behind me and I find myself in front of the three staff and my mother. She has dark circles under her eyes and her arms are crossed tightly in front of her.
“You can take a seat, Shaun,” the superintendent, a man with a very bristly gray mustache, says. He motions to an empty chair next to my mother, who is standing. I feel awkward sitting, but what choice do I have?
“Make yourself comfortable,” says Principal Thompson. “We’re going to be here for a bit.”
My mother looks away from me. Is she really that furious with me? I stop looking over at her and focus on the desk in front of me, that way I don’t have to make eye contact with any one person in particular.
“Shaun, I’m just going to cut to the chase,” says the principal. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught doing something like this. And, frankly, your teachers and myself are very concerned not only for your safety, but for the safety of your classmates.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I say. “I was just trying to film a video for my channel. Really.”
The superintendent picks up something from the desk and hands it to me. It’s my iPhone with a shattered screen. It won’t even turn on.
“Looks like that wasn’t a success,” he says.
My mother glares down at me this time. I swallow as the beat-down continues.
“Do you know that if this thing had hit someone when you dropped it over the edge that it could have given someone a concussion?” says the principal.
There is a pause as the question sinks in. All the air seems to be sucked out of the room.
I look up at the principal with my head as low on my shoulders as it can be and try not to shrug.
“I guess I didn’t think of that,” I say.
“You’re right,” the principal goes on. “You didn’t think. Which seems to be a frequent occurrence in recent months.” The man takes a seat at his desk and picks up a pen to tap on the shiny wood finish. He seems to mull over his next words before speaking them. “Shaun, I know that things have
been rough for you since your father died. I lost my own parents at a young age, so it’s not a mystery to me that the reason you’re acting out is because you’re hurting inside.”
I want to roll my eyes just listening to this man attempt to connect with me. Does he really know what I’m feeling inside? I’m pretty sure that my situation is completely different from his. But, I don’t want to dig myself into a bigger hole than I’m already in.
“Be that as it may,” the principal goes on, “the roof is off limits to students. Even the janitors are not allowed to go up there without express written permission from myself, and that is with proper precautions. You might have fallen over the side, or you could have even stepped through a vent or a shallow area. All those things would have caused hundreds - if not thousands - of dollars worth of repairs. Not to mention that you would be charged with criminal trespassing.”
A horrible twisting feeling churns in my stomach now and I am starting to get dizzy. Criminal trespassing? That seems a bit harsh.
There is another pause while all eyes look on me.
They’re waiting for another excuse from me, but I really don’t have one to justify such a harsh punishment.
“Like I said,” I say in a soft voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”
The principal nods and sets his pen down on the desk with a clack.
“Well, Mr. Boding,” he says, his hands folded in front of him. “You’re going to have a lot of time to think about things because from this point on, you are suspended for thirty days.”
I sit up straight.
“Thirty days?” I say.
Mom’s eyes practically bore through my skull.
“That seems a little much!” I protest. But, my disciplinarian’s expressions are all stoney.
“It’s either thirty days, or we report you to the local police,” the principal says. “I don’t know about you, but I would rather be house-bound for thirty days instead of having something on my permanent record. That could cause a whole lot of problems including when you start looking for a summer job.”
I want to continue protesting, but Mom speaks up for the first time.
“We will take the thirty days,” she says. She comes over to me and grips my shoulder tightly. I can feel her nails digging into me. “Is that all?”
The Aberrant Series (Book 1): Super Charged Page 2
