Midnight Liberty League - Part I

by Brock Law

he made for the ramp at the back of the level. The moment he reached it, the echo of the pursuer’s charge drummed throughout the structure.

  Afraid to look back, and deafening himself with his own breathing, Will swore he felt the clutch of clawed hands at the edges of his shirt. Whatever last drops of strength were left in his legs he burned up with the hope of separating himself. Down the ramp, into a stair well and from off the top step he propelled from the garage and into the driveway behind the museum.

  Will skidded over gravel as he scrambled up to the first door. He pulled wildly at the handle, which didn’t budge, and pressed his face against the little security window. Busy doctoral candidates would normally scurry through the back laboratories, but the offices were shut down. There were no lights inside, and the ones in the sky were growing dimmer to match.

  He abandoned further attempts to force it open and sprinted towards the next hatch. At the other end of the building was the service entrance. Will had gone through with his dad a few times before, but it was coded. Hoping that they hadn’t changed the pin, he hurtled over a short retaining wall. Looking back, he couldn’t see anyone chasing after.

  Will crashed into the door, and grabbed ahold of the security panel. He flipped open the cover and dialed 1-7-7-6. A green light flickered on and the bolt snapped. The steel door squealed open, and he stumbled into a lightless room. The door slammed shut behind him.

  The pointed edges of a tower of packaged printer paper cut into his back as he collapsed on to it with his full weight. The box underneath him broke at the sides. A landslide of stationery cascaded across the floor, along with Will who sprawled out. As reams tumbled down, the last one flopped on to his stomach. He curled up with a yelp and clutched his gut.

  Pain mounted throughout his body as he anguished on the floor. The muscles in his legs were knotted up. His hyperextended tendons pulsed with flashes of fire. He clutched his side and dragged himself against the wall.

  It took a minute, but he finally calmed his breathing to a point where his lungs were actually extracting oxygen from the air and not just the humidity. His chest gurgled up the pools of moisture that had been deposited there, which he spit across the room. The throbbing in his stomach began to push an upset acidity just behind. His throat seized as his esophagus burned. He coughed out the mucous and fell back in a daze.

  His undisturbed presence there confirmed that the museum had in fact been sealed for the night. With at least that relief, Will didn’t push himself any further. Propped against the overflow of paper, he squirmed in silence.

  A click at the door sent a rattle through his bones. His eyes, now beginning to adjust to the darkness, shot up to the meshed security window. Nothing was visible outside, but another tap clamped his heart and stopped his breath. Retracting his limbs, Will made as small a presence in the corner as he could and watched the window.

  The door handle began to jiggle violently. Something tried to twist the bolt and yank out the door, but it stood firm. The fighting stopped. A moment later it began anew, with twice the force and anger. The door banged rapidly against its frame. Will reached around on the floor for anything he could use as a club. The door held, and the struggle ceased.

  A shadow clouded the window, which morphed into the featureless profile of a head. Unnatural iridescent eyes opened, hovered up to the glass and peered inside. They ticked up and down in irregular scans of the interior. Upon arriving at Will’s invisible location, they strained. An inseverable beam connected them. A moment later the hunt ended with a defeated blink. The head turned slowly and drifted away from the window. Will went limp.

  Honesty Is The Best Policy

  Spasms followed a loud yawn. Will’s body twisted and rung itself out. Another series of yawns followed and injected enough energy into his brain to notice the rising sun. The rebirth of day invigorated his mood, as he felt the returning sense of surprise at finding himself alive again. Something sweet and freshly baked penetrated the air. It filled his lungs to further relax the temperature in his head. He let it hoist him from under the sheets and down the steps to where his mom was having breakfast in the kitchen.

  “Good morning, honey,” Mrs. Mith greeted.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  Will sauntered over to the counter where his mom had left out muffins and blackberry preserves. He winced a little as he went, which caught his mom’s attention. As she looked up from the paper she noticed a little limp in her son’s step.

  “Are you okay, William?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Oh my god, look at your arm! It’s all bruised up,” Mrs. Mith exclaimed.

  He held out his arm, which was black and blue up the side. Last night’s fears returned and replaced the tranquility he had enjoyed just a minute ago. He tried to turn the damage away from her, but she raced over and snatched his hand. She turned his palm away to expose his inner forearm. His skin was covered in welts from his wrist to his bicep.

  “You’re not supposed to be practicing!” Mrs. Mith scolded.

  “I’m not,” Will stammered to explain, “I didn’t.”

  “You’re all scratched up,” Mrs. Mith said angrily. “I’m calling coach right now, this is ridiculous.”

  “I didn’t practice,” Will cut her off. “I was with the team doctor all afternoon.”

  “William,” she leered, “did you get into a fight?”

  “No, I just…” Will raced to invent an excuse. “I tripped in the shower in the weight room yesterday.”

  Mrs. Mith looked shocked. “Tripped in the shower?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re so spacey lately,” she accused. “What is going on with you? Is it that girl?”

  “No! Mom, stop!” Will protested. “I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine,” Mrs. Mith insisted.

  “It will go away. It’s not a big deal,” Will emphasized each word with sarcasm.

  “William, you are stressing me out so much,” Mrs. Mith announced.

  With a mocking tone Will fired back, “You’re stressing me out. Stop worrying. I just wanted breakfast. Why does everything have to be so difficult?”

  “Alright, then stop fussing and eat already,” Mrs. Mith ordered.

  “Seriously?”

  Will stopped himself from finishing the thought. He shook his head and grabbed a muffin. Mrs. Mith huffed and retrieved her newspaper. She crinkled it loudly a couple times to accentuate her aggravation. Will picked up a bread knife. Not realizing his hands were still a little unsteady from the night before, he ended up tearing out larger chunks than the muffin itself and scattered them on the floor. He popped the ragged halves into the toaster and leaned against the counter as he waited.

  With jam just as haphazardly applied, he sat down across from his mom at the table. He crunched on the browned edges of his meal and tried to ease his mind. The sensation didn’t last long, however, as Professor Mith came flying down the stairs, barking into his cell phone.

  “Yes, I heard,” Professor Mith bellowed. “I’m on my way.”

  He charged into the kitchen, his plaid work shirt still unbuttoned, and dumped coffee into a clean mug. A gargle of unintelligible mumbles spurted out of his mouth. His mind was completing sentences faster than his mouth could process them.

  “Joe, what is it?” Mrs. Mith asked.

  The jittery professor didn’t respond, and tore apart a muffin with his hands. He fidgeted with a spoon and heaped a glob of jam inside and smashed it back together. Then he raised the coffee and took a premature sip. The molten liquid scolded his bottom lip, which transformed his inane gobbling into a fit of curses.

  “Joseph!” Mrs. Mith yelled. “What is the matter?”

  “Someone broke into the museum last night!” Professor Mith shouted.

  Will sat at attention. The muffin fell out of his mouth.

  “What!” Mrs. Mith matched his excitement. “How? What happened?”

  “I don’t know, they just said everything’s rippe
d apart,” Professor Mith gasped over another gulp of coffee. “Displays are all smashed up. I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Mrs. Mith sat with a stunned look, slow to process the severity of the news. Will’s mouth continued to hang agape. The professor swallowed some more coffee and dashed to the front door.

  “Wait! Dad,” Will called after him. “I…need to go back for more physical therapy. Can I ride with you?”

  “Yeah fine,” Professor Mith reluctantly obliged. “Hurry up! Ten minutes, let’s go!”

  In less than that amount of time Will was brushed, washed, changed, and unnerved. He found himself shaking in the passenger seat as his dad floored it to the museum. He had his fingers clasped tightly to absorb the tremors from his thumping heart. After the first traffic light, however, it was impossible to control the quakes. Every time Professor Mith had to stop, he punched the wheel and yelled.

  With green lights ahead, the car swerved around a bus, over the bridge and hurtled into University City. It whipped into the museum garage, and skidded to a stop in the first available parking space. Professor Mith sprang from the car, slammed his door, and jogged away. Will ran after, hustling to catch up to his dad’s bothered pace.

  Once side by side they bolted down the sidewalk. The brown bricks of the museum walls appeared on their flank as they hurried towards the iron gates at the front of the complex. The professor ducked under a web of police tape and ran into the courtyard. With Will at his heels, he wove around the