How do you tell someone who was murdered right in front of you? How does one even begin to churn out such news? Hearing the passing of loved ones was one thing, but seeing it happen as someone else gets possessed by a gas substance can be far-fetched, to say the least. The outcome could either knock you on your back or against a patented wall with a solitary door slamming home behind you. For the past three weeks, Krista kept to herself. She didn't want anything to do with human contact or working in the one place this mess started.
The very thought made her stomach tighten, barely kept any food down the entire time. Few people in her life like her grandmother, Marianne and a couple school friends helped keep her mindset sound, assuring her it would all work out somehow. That was the kick in the jewels in any given situation. Sitting around hoping the problem would fade into the infinite was never a mindset she kept. If there was any chance Nick could be saved, and by extension stopping the Henderson Family, it would be worth a try.
Don't let anyone tell you different. If staying out of danger is a definite solution, 8 times out of 10 you'd be lying to yourself. Best case scenario, an experienced authority remedies the problem and eradicates any traces leading to future terrors. Soul Leaping had "worst case" plastered all over New York City. News reports and online articles would state the same, tired story: It was all a conspiracy. The Henderson name is a myth; this generation's spook story to keep drug dealers from crapping where they ate.
The details were repetitive, but as Krista regained her mental strength the articles she read began forming a pattern. Every article containing mysterious events like the boarding house had another article in fine detail how the city smelled like peaches. There must have been over two dozen stories between each Henderson myth how a powerful aroma dressed the city in a somber mood. New York was never known for its "somber" reputation, though. The sources were off; some didn't have any to begin with.
Tracing over the alternate articles with keywords like "peaches", "maple syrup", "lavender", all deriving from key neighborhoods the Hendersons did business in. We all have to start somewhere, but her mind felt like it was past the point for rational journalism. Once she was ready to see Sylvester, her first step in understanding what she was dealing with carried all the way to his front door. Krista couldn't begin to fathom how James's family was going through. As much as she wanted to tell them what had happened, her heart expressed she didn't have all the facts yet.
Next thing she knew, a stressed out Sylvester gave her a brief tour of his house before heading downstairs into the decrepit solitude that was his man-cave. Suddenly, the fear washed away with a tide of numbness coating her entire body as she sat on a messy sofa. "Sorry about the mess." He said picking things up off the floor. "I go on a lot of business trips so I don't always have time to clean."
"Hope you don't mind me asking. Do you live alone?" She asked him.
"It's worked out so far. My family kicked me out a few years ago 'cause I didn't follow the business path they were on. Don't remember the last time we spoke. Tell me, what year is it again?" As he grabbed the Xbox controllers off the floor, he saw an exhausted Krista rubbing her eyes. Something was definitely weighing her down, he thought. "You want anything to drink? I think I got Mountain Dew somewhere."
"No… thanks." She politely declined. "Please, sit down."
The basement got real quiet, without so much as a car zooming by his house to compensate for the awkward silence. Walking over to a green stool he had resting in a corner, he sat in front of her and asked, "Do you know what happened to James?"
This was it, she thought. There was no point holding back when she said, "… James is dead. The three of us went to Stat…"
There were no words to accurately describe what Sly was feeling in that exact moment. The very warmth of his skin changed into a cold feeling that made his arm hairs stand up. His heart dropped to his lower stomach and couldn't put it in words on how to react. When she asked if he was feeling okay, Sly then raised one finger for her stop talking. Slowly rising from his stool with a stunned look on his face, he walked back upstairs with the door casually shutting behind him.
Was this a bad idea, she asked herself? Not even ten seconds later, the answer spoke in throwing furniture and incoherent ramblings through the basement walls. A cold sweat rushed down the left side of her neck. She looked around for anything to defend herself should he choose to take his anger out on his man-cave. That was when Krista got up and took a stroll around.
Still a bit a disconnected from what made sense in the world, she took her time when she stumbled upon a trash bin of crumpled up blueprints and Chick Fillet sandwich wraps. What lied in front of her however sparked an interest; a rough map of a comic book convention in Seattle. James wasn't the kind to brag about his risky escapades in the nerd community. Regardless of the details, she felt partly responsible for not thinking up an exit strategy. Going over the plan for the boarding house, escape was still in brainstorm. She shuddered at the mere thought of it, even weeks later. All of a sudden, she heard that same, familiar voice talking to her. If Casper the Friendly Ghost had a lost brother or a best friend… Jackson appeared in corporeal form.
"I'll give your friend this much. In his own way, he lived on the edge. I've never been to a convention before."
She had almost forgotten she was an amateur ghost whisperer. Closing her eyes and shook her head, "We've talked about this…"
"You do realize it's okay to have an internal conversation? Terry had them all the time before he…" She responded in kind by giving him a tired, frustrated look. "Krista, I'm doing my best here."
"It's not my psyche you need to worry about, Jack." She made clear. "I keep asking if you know any way to take down the Hendersons. You said you would guide me."
"… I did. But you have to understand once you go after Jed's gas operation you won't come back the same. No one does. You'd already gotten your second taste of their horror."
"Goddamn it, she blamed herself once more, we should've prepared better."
"There you go again." Jackson told her. "You and Matt barely escaped when the police stormed in. That's a win, Krista. You know as well Nick, Jed's movin' heaven and Earth to get to Saigon. That's the place I kept hearing about."
"Yeah, I know about Saigon, but what's over there really?"
The upper level of the house went quiet as soon as the loud ramblings simmered down. She then looked up, "Kay, I think he stopped… Jackson?" Her eyes loved to play tricks on her, it seemed. She grabbed an old baseball bat hidden between a stack of undead novels and kept it hidden under the sofa when the basement door creaked open. She took deep breaths as Sly slowly stomped down the stairs.
The makings of a not-so gentle giant came from her right as he sat down on the stool. He inhaled deeply, tried to calm himself first before saying another word. The entire man-cave was plied with intense silence, compelling Krista to break it before Sly went, "Well… ain't that a steel toed boot to the family beads? Jimbo wanted out of the Comic Con-Man gig because he decided to get a real job. We were supposed to be one of those "ride or die" type friends. I shoulda gone with you guys as backup."
"You would have died too." She stared at the floor.
"Maybe… not that anyone would give two shits. I've spent half of my adult life pursuing my family's business from a different angle. James and I had a mutual respect for each other. Is his body still at that boarding house?"
"Sylvester, I…"
"It's for his mother." He made plainly. "She's been hounding me for three weeks and I didn't know what to tell her. Whatever you have to do to make this right, fucked up as it is, I can't help you."
"I don't blame you. The Hendersons took Nick. His older brothers have been givin' me a hard time, too. I will make this right somehow."
"Just tell me where his body is. No matter what happens, I'll make sure his family gets the news."
Krista still shook at the thought of James. No country song or vacuum cleaner would be loud enough to drown out the impact of a sledgehammer. She remembered the smell of blood as it coated the metal red. The vivid image of his crushed skull nearly caused her to faint, but with what little willpower she had left, she suspected the body would still be at the boarding house. Most likely, it would be decomposed.
One could only hope his mother would want to cremate him. An unsettling excursion suddenly got penciled into Sly's schedule. "You should leave. I need time to prepare." He stood up with mind set to purpose. As soon as his back was turned to her he then asked, "Should I wear a Hazmat suit? Jimbo had a hidden love for Breaking Bad."
She saw and read how Soul Leaping was crippling New York City. It would take more than a Harlem gang and some ambitious businesswoman like Esmeralda to redress the city's fatal scars. It treaded ever so carefully in the Garden State, affecting key people with huge impacts on those around them. One can only wish for a miracle. There was no sense of time for Craig. It felt like a lifetime since he lashed out in Mickey's name unwillingly. The last thing he remembered was a fever dream that took hold of his senses when he was under heavy security being treated.
His eyes saw the dream clear as day; a utopia spiking of sapphire blue. It took many shapes, beams of magical energy surged overhead, and every waking moment was a fine line between an adventure and certain death. Whether it was the scar tissue the gas left behind or something else, the fever dream was like a ball of blue light. He wanted nothing more than to leave this plane and embrace whatever was on the other side. Scott was the first of three on Doctor "Eckstein's" list of patients that were exposed at the store.
While his calling derived from Stone Whales and an unknown destiny, Craig on the other hand sparked a greater interest. It took weeks, commuting between Manhattan and parts of Jersey to decipher his whereabouts. A name finally came up from a senior citizen who witnessed a heavily armed motorcade from the Verrazano Bridge: Winston Stick's Institute for the Hopeless. Not much was founded in Roger's perusal of the net, only that it was founded in the early 1900's and closed down in 2004 when a "heroic" patient wanted to expose the asylum for its heinous practices. Henrik was such a "hero", taken to Winston's in 2001 when he was involved in a serial killing conspiracy of a doll factory.
The details were especially horrific. It could be summed up as a Human Sex Doll manufacturer… using actual human parts to cut costs of Chinese made dolls. There was a location, geographical sightings of the victims; the list went on. Whoever was crazy enough to house Craig in Winston's… Roger had an edge to him, something he kept in check as he pulled into the abandoned parking lot of the Institute. The atmosphere was stuffy, remote as if Roger branched off the beaten path to somewhere no one would think to go.
A horror show if there ever was one; "Why would he be brought here?" He asked himself, grabbing his paperwork and walked towards the front entrance. The plot thickened as his sweaty palm turned the knob, surprised it wasn't rusted shut. The tainted windows six stories up didn't provide any comfort either. However, stepping inside was like entering an alternate reality.
The inside presented the illusion of an up to date hospital. The air conditioned embraced the sky blue walls and kissed Roger's skin. Viewing the place, "alternate reality" was all that came to mind. It was undoubtedly the place where a "hopeless" soul goes to when the medical community can't diagnose. Patients of schizophrenia and eerily silent types roamed the halls with hospital staff keeping the riff-raff behind the ground floor rooms.
It was all a far cry from what Roger was used to. Then again, treating a unique case like Mackenzie gave him the thick skin he needed to see what Winston's was all about. Shouldering his briefcase, he walked up to the front desk where a human shaped wet mop was keeping the books. He opened his mouth, "Name...?"
"Doctor Roger Eckstein, he introduced himself, I know this is an unexpected visit. This place wasn't easy to find."
That was when an uneasiness suddenly formed behind the desk. Roger had his reasons for finding the Institute, something he wasn't about to share with a skittish type. However, he kept a humility air about himself as the front desk simply retorted, "And...?"
"I'm here to see an old patient. If you could let your boss know..."
"Where's your green token?" He cut him off, quivering at the lip. "Ya can't ride the rides without one."
"A green token..."
"I'd forge you one if I could, but last time I did... a patient died. He was my "bodyguard" in this place, used to beat me in Monopoly... until he then beat me in everything."
Right then, Roger wondered about this man and what caused his mental faculties to brittle. After quickly checking his surroundings once more, the chatter kept to the background as he asked, "What is your name, son?"
"... Nathan, he hesitated as he nervously leaned forward and whispered, "You don't find us by chance, Doctor. Winston, the owner, he's in one of his moods. He goes by a three strike rule. Look, come back tomorrow with a green token. Winston's the boogeyman when he towers over you."
"Nathan, I can't do that." He spoke plainly. "The man I'm seeing is an old friend of mine. I don't know if he's here or even alive. Tell you what, you get Winston down here and I'll explain the situation."
Just as he was about to curse, he immediately stopped himself. Whitening his knuckles like he was suffering from a brain freeze he went, "I can't lose this job, man. He goes by three strikes and a strict set of procedure. Ya think you can sway Winston?"
"One thing you need to know about me son... I've dealt with scarier boogymen. Call him."
If there is one hidden chink in a manager's armor, it's the ability to speak your mind. From there, it's a coin flip: whether your boss respects your tenacity or terminates your employment. Roger towed a fine line or two in his practice. Being an Oncologist, like any profession, was to make hair splitting decisions that turns into said coin flip. As he witnessed a nervous Nate contacting Winston, he gave a reassuring nod to make sure Nate wouldn't choke.
It was an intense seven seconds of the dial tone making its rounds… until a surly and disturbing voice cut through. "Winston, sir, I have a… Doctor Roger Eckstein. It's about the guy who was in that gas outbreak in Manalapan last month." He then took a deep breath before concluding, "He doesn't have a green token… sir?"
Another ten seconds went by with an eerie silence not only at reception, but the rest of the Institute. The background chatter came to a grinding halt with the Orderlies moving their patients into their respective rooms. When Nathan slowly dropped the phone from his shaky hand, suddenly startled from its impact, he quickly picked it up and placed it back on the receiver. The only person that kept his composure the whole time was Roger, trying to get Nathan's attention as he leaned back and said, "You shoulda gotten yourself a green token, pal. Now, we're both gonna get it."
Little did the mortal plane knew, "Roger" had an ace up his sleeve if the situation went south. A distant sound of an elevator was heard from the right hand side of the front desk. The ding went off as the doors opened to reveal a suit in the shape of a Football linebacker. His hair was shaven to a five o'clock shadow, beard bristling from various greys, and a pending stare that could be chalked up to either friendly or sexual. He walked over with his raven black loafers with a sense of authority. The man himself towered ever so slightly above Roger, giving off a smile that could make a sex offender soil himself. Winston turned his attention to a cowering Nathan and uttered, "18 months it's been… has it not, Nathaniel? You are still ranting about "green tokens."
"Sir, I took my prescribed meds 'fore I started today. I swear."
"A year and a half; thought you'd be over this delusion by now. It seems your meds are not strong enough." He stood in front Roger, interlocked his hands before Nathan, "I told you not to make friends outside the Institute. They fill your head with songbirds and mountain ridges, and you go off the deep end. This is strike two, Nathaniel. That's two times too many."
"I can't help it if I have a fever dream, sir. They tell me…"
"They tell you what you want to hear. In this instance, you're not in a fever dream. Today is Walter's birthday and you will not disrespect his legacy."
"I apologize, he pleaded immensely, I'll talk to Gus, get my head right."
"Wrong. Gustav was removed seven months ago. I've given you too much free reign around here. Your work ethic has been sloppy. Lars and the other orderlies will administer your meds in my office. 5:15 PM… don't be late."
There was no snapping Nathan out of his fear induced episode. So much for instilling an ounce of courage, Roger thought. There was a time when that came easy to him later in his career. He stood his ground before Winston as he formally introduced himself, "Doctor Eckstein, please forgive me for that little performance. Sometimes the staff needs to be reeducated. Winston Burkhardt, he extended his hand, you must be proficient in finding Waldo."
Roger shook his hand with firm purpose, "If you know where to look…"
"Seems you've been looking in places you shouldn't be. Let's take a walk."
In that moment of reading the room and seeing Winston's character in plain view, he played along as he was given a tour around the Institute. The Orderlies that walked past him gave him a nod, even a few less strung out patients knew the path the boss would be walking. This is going to be one interesting experience, he felt. But what is experience if not gained through years of grit growing within the human condition? Soldiers, especially, go through similar tribulations on two separate battlefields: one overseas and back home.
Some get PTSD, others suffered with nightmares of fallen comrades. Jedidiah suffered both in the same place. It was a mystery how much time passed since the Boarding House attack. All he remembered was the grim imprint left on his face; the sheer sting of it. On occasion, he would get feverish nightmares of what the gas would show him. What happened to Terry… it was flung into the background for a vision he had more than once.
Saigon… the orange clouds overhead was all he saw. Impossible to move a muscle, Jed was pressed into the Earth as bullets flew like horizontal raindrops, causing both American and foreign souls to drop next to him. These barely fazed him. He'd seen the world through the eyes of many souls, both innocent and otherwise, that his current predicament was routine. Sun drunk and giving into the hell around him, the same vision played a different tune in the form of a dark, human silhouette in a soldier's uniform. The smell of copper bile wore the figure like a second skin, but what stuck out was a familiar voice calling out to Jed.
"Son…"
The echoing of a single word reached Jed's ears as he answered back, "Dad…?"
"Son, wake up! Don't let this place be your tomb."
"We're here, all of us. I'm going to save you."
"This is my fault. I shipped out a man, came back wearin' a ghoul's face. You deserved better, Jedidiah."
"Things will be better, dad. I know who created the gas. I can still save the Henderson name."
"How… how can you wash away my name after four decades of it tainted?" He asked as he revealed himself as Lyle Henderson. "I beg you, son, set your "family" free from our plight… my plight. Accept your fate and let God do the rest."
The tempting offer was a brief moment of serenity he hadn't felt in a long time. Jed juggled back and forth, seeing the endgame through the filth. There were no heroes or just cause in this, but he understood why he divided his family. Bentley, Mo, Alana, Terry… their sense of normalcy was forever out of reach. And Holly, envisioning her distinct facial lines and friendly blue eyes, in that moment he'd give his right nut and liver if it meant going out on the open road with her.
So many lives ruined, manipulating them for his endgame. Just as he was about to "give in", Jed coughed up something awful. His vision returned to a lived in attic of sorts, hacking up fluid into a bucket. His insides felt jumbled, being confined to a pullout couch with nothing more than a gas convert watching him. The spitting image of his war torn father transferred onto the convert with judging eyes staring back.
"If I were you, I wouldn't move around too much." The convert told him. "Damn, I've seen old men tell war stories but not like what you've been through."
Half of Jed's face was covered in a black bandana. The sting from his missing eye played a rerun his head; the son lashing against the father. Anger, regret, a false sense of pride Terry did something for the family instead of himself; showed what he knew Jed thought. Meeting his eyes with a dark skinned individual, "You don't look like one of mine. Are you a Hellspawn?"
"Nah, he replied, I tend to stray from street beef, you know? My name's Rodney."
"Rodney, if you're not aligned with Harlem how did you bring me here?"
"You Hendersons have made a lot of connections both in New York and Jersey over the years. I'm a freelance contractor for an alias named "Red Globe."
"Nicknames are off-putting, Jed stated as he sat up, don't recall making an allegiance with Red Globe. My organization likes to be discreet… until we open our mouths in a given situation."
"500 Soul Leapers in one area? C'mon now…" Rodney spoke. "Even Red Globe isn't stupid enough to send in that kind of force to scare a few teenagers."
Jed was mentally constrained all of a sudden. A teenager's blood on the business end of a sledgehammer wouldn't round up to a happy ending, in any circumstance. He recalled a shadow in the shape of his mutated son venturing off after feasting on Quinn's body. Orange ghosts vibrated from converts in every direction, trying to contain the beast until a lightshow scoured all around Staten Island. The encounter went from sending a clear message to fighting off a small army of SWAT storming the Boarding House.
They were no pushovers, but it did bring up a suspicion about his eldest son, Bentley. Tasked in manipulating prying eyes from all outlets into the gas outbreak, Jed thought Bentley would be more attuned to keeping the public complacent. Even in his sickly condition, Jed didn't want to give in to the fact his eldest might be overthrowing him. Realistically, he wasn't in any position to take a stand.
"So what happens now, son?" Jed asked him.
"I was told within the first ten seconds I'd do what's necessary to keep you confined to that bed. But I can rest easy, seein' as how Red Globe taught me to take away your abilities."
His eyes widened looking at him, "You're bluffing…"
"You're welcome to prove me wrong, old man." Rodney called him out.
The attic itself didn't leave much to be desired. As a matter of fact, it didn't leave much at all for nostalgia. As spacious as it was for Jed to make a clean kill and escape, a stagnant air filled the room. It was all too simple: one door behind Rodney and no windows. He could dream up hundreds of possibilities what lied on the other side.
Recruiting gas converts Jed's way was a series of hit and runs. Some joined willingly by Henderson reputation while others threatened to blow up their tenement buildings to keep the gas out. Situations like these always came down to a coin flip, and this was no different. With Jed's legs wobbly standing up, he used his one good eye limping towards Rodney. Rodney retained his cool stature, as if he had lived through this scenario a thousand times before.
For a kid in his mid-twenties, he didn't scare easily. Once they were face-to-face, a split second decision played out. Jed raised his left hand ever so slightly as Rodney gripped the handle of a blade kept hidden in his back pocket. Before long, he untied the bandana covering half his face. The scar extended from his right brow down to his upper lip. The mere sight had Rodney take a step back. How he got from the Boarding House to wherever he was at the time was a mystery; the name "Red Globe" kept recurring in his head.
"Holy fuck…" Rodney reacted.
"Piece of advice: Don't ever have kids."
"That train came and went old man." He spoke with regret, opening the attic door. "No one's stopping you. We're still in Henderson territory."
Jed kept a cautious weight on his shoulders venturing down from the attic. It was a quaint abode. Contract killers and freelancers tend to live in motel rooms as well as cabins away from civilization. From where he stood, this place had both qualities in one. It was his business to know New York like the proper ingredients for Soul Leaping, but this place contained an elusive feel to it.
Making his way to the first floor of the three story house, every room presented itself like a home for runaways. If there was one thing New York had besides a homeless person on every corner, were the young runaways hiding in outhouses. Jed couldn't explain why, but the more he looked around the more familiar it felt. Did he recruit kids into his ranks as well? Did his right hand man Quinn do such a thing?
It was one million dollar question after another. Where was either Quinn or Mo, and why haven't they tried looking for him? Rallying 500 gas converts meant repeating the same rules for every anxious scrub: never convert a child into one of them. Jed spent his whole life training his mind not to feel regret. His human side called out from time to time.
The path for a scenario like this was neither clean nor always justified. Wherever he was, "regret" found a chink in his mental armor but never entering inside. It hovered a great deal when he saw a shrine of sorts in the living room. A desolate space; you could feel the history of those who came before it, like a cool rush making your arm hair stand up.
Barely standing before the shrine, it was a plasma screen sized collage of past runaways ranging from six years old to drafting age. He didn't recognize any of the faces; that was either good or his memory was worse for wear. In some twisted way, Jed wished Terry was one of those runaways. It would be better to live as a hungry boy than a bloodthirsty monster. However, the distinction nowadays is blurred. Regret closed in little by little, followed by Rodney's voice, "For a city with a million and one opportunities to live, it's no small thing. Shit… you can't even get a buttered roll without someone robbing you on the sidewalk."
"Did you help these kids?" Jed asked.
"A few months ago, a drifter brought these kids over to this place by bus. "This city has forsaken them." He told me and my ex-girl once. "You two seem to have good heads on your shoulders. Watch out for them. I will come back with food." The whole situation was unexpected. My girl Mia inherited this place after her old man passed away. She had a rare Samaritan heart you don't see often, you know?"
"And now she's your ex…"
"It was pizza night. I was about to head out to Zarro's to pick up four dozen pizzas for the kids. When I came back… she took off."
"Did you ever see her again?"
Rodney bit his lip, "… All I will say, is thank God New York is fighting back against y'all. If it weren't for Red Globe offerin' me a hand, this whole exchange would've ended in the attic."
"I need to see some people." Jed getting some of his energy back. "Believe me, son, my organization won't be around forever. I can promise you that."
"Like I said, he reiterated before spouting out, nearly half of your guys managed to survive Staten Island."
Careless strategy had a way of kicking your backside after the fact. He couldn't fathom how careless he was sending all his converts to the Boarding House. Even Quinn advised against such an idea, knowing Corkscrew wouldn't risk his own men in a firefight on sacred ground. Soul Leaping or not, Jed knew lasting five minutes with his second born would be risky. Something had to be done; Saigon wasn't going anywhere, but at the same time the mastermind behind the gas in the first place wasn't sticking around either. Call it a gut wrenching feeling. He needed more converts. Hell, he needed his family back.
"I do not know who you are. I'm sure this "Red Globe" will track me down while I get my affairs in order." He then turned and faced Rodney, "Either way, I wish you luck in the conflict to come."
"… I'm not the one who needs luck." Rodney revealed a mason jar filled with orange gas. "You can kill me and take back this curse, or take your chances out there."
Oh boy, the temptation presented before Jed was as strong as ever. It didn't matter if he'd lived vicariously through its affects for forty days or forty years; that was the rub for him. But standing on the precipice between inhaling his family's curse, and facing whatever was on the other side of the door provided a sense of clarity. It was a brief internal struggle he had with himself. It was like a tug on his torso, trying to reel him in.
Living in New York his entire life, it wouldn't take long for Jed to find the outhouse once again. Rodney had a trusting face, or at least a way he carried himself that he wouldn't get shot in the back the moment he stepped out. And before he knew it, the evening air greeted his lungs; more liberating than a crutch. It's amazing how the simple pleasures like free air can be taken for granted. Jed felt like he hadn't seen the world in a thousand years; the gas clouded his mind from such things.
However, his work was far from over. Soul Leaping would live as long as its creator does. It was time to bring the family together for one last gathering. To get to that point would be a tall order. Everyone, even his wife and youngest daughter had all scattered between the Big Apple, Garden State and who knew where else. Jed had gotten himself a good three blocks away from the outhouse when he inhaled deeply, "You are prey for the moment, Jed. Mo and Bentley would no doubt snuff out your hide and feed you to the sewer rats. Stay on the path…"
There are four different types of conflicts: psychological, physical, emotional, and in plain view. Matt didn't know where he'd fit in; maybe a slice of all four. And when there was conflict, there were coping mechanisms: therapy, exercising, drinking, and binge watching shows. Psychologically, he was stuck with a fork in the road; the kind that would lead to a good night's sleep. His anger issues derived from lack of sleep, something he didn't want to put his girl Kurin through.
Paradise was on the rocky side as well. Matt couldn't wipe out the image in his head on what happened to James. Human beings in their right mind would never unhear the sounds of meat and metal clashing. The man himself was raised on George Romero undead movies with a side of Bruce Willis action star to boot. Once you've seen movies like Hills have Eyes, you think you can prepare for anything horrific.
It's not a cliché if it's happening to you. At least, that was the mindset Matt tried to have while researching further into the aftermath of the Boarding House. For once, a slip-up bled through the fan fiction theories of the net. A second battle did in fact take place not too long after he and Krista made a break for it through the SWAT's thick smoke grenades. The body count was unclear, but according to news sources there was a glimmer of hope where the tide was turning.
Even with the media's manipulating facts, for once it was not done willingly. Convoluted details such as Corkscrew's operation, business ties to the criminal underworld, New York loosening the gas's noose with each passing day… an avid reader can put these together to see how deep Soul Leaping can go. If one, unnamed gas convert can wipe out the minds of witnesses, what Matt had in store would prove most difficult to pitch. How does one ask another to put their life on the line for something they can't fully comprehend? For three, whole weeks between having nightmares and dulling his world with whatever poison he had in his house, he kept it together for the most part.
One Friday night, he took a break by crashing a get-together in Red Bank. Matt thought seeing the world fail at life through red faced drama would amuse him. If not, this party had Grey Goose Vodka. Downing a few shots would make life bearable again, he felt. The Wall Street pub was your typical hangout spot with a saloon twist. You never knew who was going to waft through those wooden doors.
Matt sat at the bar by himself on his third shot when a jaded eyed, bartender came around with a keg of beer for an entourage of "ineligible" bachelors. Matt perceived them as bootlegged Ivy Leaguers, wearing worn out suits and belching out profanities at each other. A part of him blamed them for acting so carefree in their blissful ignorance, knowing what hell might unleash if Jed Henderson survived the onslaught. Keeping his focus on the next shot along with a burning question in his head, the grey bushy beard barman needed a distraction.
"You look like you got a lot on your mind." He poured into Matt's shot glass.
"Yeah… flyin' solo to a bar isn't exactly my M.O." Matt raised his glass and drank.
"Don't think I've seen you before." He replied when an eruption of laughter shook from the entourage. "Sometimes, flying solo can be the best remedy to keep all the bullshit at bay. I've sampled more than a few of my wares before those Harvard dropouts dropped in."
"It sounds like we're both having rough days."
"And yet… we get through it somehow." Matt stared intensely into his empty glass with a sense of urgency in his eyes, like he wanted to say something with the words glued on his tongue. "Kid, I can see you're angry about something. Spit it out."
"I'm not angry, just fuckin… can I ask you a question? If a decent human being wants to keep a real bastard, or bastards, from hurting other decent human beings, can he still be decent when it's all said and done?"
The bartender leaned forward, "Let me give you a reality check on the house, kid. There's no such thing as a "decent" human being. Everybody's an asshole, regardless of their fucking intentions. Only thing I'd tell you is if bastards plural want to do you and your own harm, then the game has already been set."
"I know what I have to do." Matt said.
"… No, you don't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be asking a cynic like me for advice. The entire world is filled with bastards. It's the people you gotta watch out for, especially in Jersey. Many are content with their need for spreading discontent towards others. It's the vile chain that extends and decays as time drags on. Anyone can turn your life to shit with a rumor or chilled silence."
One of the bachelors shouted from the sports side of the bar, "Hey, get us another round! Your boyfriend's not going anywhere!"
"I haven't gone out for like, six months." Matt told him. "As you get older, you start seeing why that's less of an issue."
"Amen. Unfortunately, I gotta keep the drunkards happy. If I were you, I'd trust my instincts on how to prevent bastards from hurting those I love."
"I'll keep that in mind." He acknowledged. "Thanks for the chat."
"Anytime, boss… always welcome to a sobering conversation. Good luck." He concluded, bringing a pitcher over to their table.
This past month came and went at a slow burn. Matt did whatever he could during that time to stay awake, but that wasn't always simple. He couldn't imagine what Krista was going through, hearing next to nothing from neither her nor Marianne for that matter. It was high time, he thought. No doubt they had been marked for death by the Hendersons; the facts didn't lie. From Craig being possessed to Josh sharing his spine chilling interrogation with "Mickey" after the incident, New Jersey was spiraling out of control.
6-6-16. Apart from the obvious he thought, Matt assumed that would be when Jed travels to the source of the gas. He would take the remnants of his converts there and hopefully become extinct, but then there was Corkscrew; the skill he possessed with close quarters combat dealt to both his men and the Hellspawns. Not being a soldier himself, that smooth transition breaking up the fight was something to be admired.
He wanted to learn it, have a fighting chance which led to other questions as to how to convince the others to be part of a suicide mission. As far as he knew, the only justified reason he had in his holster was the fact Nick was captured by Jed. That was when it clicked in his head. For the first time, drowning what he'd seen in alcohol opened up an opportunity for a firm first step to be established. Sitting at his barstool with the world spinning on around him, he got up and left a tip before heading out the door. Getting out his phone, he gave Josh a ring.
"Hey, it's Josh. You know what to do… *beep*"
"Josh, it's me. Hey man, when you get this I need you to call Jim's old friend, Adamo. Tell everyone still up and breathin' to meet me over by the Receiving lane at the back of the store tomorrow. Nick's still out there with those gassed out bastards. Let's find a way to bring him home."
