This is funny because this is where I originally gave up on the old version. But luckily I'm no longer burdened with the work ethic of a peanut. I was 12 years old anyway, so idgaf
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Recap/Summary of Chapter 2
Herman and Dr. Carson meet at their lab, where Herman decides to use the prototype version of the serum on himself. Though Dr. Carson uses his best efforts to talk Herman out of it, Herman is strongly in favor of his own decision and convinces Dr. Carson to go along with it. Though the test is deemed successful, the effects of the serum prompt Herman to enter a state of rage and vengeance. When Dr. Carson tries to clear the effects, Herman kills him and steals the facility's equipment.
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Later in the night, Lincoln's DNA starts to merge with that of the genetically enhanced spider. He first experiences the effects during a nightmare which recalls a fight between him and a gang of bullies. This fight in particular had traumatized him. Lincoln describes the nightmare as "so realistic that he thought he had teleported back into his bed, and that he was really reliving the moment." He also finds it strange that the memory of the dream is still vivid, and doesn't fade away like it usually does. After waking up early, he accidentally destroys his alarm clock with bare strength, and also breaks the coat rack hanging on his door. And after accidentally causing havoc in the family bathroom, it attracts the attention of his parents, who tell him that they'd deal with the consequences after school.
Without further ado, let's get into it!
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Part I - The Discovery Interludes
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"They stare, they laugh;
Rapture from seeing the weak split in half,
It's candy for the eyes, but sour at heart.
But when the light falls,
You're left to ponder, and you think:
Was it worth the trouble?
It'll always be kept like an ill photograph;
Irreversibly tainted."
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Chapter 3: Some Mystery
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When glass shatters, it's not pleasant. It slides through the air, a blink of light bouncing off its surface along the way, and crashes against the floor. Shards — sharp and pointed — scatter the floor. Then the responsibility kicks in. You realize: that mess needs to be sweeped up, or someone — maybe even yourself — will get hurt.
Tell that to Dennis Looney when he got the call at six in the morning, and he'd feel the damning resemblance.
Muttering words (mostly discombobulated grunts and swears), he rammed the telephone into the retro cradle (he was always a sucker for old paraphernalia). The nightstand wobbled. Scattered pill bottles on the polished nightstand fell over, and dove for the floor like a bunch of paratroopers.
Muzzy and stiff, he sat up. The phone was at least a foot away, but those last words rang in his ears: we need you to come in, right now. His mouth slung open, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and dropped back into the pillow. Am I seriously going to work a twelve hour shift, come home at eleven at night, and call it a day just after midnight — only to get woken up five hours later? There's no way in hell. He eased his throbbing head with his hands. Veined, skinny hands, the type you'd see on a kid who spends all day on the computer. They were chilled, good thing he didn't bury them beneath the covers, otherwise the relief he was sourcing would've never existed — well, nevermind. It didn't take long for his head, muggy like a day at the hot springs, to turn those chilled hands into some clammy mitts.
Dropping his arms to his blanketed thighs, he scanned the room. 122,000 dollars a year, and it didn't amount to nothing. The large paneled windows staring out of his Detroit flat seized the entire wall to the right, broadcasting nothing more depressing than the pale Tuesday sky. The moon wasn't out, as far as he could tell, so maybe the sun was looming at the horizon.
The buzzing noise of the AC unit flared his headache — maybe it'd make him go insane too. 122,000 dollars a year, and the electrical issue still hasn't been fixed. He muttered some more words, those same discombobulated grunts and swears.
But then something caught his eye . . . the royal wingback armchair propped at the right hand corner of his room had somebody in it — a pretty big . . . well, fat, guy, and the circle mirror above it pictured not only him — but a middle-aged man at his left. Isaac.
"Let's get this here—
1
A New Case
—started."
And he's back. Back to the salt mines.
Isaac Leonard, detective at the DPD, speaks with a thick Brooklynn accent. It's deep, too. Makes anyone shiver uncomfortably. Dark crescents circle the undersides of his lids. His eyes are just about pulsating, screaming where's my friggin' sleep!
Dennis pages through a stapled document, his elbows propped against the worktop so hard they'll grit like sand when he moves, eyes inches away from the paper. Even so he has a hard time making out the words; but manages to read:
Name (Last/First): Crawford, Dean
Height: 173 cm
Weight: 132 kg
Woah, hold on. Almost 300 pounds at 5 feet, 8 inches tall? His eyes graze the edge of the paper and scan the witness. Yeah, he really is that fat. And already going insane without any sleep, he snorts a laugh.
Dean Crawford — known locally as . . . many things, but notably the Michelin Man of Detroit
(real funny you dickheads)
— has been called to the DPD after claiming to have witnessed a shooting at Herman Industries from the 13th floor of his apartment complex. Forced to the respondent's chair, he watches one of the men lift their eyes to check him out — not that way, you know, but just to see how he looks. And then, out of all the things he could've done, he laughs. Laughs. He shyly turns his head away. He's not that self-conscious, but c'mon. Nobody wants to be bodyshamed, especially by someone who's said to be professional.
Dennis returns to the paper. Just thinking about Mr Crawford makes him want to erupt in laughter, being already sleep-drunk and all. That guy is a damn real butterball. Haven't seen one of those since elementary school; cuffs of fat around his legs and arms, neck folds shaping chins on chins, his cheeks puffed up like a goddam Taffy Apple, and he's already short-winded . . . just from scuttering his way to the respondent's chair. And just like all butterballs, he comes with something unique. Maybe Dennis isn't so lucky because his odor — as ripe as stale beer — has drilled deep into his nostrils, and he almost gags, convulses a bit too. D'you come in here with a six-pack of Stella Artois? Holy shit, leave the beer for home!
Doing his best to put those thoughts away, he focuses back on Dean; gives him a hard stare. "Alright, Mr Crawford, just start off by telling me what happened, maybe tell me a little bit about yourself too."
Dean swallows thickly, so loud everyone can hear the glug of saliva — then leaning back on his chair. Dennis can hear the top rail stressing and forcing back with a set of cracks. Sounds a lot like bones. "Everything happened last night, clear as day . . ."
2
The Whistle
The clock was minutes away from striking 10 PM.
Come down Pearson Street to the Golden Gate Apartment Complex, 13th floor; Dean Crawford was indulging on the nightly program, Live! With Lewis Aquila, cast on the television he had bought in '96. Yeah, that's right — twenty-three years old — twenty-four next week. The thing still worked, no need for those paper-thin screens from the local Best Buy that costs you at least a thousand bucks a pop. Made by Samsung or whatever. His was a Panasonic. His wife Ruby had already suggested the switch a few times (yeah yeah, we don't need it, yeah yeah) but Dean put that aside. Didn't even give it thought; but he would follow up with: Hey, the TV works just fine. As long as I can watch my shows, it's good enough for me . . . But the television didn't work 'just fine.' All the time, the shows got eclipsed by TV static. Damn-near every show was unbearably difficult to watch. His wife had once said, 'my head would explode like that if I tried to watch anything on that hunka junk.'
He was listening to Lewis Aquila drone on about the upcoming Tom Holland blockbuster when the whistle drilled his ear like a screwdriver.
Something leaped up inside him; boiling rage. And now he was pissed off.
He became Dean The Mad Machine. Clenched fists. Strawberry-esque skin, a bit lighter. Contorted lips. Squinched eyes.
That damn whistle.
It was a trigger — a trigger to a revolver (deviously named the hate gun) that nuzzled the rigid, tight skin of a ball — a ball that was not blown with helium, but blown with anger. And that trigger was pulled, the gun clicked, the cylinder wheeled, yet no shots were fired.
That goddamn whistle. The prick was on a schedule: every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night; releasing steam into the night sky with a hellish scream; or whistle. There were some outliers in there. But usually it sounded like a whistle. His noise complaint bit the dust. Nobody else was complaining. The numb dumbs he had as neighbours couldn't grow a pair and give them a mouthful.
Again, the trigger jerked. Click. Nothing.
Nothing inaccurate there — Dean's anger was like a game of Russian roulette — every once in a while it dropped by and dipped, but at one point it would come back and unexpectedly blow his top. Like the revolver, you can shoot once; and it does nothing. But you can shoot again; and you blow your brains out.
The wheezing gasp of the whistle filtered through the walls, and now it was gone. Can't believe this, he thought, why are these idiots allowed to set their science fair up here? Lewis Aquila's voice was no longer drowned out by that blaring whistle, but Dean was still boiling with rage. As they say, gotta boil the hell out of it. This is the fourth damn time in the same hour, he thought again, I hate these damn people. His thoughts were screaming at him.
He lifted himself off the leather recliner, exerting the full 291 pounds of Dean Crawford on the armrests, and hitched in sapped breath. God, he needed some exercise; popping sweat just from getting off his chair. The office has really been sucking the muscle out of him — but he didn't want to spend his time off just to work more. He wanted to relax. And since he couldn't spend his night off watching television, he flipped to his second plan: get drunk like no tomorrow. Behind the television was the kitchen, the wallpaper vintage and lined with mildew, and in the kitchen was the dominion for his happy stash of booze, just in the fridge behind a stack of cabinets and a furnished island. He used to keep the beer in the wardrobe, on a shelf above the lineup of his clothes that hung below — which his wife wasn't very fond of — but he did it anyway to stow it from his son, Derek. Nowadays, Derek is gone. He had secured a job as a security officer, and found a place of his own. At least Dean is free to keep the beer in the fridge. The thing was rotting away— ah ah ah! It still works.
He left the living room and stalked down the hall to the kitchen, absently pinching the seat of his slacks out of the crack of his ass, his breathing heavy and stiff beneath his meatbeard. Feet flopping like suction cups, they came around the island and paused in front of the fridge before he yanked the door open, welcoming himself to the epitome of alcoholism; rows of beer bottles, quite literally a sea of brown and green gleaming beneath the waning fridge light. Each of those bottles brimmed with that 'good stuff,' Dean would usually call it, along with 'anxiety-killing medicine.' That 'good stuff' or that 'anxiety-killing medicine' happened to be more widely known as beer: Rolling Rock, Stella Artois, Budweiser, and some other one that's impossible to spell. Was it Yongling Lager? Maybe.
He didn't like to call himself a drinker; maybe when he'd watch the basketball game, yeah he'd crack a few. But the Pistons half-assed the postseason; the series had gone seven games and they lost. Blew a 3-0 lead. Congratulations boys, you made history. An embarrassment to the league. Bunch of fuckin candy-asses.
But Ruby thought he was one of those depressed no-lifes who work sad jobs and cash all their paychecks at the bar. He knew it — hiding behind that fridge door was that sticky note: honey please cut down on the beer before you drink yourself to death.
That had left a bad taste in his mouth, more so than the beer would. Like I said, I don't drink too often.
Except he did. Dean was nothing more than a dirty alcoholic. But that was a bad thought, so he pushed it away.
It was easy to push away too. He pushed them away often.
His reaching hand closed on the curved hips of a bottle of Rolling Rock, his palm sinking fleetingly along a sheet of condensed water. He nestled it under his armpit. Brrr, chilly! He took a second one in his hands and guided the door closed with his foot. The metal face of the door slid through the musty air of the kitchen and swept the black locks that hung over Dean's face. And suddenly he was mad again. The goddamn note. The trigger of the hate gun jerked, the gun clicked, the cylinder wheeled, yet again no shots were fired. Huh, we're probably getting close.
"I'm not gonna drink myself to death but the whistle is gonna make my head explode — oh boohoo I guess that doesn't matter," Dean murmured.
He jerked the ragged edge of the cap against a wall-mounted bottle opener and cracked it open. Foam spilled over the top and draped the tight fist that closed around it. His skin tingled to its touch. That made him aware — too aware — that there had once been a time when Dean quaffed one beer after another before passing out on the kitchen floor — granted he did have a bad day at work, but still — it was enough to get his wife all riled up over his drinking habits. And though he kept reassuring her he was fine, she kept jumping all over his case. Like, c'mon, a few drinks here and there aren't too bad.
Can it, fucking alcoholic. Nothing more than an over-sized baby.
But what was bad was the whistle. And the prick responsible? It was none other than that damned nerd cult a few blocks down . . . better known as Herman Industries.
He scuttered back to the leather recliner, absently raking his locks out of his face, and wedged the remote out of the squeeze between the seat of his recliner and the armrest. It grazed two-inches of air, fumbled in Dean's hands and came to a halt, Dean's arm cropping out so sharply it let off an audible pop. He reached for the power button and clicked it with his thumb. Static broke out over Lewis Aquila's pallid face as would a hormonal teenager's face (trust me, he knew, his nephew could be mistaken for a victim of the chickenpox from a single look at his face) — the TV's farewell bid — and the screen went black. He could barely read the lines of his face on its surface. What do they call it? A black mirror?
"I don't give a flying shit about the show, the television's better off with the rejects at a yard sale anyways—"
Ah ah ah! It still works. If it works it works, remember? Can't go against your own word.
A double-hung window was fixed only a few feet away, practically reeling him in. He could see Herman Industries in all its diabolical glory from there, looking down at him with the fury of an avenging angel. Time to punish you again, it said. Only a few minutes left. He had moved into this apartment five years ago, and that was a damn mistake on his part. A real big one.
Not that it was a bad neighborhood, not that it was a bad place, not that it was pricey . . . The other tenants they had met weren't too shabby themselves — mostly good people at that, and the community of surrounding buildings
(not counting that shitshow Herman Industries)
was heartily linked, and the nearby small-owned businesses were welcoming, and the apartments were fine . . . but . . . but . . . Herman Industries . . .
Anger flooded him over in a green wave. The window crept open, the cold April breeze hitting Dean like a fist. He forced his lips on the rim of the bottle of Rolling Rock, taking a lengthy, grateful drink. His throat tensed and crimped, pissy beer streaming erratically from the corners of his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed and convulsed in a masthead of flesh that poked through the folds under his chin. The last of the drink grazed his throat. He pulled away, sucking crisp, spring air into his oxygen-deprived lungs, and sighed. That felt good. It tasted like angst and raging hormones, but it felt good.
He drove his head through the open window and a flutter of shadow ran along the brick of the Golden Gate Apartment Complex. There it was in front of him — Herman Industries — in its typical definition; the building a diamond-like structure built so high it could probably touch the sky. The Monday-night moon had waned into a white crescent. Crowned the tip of the building with a wreath of white ribbons of moonlight.
Herman Industries had always been a beautiful sight from the day he first moved in. But the admiration he had for that place aged like a left out carton of milk — boy did he hate everything about it. Moving day, he was complimenting the building on the smallest of things (Golly! Looks really well designed! Beautiful modern architecture!), but jump to the present day and he's complaining about anything he could think up (Fucking thing's blocking the sun, fucking thing's causing noise, fucking thing's a distraction, FUCKING THING'S A WASTE OF SPACE!).
Aloft the roof of a neighboring apartment building, he could see three pipes that peeked out of the parapet of Herman Industries' foundation. Standing tall, staring blankly ahead. Like a group of periscopes. Spying on him, wanting to see him go feral. Making that trash-talk. He looked on as they expanded — we gotta drop the load! — burst, and screamed a steady train of steam. Now the whistle was back, and that did it. The hate gun's trigger was pulled. This time, a round was fired. Don't blow a gasket, he tried to tell himself, but it was no use.
No escape Dean.
"WHAT THE FUGHJI, HERAMN IBNDSUTRIES THE GODAM WASTE OF SPACE IN ANYTHIG IN THIS FERGIN TOWN!"
He would admit, to him, it had originally sounded a lot more badass than that.
A hollow echo, laced with the ever-so present fury of Dean Crawford, stirred the silence that buried the streets below. The walls juddered — a few murmurs from the neighboring tenants — the anger reeling him in. He paused to gather his breath, dipping his head and clenching the windowsill to keep himself from listing and plunging to his death. His fist tightened around the neck of the beer bottle. Could've sworn the thing was about to break.
Let's scream again, he thought, maybe hurl the Rolling Rock too. Wait no, you'll get in trouble, don't do that . . . But oh boy did he want to, doing so would tone the bubbling hatred inside him down, doing so would make him feel good, doing so would get his message across . . . Screw it, I'll do it no matter the consequence!
Stupid Dean . . . Stupid Dean . . . Stupid Dean . . . you're not a little kid anymore . . . Stupid Dean . . .
He garnered the courage to scream again. His stomach caved in, throat tugging on the Adam's apple in anticipation, the crack of gunshots ripping into his ears like the whistle's screwdriver . . . not the hate gun — a real gun.
Wait. Real gunshots.
His heart seized in his chest. Trying to convince himself they weren't was no use. He had heard them before — the night of July 4th would erupt in gunfire and this sounded no different — except it was closer. Closer. This really was the real deal.
He forced himself back inside, tripped over his feet and next thing he knew, his ass hit the floor.
3
"T—that's when I heard the shots." His voice cracks. Fresh tears mushroom beneath his lids. They will eventually break the dam and fall silently, leaving glassy trails along his cheeks; their farewell gift. "Something I thought, and wished, I'd never hear in my life."
Dennis swallows awkwardly, raking his front teeth along his bottom lip in thought. He recognizes the reality of Mr Crawford's fear and trauma. Being a police detective himself, he has obviously seen some screwed-up stuff — and has already had a hand in a few shooting cases. There was a point in time where he was assigned a murder case, in which the victim's remains had been tossed into Lake St Clair. And no joke, when he first got a glimpse of the body, his stomach twisted into a wrung out towel. He almost upchucked too; you'd think a police detective would be desensitized to gore. But no, Dennis was human, not a brick wall. Poor guy looked like a hunk of chop shop meat. . . especially if the butcher that handled that thing was a callow young boy with a nasty habit of muscle twitching. Their skin was outshone by a flaxen skeleton — and wherever you could see skin, it was dead. Mottled with blue and purple. At the time he had thought, the scavengers must've gotten themselves a hearty meal. He then fashioned his fingers into hand-sized guns. But the victim, or, the said meal, needs to be served themselves — they need to be served justice.
And we'll get the fucker responsible.
This case isn't any different. An innocent man is now dead. But where's his justice?
"So," he starts, "can you run that by me one more time?"
Dean manages a breath. It's leaden with stress, so much so he has to fish it out of the still air of the interrogation room. He bars his eyes shut. From start to finish, he recites the story he had told — the two men across from him nodding their heads absently and jotting down extra notes — and does his best to keep his breath steady. There's a point in time when one of the men breathes sharply to the mention of gunshots. He figures it's with some kind of PTSD . . . Gunshots, he thinks, cops hear them all the time; could remind them of a stomach-turning situation — maybe a shooting. His shoulders quake. He witnessed a shooting only hours ago. That shit was scary . . . huh, I can definitely relate.
"Everything alright?"
One of the men has spoken but he isn't sure who. "Uh, yeah," he replies nonchalantly, pursing his bottom lip. He keeps a straight face, but his eyes singe with tears.
Dennis produces a pack of Marlboros from the polyester pocket on the thigh of his pants, the corners wrinkled and broken down, the colour fading. Flicking the top open, he pinches a cigarette between his fingertips. "Hey. I know that face when I see it. Wanna smoke? It'll make you feel better."
Dean pulls his upper lip up. "No thanks, smoking is bad for you."
A bitter shadow pisses on Dennis's face. "No shit sherlock, so is drinking a six-pack of beer a day. Probably the only six-pack you'll ever have," he shoots absently. His voice was calm and quiet, but he spoke way too fast. "O'shit, sorry 'bout that."
Hanging his head low, Dean hisses, "It's fine." Hey, at least I didn't blow a gasket. The hate gun is still there, you know. I could've tried to punch you in the face.
"Alright, look. We're going to ask you a few more questions, okay?" He clicks a BiC lighter beneath the tip of his cigarette and lights it. "Truthfully I'm not sure if smoking is allowed in here," smoke jets from the two nostrils of his hook nose, and Dean quivers as if disgusted. "But you are allowed to tell us anything that may help us in the case. Don't you want the jerk-off who killed those innocent people to get himself in shackles?"
4
Shot In Sky
Dean scrambled to a sitting position in a mess of arms and legs, his breath ragged, his heart thundering beneath his ribcage. He peeled his lips back in fear, and tried to steady himself. The gunshots were real. They really were real. He fought the urge to freeze. He had seen on a YouTube video that loose bullets can hit you even if you aren't the shooter's target. The last thing he wanted was to be shot; if he didn't die, it would be awfully painful, not just physically but financially. The medical bill that he'd receive weeks later would put a bullet in his wallet too.
A bullet whizzed by and drilled his ear like the whistle did. But this time he wasn't mad — he was scared. His heart went colder than the two-week-old tray of ice cubes in the freezer. They were real bullets. He could tell by the sound it made, he had learned from that same YouTube video, and that the best thing to do in this situation was to get on the ground.
He had been sitting down, the floor biting into his ass, wrists inward to keep his back propped up. Another gust of April wind slapped him in the face, and the roar of a second bullet made his fingers claw into the floor. The realization finally got to him. Getting on his stomach, he pulled himself away from the window, his body sifting through a film of floor dust.
The gunfire went rapid and Dean welcomed himself to darkness. He couldn't even breath with counting at least five shots. It came to him that he wasn't entirely safe. He never would be . . . and he shouldn't have expected to be. The shooter could still get a few hits on him, and his wife . . . oh, his wife . . . not Ruby . . . my precious Ruby. She was asleep in the bedroom, and a box window had been fixed into the outward wall, facing the bed. We liked to watch the stars as we slept, it was our television you could call it . . . He wondered if he'd ever see her again; her beautiful smile, her flowing, autumn hair, and her sparkling blue eyes — he was scared he wouldn't see her again.
But he would. He escaped the window's glint of moonlight. His knees rasping the floor, he managed to pull himself an extra few inches before getting back on his feet. He glanced back. Outside, a length of Herman Industries' windows were broken glass. It looked like a mint cobweb. Probably got hit by a few bullets. Back inside, a beer bottle that had rolled down to the edge of the recliner flashed him a comforting smile. I'll save that one for later. Chills wrenching down his lower body, icy-cold Rolling Rock glazing the way of his legs like piss, he pounded down the hall to the bedroom.
He found the door and stalled. What if he was too late? What if a bullet had screwed through the window and into Ruby? His face solemn, his eyes bulging, he took in air through a jagged motion that hitched his stomach, and clasped the brass doorknob to the bedroom. He tried to move but he couldn't. He was too scared.
"Ruby?" he called, but received no answer.
His stomach knotted and he cursed himself. "Ruby? Are you okay?"
Nothing. He breathed weakly. If anybody knew she was okay it was God. He firmed his grip on the doorknob and twiddled his wrist — it clicked, and the door creaked open. Relief swept him over, so hard he forgot how to say his wife's name; there she was, lying in bed unbothered, her eyes glued shut in sleep. That beer . . . I'll need that to calm me down.
He rushed around the foot of the bed past the dresser, came to Ruby's side of the bed, and joggled her awake. She wheeled her head at him and her eyes slowly fluttered open with the strain of sleep. She parted her lips. "What's wrong?" she managed softly.
Dean licked his lips nervously. "Someone's shooting and I almost got plugged through the window," he said. "I was scared y—you might've gotten h—hit."
Her eyes — though heavy — widened. "Someone's shooting? Where?"
"I . . . I don't know. I heard the shots outside and they came close to me, that's about all I know."
Ruby leaned on her side. "We're okay," she murmured. "Call 9-11. Please."
Dean dipped his head grimly, okay, while scanning the room for the telephone.
He got on his knees and scuffled to the dresser, signaling Ruby to get on the ground, and patted the wood surface for the telephone. It fiddled in his hand and separated from the phone base. Careful to not be exposed by the window, he dialed 9-11, and waited eagerly for a call-taker to pick up. The other end flared-up with a second's worth of static. Do you need police, fire or ambulance?
Ruby met the floor as well. She did so as she had once learned during a shooting drill at her old workplace; she didn't remember a lot since it was over fifteen years ago, but at least it was just now coming in handy. She listened to her husband explain the situation to the operator. It sounded like he was doing a good job. When he woke her up, his alcohol-laced breath was so strong it singed the inside of her nose. He had been drinking again — and reckoning with that, she was surprised he didn't get shot.
His drinking wasn't exactly weird. Dean had many names around here . . . there was Michelin Man of Detroit (though she found that quite mean-spirited) DD - Drinker Dean, and Dean the Mad Machine. As much as she wanted to disagree with them, she found shame in admitting they were true. Yeah, my husband has a problem, she thought. But I'm getting him to change. He suffered from notable anger issues, and Ruby had always known that staring into the sky helped him calm down. That was why they, when first moving into their apartment, had chosen to have their bed facing the box window in their bedroom. And surprisingly it worked; he slept better, worked more efficiently, and had better control over his anger.
"Nobody's injured . . . uh-huh . . . okay . . . we don't know who's shooting . . . I saw some broken glass at Herman Industries though."
Herman Industries. That building always made Dean mad. Something about the pipes always making his ears bleed. She wasn't too sure exactly why but she knew it bothered him, maybe a bit more than it should've. Actually not a bit. A lot more. She directed her eyes to the window. The stars, the sky, remember Dean, it keeps you calm.
But she didn't only see the stars. She could see . . . something. It kept the form of a fighter jet. But that wasn't it. It looked way too small to be a fighter jet. Across the sky, it drew lines of thick smoke that sputtered from its behind. Fighter jets leave white trails, not black ones. And most notably she could read the silhouette of a person atop the strange vehicle. A bulky person. Like they were wearing some heavy armor. She could tell by the silhouette's sharp ridges and the two points of yellow light where its eyes were supposed to be.
Dean came around to his wife's urgent nabbing, the phone inches from his ear. "What?"
She was goggle-eyed. Pointing to the window, she dragged herself away in fear.
Not any ordinary fear.
The fear of something unknown.
The sparkling interest in her eyes was enough to tell him: you have to see it. Hand clasping the telephone primly, his belly bouncing, he shuffled his knees to face the window.
5
"That sounds like a load of bullshit," Isaac Leonard's voice is as hard as wood. "You mean to tell me someone was flyin' around the sky in some flying device straight outta Back To The Future?"
Dean, still haunted by the sight, lunges his head forward. "No, no, no! I'm being serious!"
Isaac raises an eyebrow. "And you mean to tell us that you think this 'person' on the device was responsible for the shooting?" Dean nods yes. "Who do you think was on that thing?"
Dennis, still taking in the offspring of the lit cigarette, coughs a smoke cloud. He brings a closed fist to his mouth. "You think Herman Industries has a doing in this?"
Shame burns up inside him. Odd. "Yeah."
". . . good," Isaac replies. "Cause we do too. Now, did you see which direction the glider went?"
6
"You ready?" Officer Jerry Middleton cocked his rifle and hung the strap over his shoulder.
In the passenger seat of the police cruiser, Officer Chris Williams clutched the pistol grip of the rifle in his right hand, a finger on the side of the trigger. He nodded grimly. "No shit, we got to get in there now."
He jumped out of the vehicle, slamming the door so hard he could feel the car shake — even from his position. His head flared with concentration. Ahead was an entrance to section two of Herman Industries. The wall stretched a hundred some feet down and stood about fifty feet tall. Looking upwards he could barely catch the building that stood well above the rest. As he neared the door, his heart bumped so hard against his ribcage it hurt. He had never dealt with a situation like this before.
Without a goal other than neutralizing any threats and clearing the area, he plowed into the push bar, stepping aside and holding the door for Officer Williams. The place was deathly silent. Grey smoke clouded sectioned parts of the room. "We got smoke in here," he voiced into a communicator attached to his uniform. "Lot's of it. No audible sound."
Officer Williams drew a flashlight and mounted it to the accessory rail at the head of his gun. Jerry copied him. He then swept around a row of thickset computers and stopped dead. "Be careful, there's bullet holes in the screens here," he warned. "If there's still a shooter here, we could be getting close."
Jerry padded along the wall to an open doorway. Above, a small marble plate labeled the inside room as a Storage Unit. He welcomed himself inside and lit the room. There were nothing but a few broken bottles, a couple of glass encasements on some wired shelving with metal plates beneath (maybe to catch any droppage), and a few hefty black briefcases. The shape was like that of the YouTube Diamond Play Button which he had seen a while ago. As much as he hated to admit it, he kind of wanted to crack it open and check what was inside . . . no, no, how could you get distracted by a damn box? You could be saving lives right about now—
"WE HAVE A CASUALTY IN HERE!"
His heart jumped in his chest and slammed so hard against his ribcage that pain was back. Those thoughts (the ones about the stuff inside the storage unit) had stopped the paranoia of being shot just for a small while. They came so quickly he could barely read them, but he still sure as hell understood them. He brushed them away at once because someone was dead. He left the briefcases behind, chased the star of Officer William's flashlight, and came to his side.
The place was wrecked. Those same, heavy thickset computers were there too, only crushed. Whatever was left of their screens was nothing more than a bunch of shards heaped like a bunch of hurried shoppers on a Black Friday. Now the only use they had were being the deathbed for that dead man — clad in a white laboratory coat, Drew Carson printed neatly above the breast pocket, that veiled the mangled remains of the computers, stroked red from blood-ringed wounds that were peppered across his chest — his back curved so damn far he could read the outline of his ribs, so far his head dangled over the edge of the table, his eyes still popped open in an avatar of terror and agony—
"Come on, we need to continue the search."
Jerry's breath caught, as if on a fish hook being reeled by a hungry fisherman.
"There could still be a threat." A dark shadow crossed Officer Williams's face. "Unless you want to leave a murderer with a chance to escape."
He had more sense than to not get going, and so he left the body and the unease he felt while staring at it. Every second forward could be a second closer to someone ending up dead like that man. But something was off: the position of the body, the broken computers . . . a glass chamber to the left, inside a metal table hooked with wires and heavily-built bars that clung to it lazily, yellow syrup trickling from the elevated tile platform — all projected in front of that bloodied row of computers. He cocked his head back for one last look. The guy clearly wasn't just shot. He was beaten. Severely.
Whoever did this was one sick bastard.
7
It would happen on the night of May 25th 2020.
Dean would scrub the porcelain plates until they shined in his image, which was the set standard for when he did the dishes. 'Once you can see your reflection in them, they're clean,' his mother had said back in 2008. She died later that year from cancer of the pancreas. It was the saddest he had ever been in a while but eventually he had to rip the Band-Aid off. Can't go sobbing and sulking around forever.
He clenched the sponge in his hand, which was also wearing away at the sides, and soapsuds gushed out, then trickling down his fist. He never understood why people let their dishes pile up. That seemed ridiculous. They'd only end up on the counter, and nothing's worse than having to move a couple of crusty ass mugs just because you want to butter some bread — make room for me, cleaning dishes are my kitchen's bread and butter. Maybe it can be yours too.
Light from the late-night moon seeped through the blinds and spilled onto his face. He could see Detroit through the louvers. The city of almost 320 years in the making was pleated between tiny bars of polyester, almost like how a prisoner saw what was waiting for him outside his cell; except instead of the cheap polyester it would be tiny bars of steel. And maybe that wasn't very far off at all. Having to live next to Herman Industries had tailored this place into something more like a prison. Huh, fits Dean well.
"No dad! I'm sorry—" Derek collapsed to the ground with a meaty whap, his domineering father whipping his arm around to wear off the momentum—
Dean shriveled. That doesn't count! He was drunk.
He went to the living room. Ruby was on the couch folding laundry. He offered help but she turned him away. So he took his fatigue to the bedroom. For a moment he shuffled between taking a pre-sleep shower or heading straight to bed, but the alarm clock on the vanity read 10:30 in bony, green digits. All the time for his nighttime routine was gone. Fuck it. He'd just go to bed. A long shift was scheduled tomorrow; well thank God for that! He'd be better off scrolling through Twitter for a good hour before heading to bed. Not that he was big on devices — maybe the television, but that was about it.
His phone was a Nokia — not super old, but still a flip phone . . . if it works, it works. Remember?
Jumping onto his side, he tucked a pillow between his arm and love handles, and drifted off into sleep. Little did he know, he'd wake up during the early hours of the morning to scratching coming from the window.
And it would be the last time he ever did.
8
June 2nd 2020
Sometimes I wake up with a scratchy throat, or my eyes glued shut with sleep, or even a stuffy nose, but until that day I had never woken up with superpowers. Ugh, just the idea sounds ridiculous; I had always thought they didn't exist, just as some made-up thing to keep little kids at bay, or to give them something to look up to.
A pool of sweat isn't the most comfortable thing to lay in, you know? But thanks to a strange dream that gave me the chilly-willies, I figured the sweat was normal, didn't think much of it . . . until I destroyed my alarm clock. That thing woke me up everyday, got on my nerves too, so I'd slam it to shut it up. It worked every single time. But on that day it worked . . . let's just say a little too well.
I didn't understand the feeling at the time. It took me a few days, but then I finally understood it after a journey which felt like an on-foot adventure (which is how most of my discoveries feel). Power. It was power! I hadn't felt that in a while, not to that degree. My ego has gotten smaller over the years, you know? Everything's all sunshine and lollipops when you're a kid. Likely you also thought you owned the world — well atleast I did. Life feels like an eternity, love is a gross topic that should never be mentioned at all, blankets protect you from the monsters under your bed and in your closet and other ridiculous things . . . You name it. But as life went on, it didn't take me long to realize how weak I was, or how insignificant I was. And I'm not going to lie — I got used to it. Quite literally liked it.
You see, it gave me a reason to hide away from society; be nothing but a casted shadow. The friends I had made during elementary school were good enough and I'm surprised they put up with my BS. I met them back when I was full of ego.
Some may say: Oh Lincoln, you're not full of ego
(definitely not lying to make you feel better)
don't put yourself down!
Well here is my response: Shut up! D'you even know what I did back then?! Let's see here . . . I had my head lodged so firmly up my own alley that I thought a girl had a crush on me because she invited me to go to a friggin fast food restaurant . . . I ran a cookie business by the seat of my pants and was certain that it would blow up . . . and I forced my siblings to act like a bunch of knuckleheads because I wanted to get a 'perfect' family photo. And trust me, it wasn't perfect at all. They all looked like they were held at gunpoint: say cheese or I'll blow your brains out.
See what I mean?
Anyway, the older I got, the more I wanted to improve myself. Going around town, I always felt that everyone saw me as a swollen-headed prick. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Almost like I couldn't change myself. I know, I know, sounds stupid and weird, but that is just how it is. As much as I tried to straighten myself out, I couldn't help but think I was still crooked. That is probably why I was so awkward and bad at making new friends. Maybe sometimes I got lucky, but I was always the bad apple. Nobody wanted to pick me for a friend. I think I was afraid, maybe even embarrassed.
But now power had swooped in and taken that fear's place.
I grew a relationship with fear. And suddenly feeling bigger and stronger than everyone else, yet keeping the build of a straw and those same insecurities as a swollen-headed prick, was so . . . weird. I felt bigger than everyone else, yet I wasn't. It makes no sense. It is a feeling I don't understand even to this day. And all these weird ways my body had reacted — at one point even drove me to the toilet. Not in that way, you know; went there to throw up.
I can't say I want to keep being scared and awkward; it is something I hate but at the same time keep coming back to; but I can't say I enjoy feeling like the most capable in the room either. It puts a lot of responsibility on my back — and though others can't see it — it is there. It is there more than I want it to.
9
"So . . . you're finally here." Lynn's damning voice cuts him like an icepick.
Swinging his eyes side to side like a pendulum, Lincoln tries to find something to look at other than her, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Embarrassment flares his insides. "Yeah, let's just not talk about that."
First day of school, Mom had suggested Lynn and Lincoln hop the shame train in pairs. They both made their complaints, but to no avail. 'I want you two to be safe and that's final.' Once Mom made her decision, that was it; no going back. There was a time where she forced Lincoln to join a club in the 7th grade. 'You need to meet new people,' was her idea. She probably thought that plan was the absolute cat's ass; but the way it turned out was more like the shit that comes out of the cat's ass.
Either way, that didn't give her the idea — and the saying goes, 'if you give Mom any static you might as well dig your own grave.' That is at least how most kids see it.
Lynn, being the big sister and all, is supposed to protect Lincoln. Seventeen years-old and fifteen years-old respectively. She has already argued that Lincoln should be old enough to defend himself; it is not her fault his arms have less meat than a chicken wing. He should be 'big and strong' by now. But what do you know? He spends every single day camping out behind his bedroom door. And it doesn't help that she is usually not there to help him after school because she has practice for at least some type of sport.
Ugh, if only he tried.
Thumbs jammed into his jean pockets, Lincoln pads down Franklin Avenue, shook by how unsteady his heart is working. That same beat persists — ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud — and it is starting to stir him up. What is stopping him from gouging his heart out right now? He sighs weakly. If only these weird powers had rendered him some sort of warning; likely he wouldn't be dressed in two-day old jeans and a wrinkled shirt, owing three-hundred dollars and a thousand more apologies.
The sky is overcast, but the rain has decided to take a day off. Thank god he learned to always, always check the weather report, unless you want to end up beaten in an alleyway showered by the cold March rain. He was wayy past that . . . yet he wasn't.
A chill creeps from his spine, from between the shoulder blades to the tail. What did Arnold say to him again?
"Listen here you little shit, treat this as your final warning; if you EVER meddle with my affairs again, I won't hesitate to make your life a LIVING HELL! What you'd deal with wouldn't even COMPARE to this!"
Huh, a living hell.
And a little shit.
Makes him feel like nothing more than an annoying insect. It buzzes around provokingly; it gets swatted once. Not hard enough to kill it though, but enough to make it suffer. Now on its belly, contorted, legs twitching; it has no chance to escape. Then it gets swatted again and again until it dies. Think of that as the moment he graduates.
To everyone else in the school, he is a nobody; just another face in the hall; maybe not when he is objectified to the insults, but yeah, that mostly sounds about right. But Arnold has plenty of attention to invest into him, he supposes. Hah, loser. Flamed by someone like Lincoln Loud. He kind of wants to piss Arnold off on purpose. Eh, probably going to stammer at the last minute. That seems fitting because Lincoln Loud hasn't wanted to be the center of attention for a good 4 years. But why now?
They round the corner at Southmoor Drive. Wind starts to pick up. A paper soda cup skids along the asphalt of the road, a fleck of gravel kicking up near the sewer drain, a strong April gust flapping like a bird inside their eardrums. The sewer grates; rusted with slits wide enough to swallow your hand whole. He can swear that he hears the water dripping; a drop clings to one of the grates, grows pregnant, and drops. Plink. The same plink he had heard when stuck in the alleyway; curled up in a ball and frozen in pain, those final words a shallow echo in his ears.
He questions himself: why do you wanna piss Arnold off, but you're also too scared to get that attention. C'mon, the answer seems so obvious; you just feel the need to vent your anger, but you're still nothing more than a scared little kid. Yet that answer feels too far-fetched to be true.
For the first time in years, Lincoln doesn't understand why he has a sudden drive to grow a pair and throw a foot forward.
It might be power—
"Want a sucker?"
"Huh?"
"A sucker."
Oh, a lollipop. Sure.
"What kind?"
"Dunno. But it's red."
"Better not be cinnamon."
"You can only hope."
Lynn produces two of them; dark red candy balled to the tip of a white stick; no branding; just a sheet of clear plastic wrap twisted at the end. Finding it a bit suspicious and foreign, Lincoln wrinkles his nose. "Where'd you get that thing?"
"Stole it."
"From who?"
"Someone."
Well, that doesn't help.
A few years back, the Loud children had started a quarrel against anyone who'd filch their food from the fridge. You'd expect no privacy in a house with 11 kids. And that's exactly right. Putting any bit of food in the refrigerator is basically dumping it amidst a pack of hungry wolves. Everyone had something to steal — everyone had something to be stolen. They even devised a system to help work things out; but that was short lived. Lincoln is a bit guilty himself too, but he has already made himself promise to never steal from his siblings again. "Not from one of us, right?"
"Oh no, I stole it from a teacher."
"What type of high school teacher keeps lollipops at school?"
"They don't. When I volunteered at your old elementary school they gave me one. But I stole a second one."
Oh, well that clears things up.
Lynn is a great person. Sometimes she is a pain in the ass, but that is to be expected. (You can call it the sibling norm.) When they were little they'd sometimes go up to the park to play some baseball or basketball; whatever was available, as long as it was classified as a sport, was Lynn's game. She was much more competitive back then, maybe a bit domineering, but he still enjoyed her company nonetheless. Sometimes she'd let you get the upper hand for a bit only to clutch the hell out of the last few plays. Now she's won and humiliated you; but don't worry, she's probably just trying to help you get better. You could say it's kind of beneficial. Like how she just stole a lollipop only to give it to someone . . . kinda?
He unravels the lollipop and gives it a test lick. It is cherry. Thank God. He then crumples the plastic in a closed fist. "Thanks, Lynn."
Lynn manages a dainty smile. "No problem."
Silence.
"So . . . uh, I just want to talk about the little incident."
Dammit, he should've seen this coming.
The incident; that only meant one thing. Suddenly he was back in the bathroom; his head straining, the alarm clock a few rooms down screaming like a friggin banshee, his heart palpitating in his chest and wrists and ears. Ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud.
Then the vomiting.
Now the child-like fear is back. Maybe reconciling himself to this sour future isn't going to get him any further away from it; maybe brush it away, but there is no good in that. Why forget it if it is just going to bite you in the ass later? He has always lived in some form of fear. But this, for some reason, is different.
"Ugh, I guess you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
And now he has forgotten how to speak. Like he has been hit by the subtle yet thunderous cloud of Lincoln Loud thoughts. Again.
"Sorry, I just . . . forgot to speak."
Lynn gives him a look of damnation, almost as if she is standing next to someone who has pilfered one of her protein bars and denies it. Somehow . . . somehow, she can see through him: he didn't just forget, he got lost. Everyone in the family knows that Lincoln has always lived in a jungle, all contained to the hollows beneath his skullcap. But Lincoln has yet to find the machete — bright, silvery, yet all the more concealed beneath thick piles of duff — that will help him navigate and make his way through. Sometimes it glimmers and catches his eye, albeit, it is still not there. Or something like that, was that really just a guess?
"Yeah," Lynn starts, "so . . . what you did back there doesn't seem so much like you." It seems as if she is talking to the air. "You're always so cool-headed, reserved, not really strong enough to do a lot— well, not trying to sound mean when I say that but—"
Lincoln stifles a laugh. A laugh that sounds brittle, hurt, scared, and apologetic all at the same time; too arcane to fully understand. "You're not wrong."
She laughs too. "No hard feelings."
He feels a small pang of guilt . . . but puts it aside, determined to stow it for a bit before opening his big, chip-toothed mouth and clicking the lighter over his sisters, or anyone else for that matter. No attention for me, the cautionary voice in the back of his head (which he is sure everyone else has) says, it is the one thing you don't need.
"It was an accident. Nothing else I could really say — I guess I have one good-ish idea, but nothing I can really back up," Lincoln answers, as if his mouth is moving of its own accord.
Lynn gives him that same look of damnation, her thumbs slipped beneath the straps of her backpack and loosening them up. "What's the idea? You can tell me, I'm your sister, not some rando from the streets."
He can feel his pulse inside his neck, and suddenly he is not anymore on the sidewalk of Southmoor Drive. A ripple of pressure: "Well?"
He is back at the Genetics Lab; people cooing around him, the bitter smell of carpet-cleaner buried beneath the burning yet pleasant smell of sanitizing spray, Birtz at his left running his mouth at every damn thing he processes. His hand is warm from writing, and his feet are a bare inch from smoldering beneath the crushing weight of his legs — he is almost certain that his fingerprints have been grazed off by the grip of the pen he has used, and dots of sweat have popped out on his temple from trying to keep up — ten minutes in yet the discussion continues to drone on. 'These ones are genetically modified,' a presenter has said, who runs by the name Mrs. Cook. 'They were given an extra . . . something.' He can't tell whether he wants to start dilly-dallying with Birtz, or keep focus and take notes, but now he has had enough. He leaves . . . only looking for one of the big, information-displaying televisions that has been mounted on one of the big pillars holding up the ceiling, determined to stick with it.
"So, remember when I had the field trip to the Genetics Lab of Detroit? The place where the science teacher took us to take notes for our entomology paper coming up. I think that's where things started; I think." He scratches his elbow with his head in the clouds. "Still, I'm not sure. But I can't get a better idea of why, so—"
Reading the information on that television, something crawls up his arm.
It is a spider.
The GLOD spider.
Lynn feels into the pocket of her vest, closing around her cellphone. "So what?"
The spider makes its way onto his hand and stations itself at the 'L' of his thumb and index finger. The eyes, which he can barely make out, look up at him; black and soulless. His heart leaps in his chest, his stomach clenches, his lungs tighten. Then he can feel the spider jolt, and suddenly, as if willingly, the—
"Can you explain?" Lynn's voice is a little bit louder this time.
He stumbles forward, the gravel grating beneath his sneakers, his arms cropping out sharply to catch balance. He can still feel his heart palpitating, and yet . . . it doesn't feel as bad anymore. They are now only a block away from Jefferstone Road. Have they already walked this far? He peers down, maybe it is, with the strut of their legs, they have reached this far. And far enough to find a garbage can too; the kind you find at the playground or public forest. He needs one of those. Something has changed, that is for sure, but nothing is going to change the wad of sticky plastic wedged between his fingers.
He shakes the collecting mist out of his head and motions it at the trash receptacle. "One sec, hand me your garbage."
Lynn did that obediently.
The trash receptacle, lazily daubed black by someone who seemingly doesn't like their job, is positioned against a large oak tree, an open park field to the right. This tree is odd, however, with a stout trunk that evens out to a stem of thin branches that spring back and forth like a slinky in the cool April wind. He climbs over a slight elevation caused by the tree's roots, banks the plastic balls home, and plods back down to the sidewalk.
Except — that is not what ends up happening. Where is the plastic? Well, still in his hand!
He goes back and tries it again. Nothing, and the two pieces of trash cling onto him with a desperate prayer. "I can't get the garbage off my hand," he says.
"Hah, what?"
And now he is back again, but not in the Genetics Lab — it is nothing more familiar than his own bedroom. He has been outside for so long that he has forgotten how cramped this room is; for Christ's sake, the guy is barely 5'10" and can touch either wall by bringing out his wingspread. White light spills out of his laptop — the screen is tucked up by the search engine. 'Genetics Laboratory of Detroit spisrfsefdrg,' is typed into the search bar and he tries to clear it out. And suddenly there is a peeling noise and the pluck of plastic and metal, and the backspace button knew no more.
"Ugh, why are you ignor—"
Lincoln utters a rusty scream that makes Lynn jump on her toes, makes birds fresh from spring migration thrash out of the oak branches above, and makes sleep-drunk adults scramble to their paned windows or front screen doors. "I can't get it off! My hand's doing the sticky thing again! I-i-t's ... stuck!"
"What do you mean 'stuck—"
"Gosh, just help me!"
He puts his hand out and Lynn tugs on the plastic, but it doesn't budge. Her brow instantly furrows, and she looks at Lincoln with wide-eyes — large brown ones. He has never seen her open them this wide before, and it makes her confusion all the more visible. She makes him clutch a thicker branch, closer to the bottom of the big oak tree, and tugs a second time. This time she uses her foot on the trunk of the tree for leverage, but she fails again.
Lynn vexes after a brief moment in which she catches her breath, "What the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing!" Lincoln cries, and that damning look returns.
It feels as if, inside the hollows beneath his skullcap, he surfs through the jungle, searching restlessly for an answer, and for a moment, along the duff that waves up and down the sea of trees and vines, something glimmers. The machete.
And now Lincoln feels a push and slumps against the trunk of the big oak tree. He sees Lynn stumble backwards, her right foot catching in one of the big roots of the tree, and she hits the ground with a small cloud of dirt. Her stomach hitches with sapped breaths. Her eyes are still wide-open, staring blankly into the leaden sky that has curved over Royal Woods on this April morning. A wave of exaltation overturns him, and now he feels happy, but also foolish; almost punchdrunk. He lifts himself back up.
"The hell was that?" Lynn barely manages to get out.
He rubs his dirty hands on the thighs of his jeans and tosses the sulking white hair out of his face. "I don't know," he says, almost giggling.
He starts to laugh, though, not at anybody but at the clouds.
10
June 3rd 2020.
My second journal entry. I'm starting to get the hang of this thing, and I enjoy it. Somehow, being able to relive the memories — specifically with the inclination for my thoughts — makes me feel better. Have I not started with these notes, I would've been better off sleeping on that hill for another fifty days. That reminds me, I have to find him. I made a promise to keep him safe; I shouldn't drop it now. Him, I shouldn't mention for a while. Just to play it safe.
The day I got my powers, me and Lynn got into a little scuffle near Jefferstone Road. Wasn't a fight, but I got something stuck to my hand and enlisted her to get it off me. We both ended up on the ground. I was leaning up against the trunk of an oak tree, the smell of the trash receptacle next to me small but wretched. Lynn was a few feet away, she pulled it off and held it up with great triumph while lying in a pool of buckled grass. It must've been difficult — I don't exactly remember the moment she got it off. I was so focused on finding a way to control it and I thought I had it, but I didn't quite get there. A moment later we sat up, and I was still laughing. I don't know why, but I was, maybe it was with how absurd it had been. She questioned me, but I didn't listen. Finally she pulled me up and called me an idiot (which some adults did as well at their windows), and we both went to the bus stop at the intersection of Jefferstone and Foxdell Road.
When we climbed onto the bus, there was this big kid blocking the only free seats in the bus, clenching one of the yellow grab handles and picking at the pimples on his forehead. Peachy-blonde hair. Bouncy belly. Nothing much else I could say about him. Me and Lynn were pretty pissed because we didn't want to go up to him. He was at least 6'5" and weighed as much as a truck. Nobody wants to mess with that.
Maybe a younger Lynn would've wanted to, but nowadays she has more sense than that.
When we arrived, the blacktop schoolyard at the side of the school had been empty. There was a few kids out playing ball, but the school bell was less than 10 minutes from ringing, so calling them stupid was a safe bet. One of them, tall and lanky with greasy, corkscrewed brown hair, drove to the rim and overshot the layup. Not too long after the ball had rebounded into an opposing teammate's hand. A mocking falsetto sprung out of the sidelines: YOU CALL YOURSELF THE BONE COLLECTOR? YOU'RE THE TRASH COLLECTOR!
I opened one of the big double doors for the side entrance for me and Lynn. Almost immediately I felt hot air from the heater at the entrance inching down my shirt. A rush of students blew up and down the hall like autumn leaves. Lynn joined them, as if we were part of the same tree and she decided to separate. She slipped me a quick goodbye and I couldn't even say it back before she disappeared.
I went to my locker and there were some kids crowded around it. Turns out it was my neighbor's birthday and they wanted to surprise them. I asked them if they could step aside. They did so almost obediently. I stood taller than all of them, so I guess I did have a certain presence. About nine kids were there, sticking photos, Post-It notes and art pieces on that locker. If someone were to ask me, Lincoln, are you lonely?, right then and there, I would've looked at how many kids had gone out of their way to wish my neighbor a happy birthday. Then I would've turned back and said, "I suppose."
My lock combination went from one end of my head to the other, and suddenly the shackle jumped out of the body and the locker was open. I had three binders arranged at the top. It was the trinity: Math, Science and English. Those three were my first foot forward. Then below that shelf I fastened my backpack to a coat hook, a second shelf beneath. There I kept the other five binders. The schedule on the back of the locker door shimmered beneath the hallway lights; I didn't need to read it because I already knew what day it was and where I had to go. I took my English binder and accordion, then shut the door and locked it. Today I was going to see Clyde and them, Birtz too, and I was certain they'd be pissed that I wasn't there yesterday. Hopefully Zach would do his usual greeting and yell, "Hey—
11
—Linco!" Zach shouts, just as he always does.
Lincoln winces a bit and walks over to their table. The cafeteria has a certain atmosphere now; maybe because it isn't lunchtime, or because of the faint smell of cafeteria lunches at the back of the room, or because of the lights; which go from gold in the hallways to a dull baby blue in the cafeteria, almost as if this is a walk-in freezer. Most kids have already sat down, and a few kids turn their heads Lincoln's way. He moves rigidly, aware — too aware — that he is starting to feel lighter. Not one of these weird feelings again, he thinks, and finally reaches the table.
"Sup boys," Lincoln says with the twinge of an edgy 14-year-old streamer. He sits down next to Liam. "Anything new?"
Liam perks his head up, as if he hasn't noticed Lincoln's presence until now. His eyes look sunken. "Hey," he murmurs.
Rusty looks to be eating his chin. Not literally, but he has his entire face pulled in. And then it explodes. "Christ, he's alive!" Rusty blurts, and the trio giggles. "He has risen from the dead to come bless us once more!"
God, he sounds like an idiot. No offense, buddy.
For a second, Lincoln can swear that he's floating. He isn't, but he feels so light. It reminds him of the feeling he gets on a roller coaster. He wonders if this is another emotion he is sensing because he can read the relief on Clyde's features. Is this how the relief of others will make him feel? Or he is just losing his marbles to the spider bite? He sets his English binder on the table and throws it wide.
"No, some new assignments for Math and Science," Clyde says. He adjusts his glasses; two circular lenses and a black frame that pinches the bridge of his nose. Similar to stereotypical nerd glasses. "How about you?"
Science. That reminds him; the paper coming up, and Birtz. He isn't here. His eyes drift around the cafeteria, but he isn't anywhere. He can see Stella, she is sitting with some other friends today. But Birtz is nowhere.
Lincoln has been paging through his English binder. "Nothing big, I still have that paper coming up, but nothing to turn in for my other classes — for now. Probably gonna get a few more later."
The glasses on Clyde's face are now on the table, and in his eyes Lincoln reads worry; the little kid type he used to always hold. He toys with the frame nervously. "That's not good . . . uh, what's your thoughts on the movies?"
The movies, he has already made that promise. No saying, 'what are you talking about,' because they can just pull up their group chat and read out loud, 'hi everyone, wondering if would be interested in movies, me + Birtz thinking of going, we'd love it if you can come. Birtz want to know you guys better, plus, been a while since our last hangout. Planning on this Saturday. Imma be working things out with my parents.' He can only assume his parents would turn him away after what he has done, so maybe he should tell them that—
"Guaranteed. I'd move the whole freaking town to go," Lincoln says after a brief moment in which he runs over the question. "Hell, let's book our tickets tonight."
That wasn't supposed to come out.
Clyde smiles. "Sounds like a plan. Asked my dads and they were fine with it."
Dammit.
Zach's eyes gleam like a robot's beneath his lenses, which are probably thick enough to be windows. "I'll pool some money tonight."
Dammit.
"I have no money," Rusty says grimly. He socks the table with a clenched first. "I say we'll deal it out."
According to Rusty, 'deal it out,' is a euphemism for, 'someone's going to get a bunch of money and everyone else will be broke.' He uses a form of Pigeon Toss; you bring out a few coins (which coin it is doesn't matter, because you give them a certain value, whether 10 or 20 dollars, or something completely random) and you throw each of them towards the end of the table. Whoever gets their coin the farthest on the table wins; but if you lose, you need to give whatever bet you put on those coins to the winner.
Clyde arches a brow. "What do you mean, 'Deal it out—'"
"You're on, bitch," Zach challenges; standing up halfway and shuffling through the pocket of his new cords.
Great, it has been over three years and these two are still at this rivalry BS.
Lincoln stands up as well. He starts to feel light again, and his insides are in a flutter just as they were this morning. Nothing better than vomiting all over your friends in front of half the school. And . . . he doesn't want to subject himself to something like that. "I have to go to the bathroom."
There is no 'moment' of silence. Clyde immediately hops up, his arms splayed on the table, and Lincoln has a pretty good guess of what he is going to say. "I'm coming with you then, I wanna talk about something."
He was right.
12
"Are you finally done with that damn thing?"
Everything was fine until this guy felt the need to pester him. At a table near the back of the cafeteria, Arnold has been given the walkie-talkie from Nathaniel, or 'Nate,' his 'street' name. Just a term he makes up to seem cool; no it isn't your 'street' name, it is your nickname, dumbass. And giving him this walkie-talkie as a possible, 'new method of distanced communication,' for them, Xavier and Chandler has only reconciled him to his goddamn trash excuse of a brother, so thanks for that.
"No, I'm not," Arnold snarls. "Mind your own business, Schnot-nose; I'll be done when I say so."
Nate deserves to be called schnot-nose for that. For those who don't know, he has chronic sinusitis and hasn't yet gotten it cured. And obviously he has taken offense to it because his face has contorted disgustingly.
"Holy shit, go cool your balls off, dick," he shoots back, and his nose slurps back some mucus.
"Yeah, suck it back in. Need a box of tissues, little baby-waga-boo?"
"It's a condition, jackass."
"I know," Arnold grins wolfishly.
A small part of him feels satisfied; the guy very well knows everything about him, so what gives him a pass to bring up anything about (or related) to Adrian? Or maybe he is just overreacting and really is a dick. It is just a bad memory to think about. When he does, he can feel the skin around his ribs stiffen, and it feels as if someone is pushing into his sternum. And then he can almost feel his head aching again, and he can see the rock with his blood on it— okay, let's not dwell on this memory anymore.
However, it is going to come back up when his mom forces him to see Adrian in prison. But that can wait. For now, he hopes that for every single day in that joint, Adrian will get one of those prison cocks forced up his ass. The prick deserves to suffer.
Finally, someone speaks. "So guys, wanna do anything this afternoon?"
Xavier. Xavier Ferguson. The guy who puts them all to shame in looks; he is already 6'4" in his shoes and built like a Navy SEAL. He just needs to work out to bring out that muscle. You can call him the main piece, because he makes anyone want to batten down the hatches.
"Well I got some ideas, check this out," he continues.
With interest.
Arnold slides the walkie-talkie down the table and Nate intercepts it. Xavier has the phone canted in his hand, a bar of dim, blue light trickling onto his wrists. Arnold gives the table a few taps and cocks his head up with a certain expression. 'Let me see,' it says. Xavier doesn't hesitate and hands him the phone. Talk about trust.
The phone has something about gang violence near the city on the screen. Unnamed gangs, at least seven suspects ranging from 15 to 20 years old. The news article comes from the Daily Bugle. Arnold hates that company and the airheads who run it, but that aside this looks pretty legit. Scrawled at the bottom of the screen is, 'stay wary for these juveniles. They may be armed and extremely dangerous.' But the main thing that catches his eye is, 'They are mainly seen around the outskirts of Detroit, but have started to make appearances in nearby cities and towns such as Warren and Royal Woods.' So these asshats have the nerve to step foot on his home soil and start causing havoc? Yeah, he isn't having none of that.
"That looks fucking hardcore, dude." Something swims up inside him. "We gonna teach those punks not to mess with our territory?"
A daring grin carves itself onto Xavier's lips. "Hell, yeah—"
"Yo, shouldn't we be careful?" Chandler asks. The others have stopped their talking, and now stare at him, almost with bitterness, as if it was an attack. His lips in a half-frown, his eyes half-lidded, he continues, "I don't think it's worth it; just think about it, a murder last night, and now we have this info about gangs—"
"Nah, that happened a bit away from where this gang stuff is happening. The shooting-murder has to do with some company that I have no clue about. Maybe there's a feud between some businesses and they took it too far? Who knows," Nate says, looking pretty mystified. "Either way, someone's in some deep shit. One confirmed dead so far."
"So what do y'all say? Yes?'
Arnold reaches out, then Xavier, then Nate. Then they give Chandler cold stares until he finally crops his arm out like a shot, and now their hands are stacked.
"Let's do it."
13
"So Lincoln, you can tell me."
Gooseflesh running frantically along him, Lincoln cups his hand beneath a surge of tap water. He collapses the cup and water drapes down the backsides of both hands. "I . . . ugh, don't know," he says, almost unsteadily.
His heart feels icy-cold and heavy again. There is a certain pressure — and it immediately clicks. He has proposed that he can sense emotion earlier today. Worry seems to feel like ice-water in the heart, and that feeling has returned. And in Clyde's eyes, he can make out that child-like worry again. It is a match.
"Why not?"
Something about the way he has spoken makes Lincoln think mentally, should I really tell him? He lowers his voice down and keeps at an awkward pace. "I don't know Clyde. I feel like I shouldn't tell you."
Clyde blinks away a twinge of offense. "Lincoln. We've spent most of our lives being friends. You can, and I mean it, tell me."
Reaching for the soap dispenser, Lincoln's palm drives up against the pump. Violet soap ribbons into his cupped hand and he rubs it in until it gets sudsy. Then he runs his hands back under the tap until they're washed. Cycling through the ways he can go about telling Clyde, he can't single one out. A part of him declines it but a different part of him accepts it. Maybe he should give it a few more days to tell him, that way he can—
RING! RING! RING!
And the bell has just rung, time to go to class. At least he gets a bit more time to think it through. But suddenly Clyde fixes him in a hug. A hug that he hasn't gotten in years. "I've always cared about you, Lincoln," Clyde says.
That jabs his heart. "I do too."
Clyde continues, "I still want to talk to you later."
He leaves without an answer.
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End of Chapter 3
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Sorry if this chapter wasn't very good I really needed to finish this before vacation