Better to Die a Hero (20 page)

They stopped on one of the most dilapidated apartment complexes Steve had ever seen on the island. Bryan motioned him to a large skylight. Steve was sure a structure in such a decomposed state had to be condemned as unfit for human habitation; however, several lit windows indicated occupancy.

Steve snuck to the edge of the glass structure, the light escape upward, and eliminated Bryan’s deformed face. Even as his friend pointed down indicating the direction Steve should be looking, in a trance he gazed at the bumps and baldhead. Bryan moved a hand up blocking Steve’s field of vision. Steve turned his attention downward. Through the dingy glass, he saw human activity, people sitting around on junk furniture, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.

“A nefarious street gang,” Bryan whispered, “This is a great place to start. I don’t think you’re ready for vampires yet.” He crouched deeply then sprang forcibly twenty feet into the air.

He stared up in amazement as his friend tucked into a tight ball and executed several summersaults on the way down. Bryan snatched Steve’s arm and pulled him through the shattering skylight. Steve spun amongst the falling debris and positioned for landing. An explosion of bottles, ashtrays and dust erupted as a table flatted under his weight. Kids not much older than the two of them flew over the backs of stained couches, exposing torn cushions as they scrambled in confusion.

Bryan bounded to the side of a male struggling to pull a revolver snagged at the waistline. He grasped the man’s hand fixing it firmly to the gun, clutched the bandana wrapped head to his chest, and forced the man’s finger to pull the trigger. Blood from the man’s groin splattered the floor. Much like tossing a Frisbee, he flung the man’s head outward sending the body spinning airborne.

Steve stood petrified at the carnage unaware of a gun muzzle raised in his direction. Shots rang out one after another. The gun wielder’s body jerked to the impact of several bullets then dust flew as the body slammed the dirty floor. Bryan tossed the empty revolver and bolted after a fleeing gang member.

Steve turned to the metallic sound of firearm mechanisms being chambered. A gang member snapped back the bolt and let loose a fury of bullets in his direction. The shooters reflexes were no match for Steve’s speed and the rounds hit consistently two feet behind him. Steve dove to the floor, rolled, and snatched up an unopened beer bottle. He flung it with dead accuracy. The projectile struck the man’s face, disintegrated into a spectacle of fluid and glass and sent the man staggering. A hail of bullets ripped into the ceiling. Out of the shadows, Bryan emerged behind the thug and in one swift motion pulled the man’s chin, turning it well past the shoulder.

“Just like in the movies,” Bryan hollered, giving a thumbs up.

“Damn it!” Steve shouted, “You didn’t have to do that!” The man dropped face first like a limp doll. My friend, what have you become?

Steps approached Steve from behind—he turned. A small man with a machete squared off. “Hey Ectoman,” he yelled, “it looks like we’re done here. I’ll take care of this one, you head to the roof.” Pleased to see Bryan dart out of the room, the teenager turned his full attention to the opponent in front of him. “You should thank me.” He smiled at the gang member. “I just saved your life.”

The small man answered with several swipes at Steve’s midsection. He hopped back easily avoiding each swing. He maneuvered his way to the broken table, slipped a foot under the wooden top and kicked it up into the advancing machete-wielder. A split second after its impact Steve stood face-to-face crushing the man’s wrist. “Really sorry about this,” he said, and then smashed his fist into the man’s jaw.

The man dropped. Steve twirled dizzily and surveyed the bodies. A small foot, pink laces and tiny ankle, stuck out from behind one of the tattered couches. Skirting the sofa, the young man’s worst fears realized, a young girl not much past the age of fourteen lay silent in a massive pool of blood. Steve rushed to her side and probed her neck for a pulse. He checked his own neck to make sure he had the proper location—he found a fierce pounding. He focused on the girl, his fingertips gently kneaded her soft skin—nothing. She had died with her eyes open; his eyes teared over.

Slowly the teenager stood. Barely able to walk straight, he staggered from the room. He found the nearest staircase and drug himself upward, all his strength useless, the dead girl’s eyes burning into his memory. She was innocent. He was prepared to overlook the killing of Savini and crew, but the girl—nothing would ever be the same. It didn’t matter that it was machine-gun fire that killed her. Bryan’s aggressiveness had started the conflict. He looked down at the red M adorning his chest. It now stood for murder. He clawed at the paint, scraping it from cloth until his skin ached.

Steve stepped out onto the roof. “Oh God, I thought this was over.”

Bryan held one of the hooligans
 
by the throat letting him thrash violently over the buildings edge. He grabbed one of the man’s legs, hosted him high overhead and threw him off the building.

“No!” Steve tackled Bryan at the waist taking both of them to the hard surface. “This isn’t you. You don’t believe in killing people.” He lifted his head to look Bryan in the eye. Bryan pushed with his legs and Steve went airborne. Steve twisted mid air and landed on his feet; he pivoted sharply and faced his friend.

Bryan was already standing, fists clenched. “I am doing God’s work here!” He stomped forward.

“God’s work, you always said only God could judge and here you are killing people.”

“I am really getting tired of having to make things simple for your dumb ass.” Bryan stepped toe to toe with Steve. “God is judging them, and I am God’s instrument.”

Steve stepped backed, this time more out of fear than the rancid breath blowing in his face. “Bryan it’s the powder, you’ve got to stop taking the powder. You look like a monster.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, turning his back.

“Where’s the powder? Is it in your coat?”

Bryan spun around and tapped the breast pocket of the coat Steve had gifted him. “It’s right here and I’ll make you a deal. If you can take it, you can keep it.”

“This is not you, the powder, it’s affecting your judgment, your personality, your face. Christ sake, you’re bald!”

“I’m making a difference while you just sit around and watch.”

“Bryan!” Steve yelled, “There’s a dead girl back there. You got a girl killed.” He forced both palms hard into Bryan’s chest, sending his friend back a foot. “What’s wrong with you?”

Bryan cocked both arms and shot his palms at Steve’s chest. Steve dodged to the side and received a glancing blow to the chest that hurt like hell. He plunged a hand deep into the coat and frantically fumbled for the pocket. Bryan swung around with an elbow. It glanced off Steve’s head and he reeled back in pain.

“Damn it Bryan, you’ve got to stop taking the powder.” He felt his scalp for damage.

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can.” Steve dove in for a tackle.

Braced for the charge, Bryan absorbed the impact and wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. He lifted his friend and twirled several times. He released and the embattled teenager rolled across the rooftop. “I can’t quit!” he yelled. “This is all I have. Without it I’m nothing.”

Bryan spun and darted back the way they’d came. Steve stood up and followed, pushing hard to catch up. For thirty minutes they raced, Bryan pulling one building ahead then two and finally vanishing into the darkness.

7

BETTER TO DIE A HERO

CHAPTER 15

M
orning not far off, Bryan wanted nothing more than to eat a big meal, curl up in the abandoned apartment he’d found and fall asleep. Still sensing the presence of his former friend, out there looking to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, Bryan prayed sleep would dull his perceptions and with it the anger dominating his every thought. He wanted to calm down, to think about something else, but his mind continuously reached out over the city detecting an essence belonging to Steve—to the betrayer. It was like a leash around his neck and it stretched out for miles, choking him every time the betrayer changed directions. Occasionally the tether vanished and tranquility ensued, but this peacefulness was short lived. The betrayer always reappeared pulling at him, cutting off his breath.

A stuffed belly and a good day’s sleep would take care of the problem. He eased his way into a third floor window and tiptoed into the kitchen. Using an open refrigerator door to illuminate the modest surroundings, he searched the cabinets and drawers for comfort food. Anything with chocolate would due, but foremost on the list was a bag of chocolate chips—to make the end of a bad night palatable.

*          *          *

“Mommy… mommy…” the small boy whispered and tugged repeatedly at the blanket covering his mother, “there’s a troll in the kitchen.” He tugged several more times before the sleepy woman threw off her covers and put on her slippers.

“Bobby,” she said, taking his hand, “there’s no such thing as trolls.” Tiredly she shuffled to the kitchen; Bobby stayed by the entrance. She yawned and closed the refrigerator door. “What were you looking for?” She pushed several drawers closed and removed a glass from the cupboard.

Bobby stood petrified looking up at the monster stuck to the ceiling, hovering just feet above his mom’s head. His every word quivered, “There’s a troll in here.” The ghoulish creature looked down at him and raised a finger to its lips, shushing him.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, filling the glass with water, “I told you there’s no such thing as the bogeyman, monsters or trolls. Here you go honey.”

He took a drink, spilt some, but never took his eyes off the troll.

“Oh baby, you’re trembling.” She placed the glass in the sink. “Do you want to sleep in mommy’s room tonight?”

Bobby managed an affirmative nod and took his mom’s hand. He looked back as they left the kitchen; the troll gave him a thumbs-up.

“Mommy’s going to have to empty the garbage tomorrow, it’s getting stinky in there.”

*          *          *

Troll…The Troll, Bryan thought. He quietly dropped and resumed searching for chocolate. The name rolled easily off the mind. Pleased at the absence of the betrayer’s essence tugging at him like he was some disobedient dog, Bryan worked quickly knowing that any moment the creep could move back into range and jerk hard enough on the invisible harness to make him vomit right there in the little boy’s kitchen. Not the calling card he wished to leave. Disappointed at finding no chocolate treats or even candy, he tied a pan of lasagna and a gallon of milk up in his coat.

He slipped into the living room and stuffed two worn pillows into the makeshift knapsack. This nice kid and his mother were poor; He would pay them back.

Bryan crawled out the window with his dinner and noted the apartment’s location before jumping to the next building.

Dawn arrived a few minutes before Bryan crawled through the window of his own apartment. He wasn’t worried about being spotted. The streets below were deserted and probably would be for another hour. The night owls, criminal or not, didn’t like the sun and it was too early for good citizens to be up. This is when the streets were at their most peaceful, the first hour of the day. The one drawback to his new face, daytime errands would be difficult. A large hooded sweatshirt and some well-placed bandages might do the trick.

The small apartment wasn’t much to look at. The graffiti covered walls sported dozens of fist holes, trash lay piled in all corners and it looked to have been this floors dumping ground for broken appliances. Bryan made good use of the old stoves and refrigerators, by stacking them in front of the door making the hall entrance nearly impenetrable, at least to the low lives squatting the dilapidated fourth floor. With no furniture available, he sat on a heap of pillows and started in on the pasta meal. The two men living next-door began fighting again. The loud one, with the thick English or Australian accent, constantly ordered the other man around.

It was good having the betrayer out of his head. He eavesdropped on his neighbors and could tell they were drug addicts, but that being no crime he focused on his meal and the name the little boy had spoken.

“Troll,” he said.

The title struck both an ominous and humorous tone setting the perfect balance. It would strike fear in the hearts of criminals, and yet little girls collected troll dolls.

Action figure. Bryan grinned widely at the thought. He would have his own action figure called The Troll. He contemplated it no more. Ectoman is dead, long live The Troll. He raised his milk up high in toast then gulped a great quantity.

Later, after draping the window as best as he could with one of the blankets donated to the cause, Troll washed down a dose of powder and tossed the empty lasagna pan into one of the trash-filled corners. He curled up in pillows and drifted into a blissful sleep.

*          *          *

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Troll opened his eyes to a thumping coming from the other side of the wall. “Damn, the betrayer.” He rubbed his temples and looked to the window. Daylight still showed through the makeshift drapes. The long mental leash was back this time exiting the top of his skull, pulling his temples tight causing them to throb.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

He took a deep breath and attempted to ignore the sensations leaving his head and the noise emanating from the nearby wall. He rolled to the side, closed his eyes and wished it all away. A rhythmic grunting grew audible just under the wall thumping and Troll grew angrier  at the disturbances he endured.

“Ah!”

“Guur!”

“Ah!”

“Guur!”

He’d viewed enough streaming videos over the Internet to recognize the sounds of sex, though something sounded off. Just wanting to sleep, he buried his grimacing face into a pillow.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Ah!”

“Guur!”

“Ah!”

“Guur!”

The grunting sped and he felt sick in the stomach; the guttural vocals were both male.

The knocking and moaning ended abruptly.

A thick accent filtered
through
the thin walls
.
“Wooo, that stinks.”

The wall exploded; plaster and wood shot across the room taking both men by surprise, their naked bodies rolling the dirty floor in panic. A glimpse of the large mutation emerging from the white dust turned the rolling into a feverish crawl in the opposite direction. Pushed by an all-consuming anger, Troll snatched one of the men by the back of the neck, picked him up and ran him into the nearest wall. He pressed the gurgling man’s face to the wall, drew back a fist and shot it into the man’s lower spine. He drew back and again plunged his fist forward putting his shoulder and back into the punch. A sense of satisfaction ensued at the snapping of spine under fist; he tossed the body aside.

The second man wet with offensive perspiration cowered in the corner. Too scared to scream he wailed a sickly tone and trembled uncontrollably. Troll raised a foot high and drove his heel into the back of the man’s neck as if he were flatting a cardboard box. With each stomp, the pain in his temples eased and he continued stomping until only a dull ache remained. The betrayer was still out there. Troll’s mind reached out past the confines of the room and touched the person he once called friend. This extraneous sensation was at least for the moment tolerable.

He looked over his neighbor’s apartment; it proved little better than his own did. They did have some furniture he’d liked to have borrowed, but now that a large opening connected the two rooms, he thought it would be better used to block their door. He pulled over the couch first, tables second and chairs third, then constructed a barricade against the door.

Not enough weight, someone might be able to push through.

He picked up the body of the man with the crushed neck and placed it on top of the pile then strategically weaved the dead limbs among the chair legs.

Still needs more weight.

The other man fit nicely on top of the first.

Satisfied with the structure Troll went back to his own apartment and curled up in pillows. He listened to the soft moaning of the man with the broken back. It reminded him of the family cat, when it would sleep at the foot of the bed lightly purring. That always helped him get to sleep.

*          *          *

The Troll awoke among an assortment of pillows, well rested and glad to see nightfall less than an hour away. The bite and gunshot wound did not hurt anymore and it appeared both were nicely healed. The fact he’d slept over twelve hours was of no concern, he probably needed the recuperation time; then again, maybe he was turning into a vampire. The thought sent him scrambling for the window. He leaned out and basked directly in the rays, no fire, no smoke, this was a good sign. The woman that had tracked him down, to her own demise, had stood at the end of the alley in broad daylight. Maybe he had his monsters mixed up. Maybe she was some genus of lycanthrope—a werewolf. In the heat of battle her fighting style resembled that of an animal, especially the way she’d rolled in biting his thigh. She couldn’t have been a smart monster or she’d have targeted his groin.

I should check my teeth.

He ducked back in and stepped through the hole into the neighbor’s apartment. His own bathroom mirror looked like it had been broken for years.

“Don’t mind me guys, I’m just passing through,” he said to the heap of wood, fabric and flesh. Just as he’d guessed, their mirror not only in good shape was clean as well. He held a hand up curled like a bird’s talons and willed his hand to crackle, pop and form a claw like the woman’s—nothing happened. He snarled at his reflection, bared as many teeth as possible, growled into the mirror and mentally commanded his mouth to form the canine like structure he’d witnessed several days earlier—still nothing. Satisfied he ripped the mirror from the medicine cabinet and headed back to his own apartment.

“Well guys,” he said, striding past, “you’ll be glad to know it doesn’t look like I’m turning into a monster.”

Back in his own room Troll eyed the plastic container half full with milk. He popped the cap and sniffed its contents. “Crap.” It had soured. He chucked the milk through the mammoth hole in the wall he’d created that morning.

Time to get down to business.

He paced as he always did when devising a plan of action. This plan, unlike the strategies he’d conceived while leading a role-playing campaign with his friends, concerned real monsters. Monsters with ties to the fat albino he’d so courageously removed from public concern. The plan started with a trek across Central Park to the Italian neighborhood and then a few well-phrased questions to the right wise guys.

“Son of a Bitch!” Troll grabbed at his temples as the headache he’d earlier suffered returned. He’d forgotten all about the betrayer and the nagging discomfort his proximity induced. “You are not following me tonight,” he said, diving out the window.

Not bothering to hide in the shadows nor tread softly across the rooftops, Troll ran full tilt in the direction the leash pulled cutting the distance between he and the betrayer with every step. Apartment dwellers occupying the top floors were caught off guard, as pictures fell and china rattled at the thundering gait above them. Leaping over a large air-conditioning unit, Troll purposely over jumped then landed flatfooted sending as much energy into the roof as possible, not so much to wreak havoc in the apartment below as just to smash into something.

“Hey, butthead!” Troll hollered at the barely visible figure jogging several hundred feet out. The face didn’t need to be seen, no identification had to be made, the leash sprouting from his mind arced out and landed right on the slow moving figure.

*          *          *

Steve stood tense, his friend bounded toward him like a jungle cat chasing down its dinner. Rapidly the figure charged with no signs of slowing down.

“Oh man.” Steve threw himself back, thrust out his legs and caught Bryan’s midriff. Over Bryan flew, his face full of bumps and gritting teeth passing within inches of Steve’s own. The momentum carried the tall body across the alley, head first through a window. Shattering glass pierced the evening air. Within seconds, Bryan dove out the window and sailed back across the alley. He tucked and rolled to his feet.