Out of the Shadows (34 page)

The officers parted quickly, surprised to find a Chinese man standing in the doorway.

Trevor grew perplexed at the sight of his landlord. “Mr. Miyoto?”

“Mr. Miyoto?” the short man grinned. “No. He’s gone.”

Trevor’s eyebrows furrowed, and he felt as though he were going insane trying to make sense of the strange things he’d seen and heard in the past twelve hours.

Mr. Miyoto held his eerie grin a moment longer. Finally, he continued, “As I was saying: it wasn’t them that tried to kill you. It was me.”

The landlord raised his hand, which held a gun that no one had noticed until now, and he fired at Trevor.

The patrons of the diner leapt from their tables, screaming and trying to hide from the gunfire. The three officers jumped into action, dropping into a crouch behind booths and tables, their weapons trained on the Chinese man. They screamed orders at him to cease and drop his weapon, but he ignored them, locking eyes with his target.

Trevor looked down at his chest, patting himself, searching for the blood that should have been pouring from his lifeless body. He’d felt something hit him, but there was no bullet wound.

The Chinese man’s eyes narrowed angrily as he studied Trevor slowly from head to toe, ignoring the shouts from the cops. “He marked you,” the man seethed bitterly.

“What?” Trevor grew exasperated, not understanding anything that was happening.

“Sir, put down your weapon!” yelled one of the officers.

The landlord’s glare remained on Trevor for an uncomfortable period of time before he finally turned toward one of the cops and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through the center of the officer’s brain.

The customers shrieked, and all hell broke loose – to the jukebox’s tune of the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back.”

As the groovy beat swept through the diner, another cop shot the Chinese man, who dropped to the ground, dead. But a moment later, a woman sitting at a nearby table walked up, grabbed his gun, and calmly fired at the cop that had killed Mr. Miyoto. When the officer fell to the ground, a young man swiped up the weapon and ended the woman, and then someone else grabbed her gun and blasted the young man’s face all over a nearby stack of pancakes.

Trevor watched, paralyzed in horror, as a twisted and gruesome chain reaction took place, a grand Rube Goldberg of death sweeping through the diner, systematically dispatching of every man, woman, and child that breathed. And when the guns were out of bullets, they picked up their steak knives to finish the job.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not look away from the grotesque event. He thought back to the previous night when he’d witnessed three people jump from the Golden Gate Bridge in a similarly irrational and shocking manner – it was all as if someone else controlled their actions. In the restaurant, he felt the Angel of Death leaping from one person to the next until the restaurant finally fell silent, save for the peppy 1960s tune on the jukebox.

Shaking with fear and nauseated disgust, Trevor surveyed the gory scene. When he looked at the ground, he felt a dry lump lodge in his throat. Lying at his feet was the body of Patti, one bullet hole through the center of her chest. A pool of blood seeped from under her, and Trevor stepped backward to avoid it spilling onto his shoes.

There was no room for grief, however, because as he stared at the dead woman and the oozing blood on the black and white tile floor, he shivered. His mind wandered to this morning when he had discovered his macabre paintings. He remembered picking up the first one, and through its abstraction, he knew he had painted the bloody death of a woman on a black and white tile floor.

He had painted Patti’s death before it had happened…

“Kincaid!” came a scratchy voice.

Standing at the far end of the diner was a thin balding man with black hair on the sides of his head – the last patron standing. He wore a black suit and tie, and he held a bloody, serrated knife in his hand, dripping with the remnants of a nearby woman. He advanced slowly, closing the distance between them.

“I underestimated you earlier,” the man began, “when I tried to kill you at your apartment.”

Trying to shake the notion that his horrible paintings might be premonitions, Trevor engaged the killer. “I’ve never seen you before.”

The man grinned and laughed ominously, continuing his creeping approach. “You have no idea what you’re in the middle of, do you?”

“Who are you?”

The man scrunched his forehead in thought, like he were debating on an appropriate answer to the question, and then he chuckled as if he had just come up with a witty comment that he kept to himself. “You can call me Luke,” he sneered.

“But
who are you?”

“Has he told you
nothing?”
Luke asked, thoroughly entertained by Trevor’s ignorance.

He was suddenly feeling as though he were the butt of some elaborate cosmic joke to which he wasn’t privy.

“And where is he now?” the man taunted, growing dangerously close to Trevor, waving the knife through the air menacingly. “He’s abandoned you,” he offered slyly. He came to rest only a foot away from Trevor’s face as he continued deliberately, “Just like everyone else… in your
pathetic
…
life
.”

“I haven’t abandoned anyone,” came a defiant voice from the doorway, ready for a fight.

The man turned to find Micah, standing at the threshold, arms at both sides, hands balled into fists, his jaw resolute.

Luke smiled and greeted, “Old friend! So good to see you!”

Micah’s eyes narrowed.

“I see you’re still going for the real champs,” the man oozed with sarcasm, nodding toward Trevor.

“I choose the ones that can get the job done,” Micah spat.

“Well,” the man began, matter-of-factly. “So do I.” And he lunged forward, swinging the knife wildly.

Micah dove in, dodging the blade and swinging punches. The jagged weapon sliced through the air as Micah sidestepped, landing a fist on Luke’s jaw. The attacker lunged backward, throwing his full force into Micah, sending them both falling into the counter at the front of the diner. The man in the suit spun and grabbed Micah’s hair, slamming his face down onto the countertop, leaving a patch of blood in its wake.

Micah threw his elbow back as hard as he could, landing it directly into Luke’s gut, making him double over, gasping for air. Soon, he was stumbling backward from the well-placed kick that Micah delivered into his face. He collided with the jukebox, shattering its front display and making the music warp and finally go silent.

Trevor watched the two men fight with incredible dexterity and agility, jabbing and punching and dodging. He wasn’t sure what he should be doing; part of him wanted to run, but a stronger part told him he must stay.

The knife swiped, making contact with Micah’s side, tearing a hole in his white shirt, the crimson stain spreading quickly. He swung his elbow forward, connecting with Luke’s face, and as he stumbled backward, Micah managed to grasp the man’s wrist, bringing his other elbow down on his forearm, forcing him to drop the blade.

Micah deftly swept the weapon off the floor and planted himself, his stance wide, the knife at-the-ready.

Luke stepped back, observing whether Micah’s next move would be offensive or defensive. He spit a glob of blood from his mouth, wiping his lips on his arm, his breathing labored. The man glared at his sparring partner, his piercing gaze failing to wound. Luke pointed at him and said between breaths, “Next time… I’ll be ready for you.”

“I look forward to it,” Micah snapped back.

“And Trevor?” Luke began, staring intensely at the shell-shocked guy at the other end of the diner. “You should have jumped.”

Before Trevor could respond, Luke snatched a fork from a nearby table and jabbed it deep into his neck, blood spilling copiously from the wound as he slowly weakened and fell to the floor, dead.

Micah suddenly collapsed to one knee, clutching the gash on his side.

Trevor stood still, not knowing what to say. He looked around at the diner, and he saw the flurry of panicked pedestrians running by outside, pointing at the horrible sight within. Soon, more police officers would arrive, and that would likely not be something from which he would be able to walk away.

His eyes fell to Micah. “You all right?”

“It hurts, but I’ll be fine.”

“Looks bad.”

Through gritted teeth, Micah insisted, “It’s fine.”

A moment of silence passed between them, and Trevor decided it was time for some answers. “Micah—.”

“You have to go. Now.”

Trevor stood his ground, his stare bearing down on the wounded man.

“Look,” Micah sighed with exasperation, “I know you have questions, but now is not the time.”

“Maybe you should make it the time.”

“If you don’t leave, they will catch you, and this will all have been for nothing.”

Trevor threw his arms into the air. “I don’t even know what’s at stake!”

“Everything!”
Micah screamed in frustration. Taking a moment to calm himself, he finally shook his head and said quietly, “Everything is at stake, Trevor.” He looked up into his eyes, a deep sadness swirling within them, as if he had seen the same tragic story play out hundreds of times before, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “You are their only hope.”

Trevor stared into Micah’s intense emerald eyes, and from those windows into his soul, he felt the memories of worlds falling into chaos and crumbling into nothingness.

“I’m sorry, Trevor,” he consoled with genuine pity. “Please. You have to leave.”

Trevor wasn’t sure how he could possibly be the only hope of anyone, much less
everyone
, and his mind was only starting to put the puzzle together. His gaze studied the violent bloodbath that had occurred at the diner. “Everyone’s dead,” he said numbly, surprised that the urge to vomit hadn’t sprung on him yet.

Micah remained silent, sensing that Trevor was overwhelmed.

He looked down at the balding man with black hair that had called himself Luke, a silver fork sticking out of his neck, covered in thick goopy blood. His eyes then rested on his dead landlord, Mr. Miyoto. A strange melancholy filled him, and he wondered if the landlord had any relatives that he should contact. He subconsciously rubbed his own chest and thought about the bullet hole that should have torn through him but did not.

He marked you
, Mr. Miyoto had said after pulling the trigger.

“Trevor…” Micah said softly, attempting to root him back in the present and away from the dangerous places his mind might have been wandering.

He turned back toward Micah and noticed his ragged breathing, but the wound in his side didn’t appear to be bleeding much anymore. “You’re coming with me,” he decided.

“Trevor, I—.”

“I’m not going to leave you here while you’re injured. If you want me to go, you’re coming with me.”

There was a hardness to Trevor’s words, and Micah knew that they had been said with a conviction that would not be broken. He relented and instructed, “Out the back.”

Trevor nodded, stepping over a corpse and heading through the swinging door into the kitchen.

*     *     *

Knowing that he couldn’t just stroll into a hospital with Micah, they had decided to return to Trevor’s apartment, hoping the police weren’t watching the place yet. After all, it hadn’t been an actual officer that had shown up earlier; it had been Luke – whoever that was.

Through the ever-graying day, they had walked most of the way in silence, trudging up the steps at the side of the steep road. Trevor had a million questions, but he hadn’t wanted to ask them until he could organize them all in his head, and the silence had provided him the precious time to think.

As they had traveled, he had glanced at every passerby with suspicion, waiting for them to leap through the air and attack him, having lost control of their own actions. But no one had attacked. No one had even looked. Their alleged “only hope” had been walking past them, and they had been none the wiser.

When they had arrived at the apartment, they had found that the gamble had paid off, and the cops weren’t waiting for him.

Inside now, Trevor stared down at the corpse of the officer that he had forgotten he’d left on his floor. He slowly shook his head back and forth.

“What?” Micah wanted to know.

“I…” Trevor sighed. “I have no idea what to do about this,” he answered, pointing down at the dead body on the ground.

“Well, I have an idea,” Micah offered. “But you probably won’t like it very much.”

“What’s that?”

“We could put him in your landlord’s apartment downstairs.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Your landlord is dead at the diner. Everyone saw him show up with a gun and start firing. The cops would assume he had gone crazy. Case closed.”

Trevor considered the idea and couldn’t argue with the logic that Micah presented, so they did it.

After returning to the apartment, now corpse-less, Micah sat down at the small kitchen table, and Trevor grabbed some antiseptic and bandages from the mirrored medicine cabinet in his bathroom, maneuvering through the debris in the living room leftover from the earlier encounter with Luke.

“All right,” Trevor stated, placing the items on the table. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he motioned at Micah’s side.

Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, Micah slowly pulled his white t-shirt up and over his head, dropping it in a bloody heap on the wooden floorboards.

Briefly stunned by Micah’s statuesque torso, Trevor’s eyes eventually came to rest on the bloody gash in his side, looking far worse than it was due to the dried blood that had begun to crust around the edges. It was no longer bleeding, and Trevor knew enough about the human body to know that that was a good thing.

He delicately applied some peroxide with cotton swabs, wiping away the drying bloodstains. Once the wound was revealed, it looked merely superficial, albeit painful. Trevor applied some topical ointment to a large, square bandage, and he covered the wound as Micah hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” Trevor offered.

He stood up and leaned back against the kitchen counter as Micah pressed the edges of the fresh bandage firmly around the wound, nodding as he said, “Thank you.”

Trevor stared at the mystery man that had been forced into his life the previous night, regarding him with speculative eyes, allowing the missing pieces of the cosmic puzzle to become apparent in his mind. He inhaled, preparing to open his mouth to speak, but he halted, exhaling and remaining silent instead.

Micah turned away from him, avoiding his overbearing gaze, his eyes flickering about the room, searching for the right things to say.

Finally, Trevor spoke. “Micah…”

“There’s a war happening,” he blurted in response, deciding to begin the cascade of knowledge that he knew Trevor would demand anyway.

“A war?”

“Between Heaven and Hell,” he added, pausing to allow Trevor time to process the information.

He nodded slowly, his stare unwavering. Finally, he asked, “How’s that going?”

“We’re losing.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

Micah sighed and stood from his chair, roaming aimlessly through the apartment and coming to rest by the opened window through which Trevor had earlier escaped. “You know the answer to that.”

Trevor was pretty sure he did, but he didn’t want to make any assumptions.

Micah continued, “Every so often, one of them comes to Earth.”

“For what?”

“To devastate. To incite terror. To provoke wrath.”

“Why?”

“Because they can.” Micah searched for a better answer as his eyes came to rest on Trevor’s horrific paintings on the floor in the corner. “It’s the thing that drives them.”

Trevor felt a boiling anger slowly rising within, and he wasn’t sure at whom it was directed.

“When they manifest here, one of us is sent to stop them,” Micah continued, already offering more information than he’d ever confided to anyone. “Sometimes we’re successful, and other times…”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “What happens if you don’t succeed?”

Micah hesitated, looking down at his feet before finally responding. “JFK’s assassination, the Oklahoma City bombing, the Columbine shooting, the September 11th attacks, and the list goes on. Wars have been started because of the things that they’ve managed to accomplish while here…” he trailed off, assuming by Trevor’s clenched jaw that the point had been made.

“This time it feels different,” Micah continued. “He’s powerful. More powerful than me. And I’m not sure he intends to stop.”

Trevor felt one of his hands clutching the edge of the countertop, squeezing so fiercely his fingers had turned white. “So, basically, what you’re telling me is that all of this
horrific shit
that has happened is all because of some supernatural war that has nothing to do with us?” His voice rose in anger as he grew to the point where his rage could no longer be contained.

Micah looked at the floor again, finding it difficult to face the justifiably furious man before him.

“And every so often, you guys just decide to come here and take over our bodies?!” Trevor felt violated and unclean, and he thought about the struggles he had gone through in his past. The deaths of his family members. All of his hardships. And he couldn’t help but wonder if any of those events were the result of this ridiculous “war.”

He felt his anger turning into seething hatred, and tears filled his eyes as he pointed an accusing finger at Micah. “So, you’re…” he trailed off, not knowing how to word his accusation.

Micah waited for the question he knew was coming.

“You’re here because you…” A tear broke free and rolled down Trevor’s cheek.

“Trevor—.”

“What are you?!” he finally exploded. “Some kind of…
guardian angel?”

“The answer to that question is difficult to ex—.”

“Try!”

Micah took a moment, wiping frustration from his irritated face as Trevor waited impatiently for the explanation he wasn’t sure he wanted.

“Are you here to protect me?” Trevor demanded.

“I’m here to
guide
you,” he offered.

With the words finally being said out loud, Trevor madly paced around his apartment, thoughts reeling through his brain from which there was no sense to be made. He knew he had many more questions, but his mind had become too overwhelmed to wrap around any kind of logical progression in which they could be asked.

He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he came to rest at the end of his hallway, staring at a family photo on the wall. His father and mother both stared back at him, their arms around younger versions of himself and his brother. His anger ebbed away and soon became nothing more than a few bits of moisture that rolled down his cheeks.

Eyes still hovering on the photo, he softly admitted, “I don’t know what to do.”

Trevor felt Micah’s strong hand squeeze his shoulder from behind, and he heard his soothing voice say, “Yes, you do, Trevor.”

And he was right. He knew what to do next, but he was afraid to do it.

*     *     *

After splashing some water on his face to refresh himself, he felt much more calm than he had before. He retrieved a gray t-shirt from his closet and tossed it at Micah.

“Sorry it’s not white. I know your people prefer it.”

“I’ll manage,” Micah smiled at Trevor’s dry joke, comforted at the thought that he was developing a sense of humor about everything.

While Micah pulled the shirt over his head, Trevor stood at the threshold of his apartment, his eyes scanning the place. He felt the same as he had the night before, like he might never be back, like he would never again stand in his painting corner and create a work of art, never again sit at his kitchen table to eat a bowl of cereal, never again fall asleep on his small couch watching bad television late at night, never again…

“You ready?” Micah asked.

Trevor nodded, closing the door behind him.

As they walked down the sidewalk toward their destination, Trevor examined everyone they passed, wondering if they might be a supernatural agent sent to observe. The soft bell of the passing cable car echoed through the noisy afternoon, but he felt as though it had been an alarm that he had set off, alerting everyone to his presence on the street. He no longer felt that the world belonged to humans, and it made the place feel less homely.

As they continued down California Street, Trevor felt his nerves tingle as he stepped closer to the massive, reinforced concrete building ahead, beaten to give the appearance of old stone. He finally came to rest at the base of the steps leading up to the front doors of Grace Cathedral.

He stood still, allowing the awe-inspiring gothic-style of the building to overwhelm him as he gazed up at the round, ornate, stained glass window high in the center above them. The two bell towers on either side stretched into the sky as if reaching out toward the heavens, and the intricate detail across the façade took his breath away.

It had been a long time since he had stepped foot inside the cavernous sanctuary within, but he needed some guidance that Micah could not offer. His body trembled as he ascended the steps, eyes focused on the immense gothic archway that framed the intricately crafted golden doors, the Gates of Paradise.

As he entered, he became engulfed with a peaceful silence that echoed from the walls, offering solace from the bustling city outside. He treaded lightly across the floor, feeling as though his footsteps were a disruption to the quiet within.

He subconsciously walked around the labyrinth inlaid on the floor, taught that its intricate circular path of meditation was too sacred to tromp across. He entered the center aisle flanked by dark wooden pews, feeling overwhelmed by the gigantic concrete pillars that rose to the vaulted ceiling, lining the outside of the benches. As he neared the halfway point to the pulpit, he stopped, unable to go any farther.

Micah joined him at his side, placing a hand of strength on his shoulder and sitting down in the pew next to them, allowing Trevor to continue in privacy.