Better to Die a Hero (22 page)

Steve twisted in front of the dresser mirror and examined the purple bruising down his back, across his buttocks and down one leg. Why his face didn’t show the same trauma was a mystery. The bullet had barely touched him, removing only a little skin—sure hurt at the time though. Judging from the size of his scrotum it should have been the deepest of blues and purples. Still the young man was pleased at his mobility as he walked to the chest containing his inheritance. His pace was slow, his movements stiff, but both healthy enough to carry out his plan. He removed the Colt Government Model .45 and the shoebox containing 100 or more different caliber bullets and placed them on the bed. Bryan’s previous sort made extracting the 45-caliber ammo easy.

He expected his eyes to tear over, but they remained dry. Before the powder, Bryan wouldn’t have hurt an insect—literally. Ignoring the aggressive spider running across the floor, he would say things like “they’re all God’s creatures” and “there’s absolutely no reason to kill that thing.” After the bloodiest dungeons and dragon campaign where Bryan had directed his character to behead a dozen foes, he would move a beetle off the porch so none of the guys, on their way out would step on it. No one in the group, including himself, ever stopped to talk to a little kid—Bryan did.

The pistols dark finish showed wear on all edges indicating it had been carried in a holster as opposed to sitting in the back of a closet. Steve pressed a button on the grip and the empty magazine sprang out the bottom. He pulled back the slide with an amateur’s clumsiness and peered into the weapon looking for stray ammo. The pistol was clear and he released the slide. It snapped forward leaving the hammer cocked. He slid the magazine in the handle and pulled the trigger. Surprised that the hammer fell forward with such little pressure, he cocked the hammer several more times following each with a light pull on the trigger. He knew he had no frame of reference from which to judge, nonetheless he deemed the trigger action to be excellent.

The .45 caliber shells were fatter than other rounds and easy to spot; still, he checked the bottom of each round for the correct caliber stamping and made two piles. One pile contained the solid round nose shells and the second various hollowed out types. He knew a hollow point inflicted more damage and began pressing ammo from that pile into the magazine, one on top of another, until seven shells filled the length. He reinserted the clip into the handle and a click sounded as the magazine seated securely. He gave the slide a strong and less clumsy pull.

“Shit.”

The gun was now chambered, the hammer cocked, and his finger on the hair trigger. The teenager drew upon a scene from one of his favorite action movies and placed two fingers tightly on the hammer holding it in place. He pointed the gun in a safe direction and pulled the trigger. The hammer dropped and pushed into his fingers. He eased off the trigger and slowly let the hammer down. Satisfied with the condition of his weapon, Steve moved in front of the dresser mirror and looked deep into his own eyes.

“I know Bryan better than anyone on this planet,” he said to his sad reflection.

He thought about several role-playing campaigns of late and years past. Bryan’s characters were most often lawful good, punishing the evil swiftly, sometimes without mercy, but never once did he hurt an innocent villager or stand by and let others do so. The powder must have driven him insane. This brute was not the person he knew and if Bryan retained the capacity to understand his behavior, he’d be sickened by what he’d become. If this were a role-playing game and Bryan’s character had become mesmerized and forced by the roll of the dice to commit heinous crimes against the innocent, he would expect to be put down by the group—his gaze across the table would demand it.

Once again, the plan raced through his mind, this time with imagery. He would place himself on a Harlem rooftop not unlike any other hero spotter, but with the .45 pistol tucked in the back of his pants and the cavalry sword down at his feet covered by a dark blanket. Bryan seemed to find him quickly the last two nights, so maybe the wait wouldn’t be too long. When the thing that his friend had become approached, he’d lie to It, say that he wanted to fight beside it, and when it dropped its guard he would draw the pistol and empty the clip point-blank. If need be the sword would then be used to finish the job. He would remove Bryan’s hands, feet and head maybe burning them in a different location. Fire seemed the best way to make them unrecognizable and untraceable.

What about the mouth full of fillings his friend sported? He’d have to bash them out with the back of the sword and destroy them at another location. What about DNA? Nothing he could do about that but hope the disappearance of a gawky teenager was never connected to the Troll. People disappear in New York all the time. Steve knew what to do.

“But not tonight.” He turned off the lights and crawled back into bed. Even with the last dose of powder enhancing his speed and strength, he’d be too sore and too slow to get the jump on his super powered foe. A good night’s sleep and some time to heal would help.

Going back out tonight would be suicide. Besides, he needed a day to get used to the idea that he was going to kill and dismember his best friend.

*          *          *

“God damn! God damn!” the Troll sputtered repeatedly as he ran the rooftops, his ass burning and throbbing with every step. He wanted so much for the pain to subside and envisioned setting his butt on a block of ice. The burning should have gone by now. Why wasn’t the burning going away?

He stopped to survey movement on a nearby building. That a hero should endure such suffering sickened him. He had survived a mob-inflicted bullet wound and a bite delivered by what appeared to be a vampire. This undignified ass pain angered him.

The reflective letters FBI on two jackets cut through the darkness identifying the people standing on the far roof. They just stood there doing nothing. Not only were they not fighting crime, but they probably wanted to stop him, The Troll, from fighting crime. They wanted to stop him from his sole purpose, to keep him from doing his God given heroic duty.

He emitted a low growl and bolted to the right, then leapt over the edge of the current building. His fingertips brushed the exterior and his ever-thickening body sucked up to the brick surface like a magnet. Defying gravity, his surface mounted gait, looking more animal like than human, carried him swiftly to the building housing the FBI. He sprung upward. Without making a sound, the angry Troll landed on the roof ledge. Aggravated by the inflammation that was like a red-hot poker, he rushed the agents intentionally stomping to give them warning.

The female agent spun toward the noise; her hand made it to the weapon holstered at her side. A ferocious head butt sent her sprawling and the pistol tumbling in the darkness.

Troll screamed into the second agent’s face. “I NEED SOME ICE CREAM!” He stripped the man’s gun from a shaking hand and tossed it several yards. “MY ASS IS ON FIRE!”

The agent’s dumbfounded expression was short lived as an uppercut lifted him off his feet rendering him unconscious. Troll ran to the downed female. She laid still, her moans barely audible, and he placed his face an inch from hers.

“GOD DAMN MY ASS HURTS!”

With that, he disappeared over the edge of the building.

7

BETTER TO DIE A HERO

CHAPTER 17

B
uried deep among the pilfered bedding Troll awoke, his head throbbing as it had the last several mornings. He grabbed the whiskey flask in the breast pocket of the long coat that never left his body; relief was only a few minutes away. He placed  a dose under his tongue, laid back down, and waited for the soothing effects of the superhero potion. The pain in his head subsided and Troll noticed his filthy costume now showed rips at all seams. One light tug peeled the cloth scraps from his torso and an effortless dig into the cuffs of the coat removed the long red sleeves. He tied one of the sleeves around his bald bumpy head, and turned his attention to the muscular pectorals below his chin.

“That’s what I call a chest,” he said, admiring the pattern of blue veins, shaped like miniature lightning bolts, pushing through the skin. He flexed and a ripple of muscular activity rolled down the tight surface. Below his chest, there was a six-pack of abdominal muscles, hard and rippled. He kicked off a few pillows and feeling well enough to start the night, rolled to his feet. With its upper support gone the underwear bottoms bunched uncomfortably in the boxers. A sharp pull ripped the leggings away exposing the thighs and calves befitting a body builder. An assault to his nostrils interrupted his self-admiration.

“What is that?” he said, sniffing the air.

He surveyed the room now scattered with half empty milk cartons, potato chip bags and soda cans, and then crouched low and ran his nose over the piles of garbage. He continued moving around the room, sniffing the piles and stopped at the hole connecting the two apartments.

“Wow,” he said, poking his head through the opening, “you guys stink over here. You’d better clean up or I’m finding a new place to live.”

Troll dug out the cell phone, beat the buttons several times against his chest and held what was left of the device to his ear. “Hey, George it’s me again, is the betrayer home?”

Bryan smiled, “finally.” He tapped his foot impatiently waiting for his ex-friend to pick up the line. “Hey butthead—It’s me all right, out here getting it done—Oh, you’re sorry are you—I don’t give a damn, you’re off the team and so’s that girl friend of yours—begging isn’t going to help, you made your choice—Do you have any idea how pathetic you sound right now—What did you just say to me—”

Troll grit his teeth and yelled into the unit, “I think you’re going to want to be a little more careful about how you talk to me!” Repeatedly, he smashed the phone against his thigh. Plastic bits flew, scattering across the floor, until nothing remained of the phone. He snatch up one of the abandoned stoves and heaved it into the wall.

Troll paced the cluttered apartment kicking garbage out of his way, only stopping to punch a hole in the wallboard.

“Damn it,” he said, looking out the window. It was near dusk. Little Johnny, his new best friend, would have to go to bed soon and Steve almost made him miss his appointment. Troll dove out the widow and headed full tilt toward Johnny’s apartment. Teaching the youth of America the ways of heroism was not a duty to be taken lightly.

*          *          *

Steve had asked the cabbie to take him into Harlem by way of the Bronx, across the Madison Avenue bridge. The cab was now a few blocks past Harlem River Drive, just on the outskirts of the historic neighborhood.

“This is good.” Steve sat up and opened his wallet. “How much do I owe?”

The driver pulled over. “Forty-two dollars, are you sure you want to get out here?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, handing over the payment. He scooped up his duffle bag and exited the cab, careful not to let the blanket fall from around the sword.

It had been twenty-four hours since he had made the decision, yet he could remember that exact moment as if it were happening now—the emotion, the clarity and the girl in his arms. How strange. It was like living two moments in time, the current and the previous. Was he destined to relive that moment for the rest of his life or would it fade with time? He knew it would fade, but a part of him wanted the haunting. He deserved the haunting.

Intent on carrying out his plan, he scanned the neighborhood and his legs trembled. Dressed in slacks and green windbreaker, he attempted to look as non-hero like and as non-threatening as possible, even as he slid the forty-five caliber pistol from the back of his slacks to the front.

Much better.

He recalled several TV detectives carry pistols tucked in the back.

“What a load of crap that was,” he said aloud. The weapon felt like it was going to fall out; up front was more secure. He adjusted it one last time and pulled his shirt over the handle. He examined the blanket with the sword at its center. It looked like a rifle was hidden within. If he even got to a rooftop without someone calling the police, it would be a miracle. People tended to frown on rifle toting dumb asses roaming the streets.

Knees still shaking, the teenager took to the sidewalk. He ran through the plan, again, and stopped the action just after he emptied the clip of hollow points into his best friend. Doubt replaced fear and the plan lost the air of perfection it held the night before.

“What the heck am I doing?”

The gunfire would generate several 911 calls. He would have to act fast. Fill the bag with bloody evidence and jump to the street. He’d be at full strength for at least the next eight hours. Plenty of time to find a secluded location, destroy the remains, and return home. He wouldn’t even have to take the subway or call a taxi if he didn’t feel like it. Although he still suffered soreness and his back was stiff, he could run the entire way home if he wanted. During the night hours, he could move to the roofs and down to the streets at will. Nobody on earth could follow him.

The apartment building on his left had no locked entrance, no buzz in mechanism and no fraternization centered on the stoop. He made a beeline up the steps, entered and raced up the nearest staircase, paying little attention to the environment. At the top floor, the easiest way to the rooftop was a large window at the end of the hallway, a fire escape visible just outside.

A creaking door and commanding voice interrupted Steve’s energetic stride. “Hey you, where do you think you’re going?” A sizable black man with graying hair stepped into the hallway.

“I… I…” Steve stammered, “was going to the roof and do some troll hunting.” The truth seemed as good as any lie.

“Is that a rifle wrapped up in that blanket?” The man took a strong step forward.

“No sir.” Steve peeled back enough cloth to reveal the brass hilt. “It’s a sword.”

The big man laughed. “That’s a sword all right. You go on up there and do your troll hunt’n. I’ll be up a little later to check on you, maybe do a little troll hunt’n myself.” Moving back into his apartment the man said, “Better not catch you up there with your pants around your ankles.”

Steve smiled and turned to the hallway window. “You won’t sir.”

*          *          *

“I want you in that bed, now buster,” Ted ordered, pointing to his son’s bed. Stomping over to the bed, that was one-step above a crib, Ted pulled back the Power Rangers comforter. “I mean now!”

“No, I have to stay up and talk to my friend.” He ran past his dad and out of the bedroom. “He’s going to make me a Power Ranger.”

Ted shook his head in disbelief. Of all the children belonging to family and friends, his child was known to be the most agreeable. He loved sitting around comparing stories or in some cases horror stories about their children’s behavior. Johnny had never been a source for such stories. The happy father had little to complain about. His son was pure joy ninety-nine percent of the time. Several neighbors on the floor they shared had actually invited Johnny over for dinner; the child was such a delight to spend time with. Ted took a deep breath and followed his son.

“Johnny, I’m not kidding around here. I want you in that bed this instant.” The little boy ran to the other side of the couch with such determination it almost brought a smile to his father’s face, but Ted held it, knowing it unwise to send mixed signals to a child.

“Mr. Troll wants me to stay up and talk to him,” Johnny shouted. “He’s my best friend.”

Troll. Had his son created an imaginary friend from the newscasts his wife had been watching.

“What am I going to have to do,” he said to no one in particular, “get rid of the TV altogether?” He decided it was time to put his foot down. Ted caught up with his son and took him by the hand. “You’re going to bed now mister, whether you like it or not.”

He turned toward the bedroom, son in tow, and stopped dead at the thing standing before him. His eyes moved up the intruder’s body. He gasped at the grotesque muscularity and pulsating veins that exceeded any pictures he’d seen in health magazines. The face of the tall creature, covered with bumps and an obscenely large nose, scowled directly at him. Saliva dripped from its mouth and hatred shot from its eyes. paternal instinct alone drove Ted to push his son to the carpet as far away from himself and the creature as possible.

The creature screamed and shot forward, slamming his palms into Ted’s chest. The stench so vile as to cause vomiting became less of a problem as the air expelled violently from the man’s lungs and his body flew back into the wall. The subsequent drop to the floor exposed a large impression in the wall; plaster and paint fell to the carpet.

Ted fought hard to stay conscious. He didn’t feel any pain really, just the overwhelming urge to close his eyes. However, for his son’s safety, for his son’s life, he fought the sleepiness. Within a second, the creature’s face was an inch from his own. The thing squatted over him like a primitive from man’s evolutionary past. It breathed heavily, angrily into his face. The stink assaulted Ted’s senses and helped him shake off the looming unconsciousness.

A powerful hand locked around his throat. The beast stood up taking him with it. Dangling at the end of the intruders grip, his own weight working to hang himself, Ted willed his hands to grab out, his legs to thrash in self defense.

“Stop hurting my daddy! Stop hurting my daddy!”

Johnny’s pleas sounded as if coming from the end of a long corridor. Ted strained to look down and could see the tiny fists of his son flailing, as best a four year old could, against the monster’s leg. The choking stopped and the monster laid him down on the carpet, even placing a large hand behind his head. Johnny fell to his father’s chest hugging and crying.

Ted sensed the creature had left the apartment and he stroked his son’s head.

“Johnny,” he said, “Daddy needs you to go to the phone and dial 911.”

*          *          *

Steve stood feet shoulder width apart, bent over, touching his toes, but ever alert for the approach of his friend. He surveyed the cityscape now engulfed in darkness, all the while stretching his injured body.

He needed to keep his muscles limber. Even powered up, he could feel his back stiffening whenever he stood stationary for more than a minute. Every part of him started to ache—even his mind. He kept hoping Bryan would never show and that the deadly confrontation would never happen. He would always be able to say he tried to do the right thing and that it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t find Bryan. It was a big city. These were not excuses; they were reasons. Then he thought about Nora and her family.

He straightened, drawn upward by the oddest sensation. A tickle swirled about his scalp. He focused on the sensation and its origins were deeper than scalp, deeper than skull; it emitted from the surface of his brain. The phenomenon swirled gaining speed then abruptly escaped the top of his head like a miniature twister six or seven inches long.

He slapped the top of his head, attempting to flatten the whirlwind. The small funnel danced in the same area unaffected by the fingers pawing at it. The funnel bent sharply to the left and Steve instinctively pivoted in that direct. The sensation collapsed as fast as it had appeared.

He gazed into the blackness; someone large approached. Steve pulled out the small flashlight. It cut through the night and landed on the monstrosity that was Bryan, walking at him with a sense of purpose and a profusion of anger. Steve attempted to ignore the bizarre muscularity covered in pulsating blood vessels and the searing look on that deformed face. He pushed down a great fear and applied his best gaming face.

“Buddy,” Steve said, holding out his arms, “I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a hero and fight crime by your side.” The corners of his mouth quivered.

Bryan’s head shook like a rabid dog; saliva and sweat flew. “After the way you talked to me today, you expect me to be your friend.”

“As usual you were right and I was wrong. I want to fight by your side.” Steve’s heart slowed and the tension left his body. “You mentioned vampires right?”

Bryan nodded.

“Let’s say you give me a dose of powder, then we go hunt us some vampires.” The teenager stared at the grotesque face. The smile that crossed its face, exposing misshapen teeth, had nothing in common with his friend’s jovial smile.