Better to Die a Hero (7 page)

CHAPTER 6

T
he clear sky and night air created the ideal condition for a long run. A near full moon illuminated the ground for a confident stride, while the midnight climate drew away excess body heat. The real danger of robbery, or some other criminal assault, would have been the only worry for a normal jogger. Steve did not feel like a normal jogger, or a normal human for that matter. It was early Thursday morning, around 1:00 a.m., and earlier that evening he’d taken the seventh dose of powder-water mixture. After witnessing the effects enjoyed by his friends, the young man wasted no time starting a daily regimen. His experience rivaled that of Nora and Bryan's, the first day he experienced enhanced motor skills, the second, increased physical strength and endurance. With each following day and dose, all three faculties magnified to superhuman proportions. By Wednesday, his strength grew to match Bryan's and had they compared strength today he would have surpassed that of his friends, he was sure of it. Purchasing enough weight for a good test would be a problem.

Steve had emptied his savings account and purchased a 300-pound Olympic weight set and heavy-framed lifting bench. Both boys had benched a fully loaded barbell with surprising ease. Steve estimated that he had only used a third of his strength and guessed he could probably press 900 pounds. Bryan still planned to ask his mother for the money to buy more iron plates. Still, 900 pounds of weight lifting plates in the garage would be hard to explain to his uncle. Maybe they would explore other ways to test their full potential.

The three had decided to keep the powder and their new abilities secret. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and Bryan was right, once the secret got out some government agency would take the powder away. Steve wanted some time to enjoy these incredible gifts and secrecy seemed the way to go. Nora had mentioned something about being caught in a media circus and Steve looked forward to it. Eventually their secret would become public and they would have their 15 minutes of fame. Best of all, he had dropped twice as much weight in one week as he had the entire time he’d taken up jogging. The second best thing was the money their impending fame would bring. Steve pictured product endorsements, maybe nutritional supplements or exercise equipment. He pictured himself holding up a can of protein powder in a slick magazine advertisement, in a tank top—tucked in of course.

Steve pretended to display a container. “Mega Protein Mix isn’t the magic powder my friends and I discovered, but it’s the closest thing on the market I’ve found to it.” He drew his arms in and scanned the barren streets for witnesses to the fantasy endorsement.

His embarrassment was quickly replaced by an electric euphoria that burst from his skin causing a tingle from head to toe. This must have been what it was like to win the lottery. Exhilaration consumed him as an intense feeling of well-being incased him. How lucky he was to be part of this miracle. To have superhuman strength and endurance was a dream come true for any teenager, but to a gamer, daydreamer, and comic book buff—it was bliss.

Steve stopped at the top of the moss wall and admired the pattern of sweat developing across his fleece top. The clean smell pleased him, as did the definition developing across his chest and shoulders, their shape more prominent when the wet material clung just the right way.

The drenched teen looked over the fence. Two men sat at the bottom of the wall, homeless judging from their disheveled appearance. He was in no hurry to attempt a jump anyway. The drop was intimidating as hell and he was content to rest against the short fence letting sweat drip. Every few seconds the night breeze would hit just right bringing a wave of relief from the heat. He couldn’t help but notice the activity below.

One of the men tied surgical tubing around his biceps, clenched the tubing with his teeth, then repeatedly slapped his forearm. The uncommonly hard slaps made him sick to his stomach and so did the injection that followed. The latex snapped away and the man’s mouth fell open, his eyes rolled up white. Pop… Pop… Pop… echoed against the granite as the addict’s mouth worked furiously like a goldfish on the carpet.

Steve cleared his throat.

The second man looked up and showing no concern over a spectator, pulled the syringe from popping man's arm. He drew into it from a spoon and injected as the first had done, minus the popping.

He turned away and his thoughts moved to the costumes Bryan had asked him and Nora to create. By Friday, all three teens were supposed to have their costumes ready, but Steve had given no thought to the necessity of a construction impenetrable to blood. Nora planned to hide her identity by feline face painting, a gray tabby, like the dancers in the Broadway play, which offered no protection from splattering blood. He’d thought this face painting an excellent idea, because it allowed unrestricted breathing. He also found it erotic; however, infected blood splattering into the mouths of his friends was a real concern and he wondered if he should initiate a conversation.

All he wanted was to foil one or two assaults, just enough to get in the papers and then take the credit when going public. That would be enough to secure some fame and a little fortune. What he didn’t need is for him or his friends to get HIV. The more he thought about it the dumber this idea, to patrol the park, started to look. All sorts of things could go wrong; one of them could end up shot.

Below, the first man stopped popping and was being helped to his feet by the second. They crept to the cement stairs and dragged themselves upward. Steve leaned back, his butt pressing the cool metal fence, head pointed strait, but eyes straining peripherally, watching the two addict’s every move. His fear of confrontation was realized when they turned and walked toward him. He hoped they’d walk past, but the two made no course correction that would put them anywhere but right next to him. He remembered the mental note he had made at school—not to be so quick at moving out of the other guy’s way—and turned to face the men.

“Porky Bastard!” the more alert man shouted in what sounded like a poor imitation of a drill sergeant.

Their somewhat muscular build surprised Steve. Both men, with shirts open, looked like deflated body builders. It was as if someone had stuck them with a pin, or needle and the muscle leaked out leaving behind a husk that pointed to better days. The lines in their leather faces were deep and intimidating like the depth of the moss wall.

“Take out your wallet and give us a dollar,” the leader said.

Steve stared into the man’s eyes, desperately searching for something witty to say. Surely, Bryan would have retorted with a one-liner by now. The man’s hand flinched. Steve recoiled, raised his arm high, and slapped his palm down hard on the man’s head. Visions of an orangutan performing the same move in a motion picture played colorfully in the youth’s mind. The addict crumbled to the ground. Steve stepped back as roles reversed and popping man labored helping angry man to his feet. Popping man steered his dazed cohort in the opposite direction and moved away from the teenager.

Steve looked at the moon and a self-loathing fell upon him. Of all the martial art movies and action films he’d seen, not to mention hundreds of simulated hand-to-hand combats played out at the gaming table, when push came to shove, when his safety was truly at risk, his self-defense reflexes brought about an orangutan type slap to his opponents head. If it weren’t for the powder that pathetic move could have gotten him killed. It was best, he thought, not to tell Bryan or Nora about the incident. It would only fuel Bryan’s adolescent dreams of crime fighting and most likely put the three of them at greater risk. It would also save him from having to fabricate a lie about how he defended himself.

Several minutes passed before the junkies staggered out of sight and by then Steve felt good again, on top of the world even, but peering down the twenty-foot drop did bring a queasiness. How did those two find the courage for that first jump? Steve looked down the distance his strong heart pounding. He had witnessed superhuman leaps by his friends, whose landings ended without consequence. His strength being equal to or greater than Bryan’s, he knew the jump should go fine, but stubborn legs refused to budge. He moved to the staircase and stepped down half the distance. That was better. He swallowed hard and jumped. The solid landing made him aware of every muscle from calf to chest as raw power rippled through his body, even the abdominals that lay buried several inches under belly fat. Without hesitation, he sprang upward, holding back no effort, attempting to copy the feats witnessed a week earlier. He approached the top fence faster than anticipated and slammed chest first into the cold metal, arms moving almost too quick to see wrapped around the metal to stop a fall backward.

“Son of a b…” Steve scrambled over, dropped to the grass, and rubbed his chest. He scanned the area relieved to see no spectators. The coast being clear, he stood up and leaned over the edge less nervous than the first time. The full level of heightened strength lasted about twenty hours as best Nora and Bryan could estimate. Not a very scientific approach but the best they could come up with.