The Assigned (10 page)

“I want my Daddy!”

The voice.
That’s the voice that’s been ringing through my head for the last few minutes! It belongs to a young girl who looks to be around six or seven. She squirms as a middle-aged man whisks her through the winding trail.

“Shut up!” yells a balding man. Wearing a loosened green tie and khakis, his disturbed voice sounds like three people talking all at once. The man’s hand, tightly clasped around the young girl’s wrist, leads the child further into a wooded area. It’s not her father—or any guardian for that matter. I just know. His distorted voice softens in tone. “Don’t worry sweetie.
I’ll be your Daddy.”

Several yards away, I’m not sure if I should even have the ability to hear all this. Much like the young girl, the man’s voice rings through my head clear as day. I can’t let him take that child into the woods. I have to do something.

“Hey! Whada you think you’re doi—what
are
you?”

I watch as some sort of black haze hovers around the unassuming man. Swaying with his every movement, its edges swirl about before dissipating into the breeze. The vapor like substance almost seems to take on a life of its own. Like smoke from a pipe, it falls in and out of shapes, forever moving although never leaving the man’s profile.

Startled, he pulls the child close. “Oh, hi. Lovely day, isn’t it?” he says. His voice sounds normal now, but that haze-like aura is definitely still there. “My niece and I are just out enjoying this lovely weather.”

I stare back, amazed. Some truly strange things have been happening but this may be the strangest of all. Grayish-black smoke continues to hover around the common looking man. Otherwise, he looks like a tax collector for the IRS.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or betta’ yet,
what
you are, but I know that’s not your niece.”

“We have to be going, really,” he says before turning his back on me. After running a few paces to catch up, I grab the Tax Collector
by the shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere!” I yell.

The haze around him intensifies as his voice changes. “You are throwing me OFF SCHEDULE!”

Without warning, something that feels like a baseball bat knocks me twenty feet back. Dazed, I lay still in the forest-like terrain. My goodness, was that his fist? I’ve never felt such force in my life.

“Sorry but you’re not my type,” I can vaguely him hear snarl in the distance. My mind races back to the young girl. If I don’t get to her there’s no telling what he may do. Not even sure what
‘he’
is, I spring to my feet for another go. Besides, the adrenaline in me won’t let me stay down.

“Hey! Is that all you got!” I shout, confident as ever.

The Tax Collector, somewhat surprised, turns my way. “I said, YOU are throwing me off schedule and I HATE rushing!”

“Well, I’ve got all day,” I say motioning him closer.

“AAAAHHHH!”

Instinctively, I block his first punch with my arm before landing a side-kick to his chest. The one blow throws
him
back twenty feet. Stunned, he rises to his feet.

“What are you, little girl?” he growls.

A grin crosses my face before answering. “I’ve been trying to ask you the same thing!”

“What am I?” he asks. Even the haze around him looks disturbed. His chest swells as his voice multiplies. “I’M LATE!”

The Tax Collector charges again, attacking ferociously. Grayish-black mist lingers after his every move. I block his first few assaults. Not so lucky this time. He catches me with a right to the abdomen. The blow sends me into a nearby oak tree.

BAMMMM!!!!

The force of the collision cracks the trunk of the old tree. It takes everything in me to remain conscious. Even in my heighted state, his strength is beyond mine. Guess I’m not the only one with …
power.

“You like to hit girls hunh? How ‘bout trying that on a man!”

Looks like I’m
not
alone as some guy comes out of nowhere. He rams his shoulder into the Tax Collector’s stomach, spearing him to the ground. There’s something familiar about him. Black guy, bald head, looks around my age, a little older. Not sure though. Having the wind knocked out of me makes focusing fairly difficult.

“Now
that’s
what I’m talking about!” he screams, like he just won a video game tournament. “TNT in the house!” boasts the brash stranger, raising his arms like a champion. He changes his stride as he approaches. The pretentious show-off tries hard to sound cool. “Hey lovely lady, you alright?”

Maybe I’d be better off if I was
all alone.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, still resting on the ground. “But YOU betta’ watch out.”

“What are you talking about?” he responds, cocky as ever. “Did you see how I laid him out?”
Right
, I think to myself.
Must be a jock.

“He’s lucky I didn’t—” The Tax Collector picks up Mr. Cool
like he’s a loaf of bread. Thickened black vapor swirls around him. Anger burns on the distorted face of the Tax Collector as he throws the poor guy thirty feet into nearby thorn bushes. Even Mr. Cool didn’t deserve that.

“Christina?!”

“Daddy?”

“Come here, baby.”

The terrified child sticks her head out from behind the large tree she’s been hiding behind. “It’s okay, baby,” says a tattooed guy in biker threads. He leans down to her level. “You can come to Daddy.” Hesitating only a moment, the child makes a dash for the familiar face.

“What’s going on here?” asks the biker. He doesn’t necessarily look like a parent, but for some reason I sense a genuineness about him.

“You her father?” I ask.

“Yeah. Who are you? Who are they?”

“That thing over there tried to abduct your daughter,” I say resting on one knee. Wait a minute. To this guy, the Tax Collector probably looks just like a …
tax collector.

“What the hell is with your face?!” shouts the young biker-dad as blackness pulsates in and out of the Tax Collectors profile. Wow. Maybe he does see what I see.

“And what’s wrong with
yours
,” the balding fiend sneers back. With movements like a feline, the demented man runs and jumps effortlessly fifteen feet up into a nearby tree. Still on all fours, he growls from above.

Mr. Cool finally makes his way up from the bushes. “I think you should stay back,” I say, not wanting the guy to bite off anymore than he can chew. “Ooh, and your face its—”

Cuts and lacerations from thorn bushes mar the jock’s face. I’m sure that’ll be a blow to his ego. Wait a minute.
For real?

Mr. Cool’s face clears up right before my eyes … literally!
The welts and bruises disappear as if nothing ever happened. I don’t know why I’m so surprised as I slowly begin to realize that
I am not alone
.

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------

A deep cut in my hand heals instantly. Slowly, I’m beginning to see,
this is who I am.
The sting from the bushes disappears after a few short seconds. But the look in this girl’s eyes says it all as she watches my face heal on the spot. Looks like she’s coming to after taking a pretty good lick from Hellboy up there.

“Wow, how did you do that?” she asks.

“It’s magic, sweetie,” I grin back. Although kind of cute, she’s much too Plain Jane for my tastes, but what can I say … I’m a flirt. Not completely sure, but I think she’s
different …
.like me. What am I saying? I don’t know
what I am
or what I’m even doing here. Just a gut feeling telling me where to go, leading me.

Looks like the small girl over there is biker boy’s daughter. Wow. A child that old, and he looks about the same age as me. Couldn’t imagine what’s running through his head now. But hey, not sure what’s running through mine either as I watch this demon-like man hiss from the tree above us. A black mist lingers around him, mimicking his every move.

“That’s your friend?” asks the young girl’s father. Guess he’s referring to me.

“Him?” she frowns. “Just some wannabe superhero.”

“Ouch,” I say. Warrior Princess then points to the guy up in the tree. “He’s your only concern.”

“Christina,” says the child’s father. “Did he …”

“No,” reassures the brown-haired fighter. “I got here before—she’s just scared.”

“Thank you,” he nods. The Latin Charlie’s Angel nods back.

“And what am I?” I say flailing my arms. “Chop liver?”

“Yeah, you too,” he mumbles. Guess Mr. Big-Bad-Motorcycle-Rider isn’t big on words.

“Christina, you say. What a lovely name,” says the demented professor perched in the tree. Or should I say
professors
—he sounds like three people all at once. “We’ll get reacquainted later,” he hisses towards the child. His words spark a fury in me … in all of us.

“Hey! Don’t you EVER say my daughter’s name again!” yells the girl’s father.

Running with minimal effort, the motorcycle vest-wearing bad boy leaps fifteen feet or so straight in the air. Now this guy—
this guy
is definitely
different
. Mid-air, the emotional father swings wildly but misses. With cat-like movements, the possessed man jumps, avoiding the scurry. Still mid-air, he kicks the poor guy square in the mouth.

Ouch. Bad-Boy loses his balance and falls to the ground below. The nearly bald professor follows and lands a crushing foot to the sternum—WAIT! The biker rolls out with half a second to spare. He jumps to his feet as the professor works to free his foot from the damp earth below.

This is like something from my favorite movie. I should help the guy, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Plus, the biker looks like he’s gaining control. He jumps up delivering a bruising kick to the professor’s chest. The man-thing soars backwards, black mist and all. Well, with the exception of his right shoe still sunk in the ground under our feet.

CRRAAACK!!!!

The one-shoed villain comes to rest at the base of another unfortunate tree. Branches fall covering the unconscious man. The black mist surrounding him evaporates, almost like a source of power, dissipating.

“Yeah, I see you not talking now!” I jaw at the knocked out punk. He doesn’t look nearly as creepy as a few minutes ago. Speaking of jaw, looks like biker boy took a pretty good one to the chin.

“You alright, man?” I ask.

“Fine. Christina?!”

“Daddy!”

The two begin their embrace all over again.

“Freakin pedophile!” he yells, spitting to the ground.

“He was more than that,” I say.

“I agree,” says Warrior Princess.

“So you saw the …?”

“Black, smoke-like stuff?”

“Yeah!” I nod. “Like some kind of spirits or something.”

“Enough of the spirit mumbo jumbo,” interrupts the tough guy. “Dude is a doped up perv—”

He takes off towards the unconscious assailant. “Why you disgusting son of a—”

I catch him just in time. “Hey, calm down! It’s over! Hey lil lady,” I say, flashing the TNT smile. “Why don’t you call the police? I’ve got things under control now.”

“What?” she asks, her eyes big. “You know what—whatever.”

“So you didn’t see his face?” I ask the biker.

“Look. I don’t know what I saw,” he says trying to downplay the situation. “All I know is, my daughter’s okay. That’s all that matters.”

For some reason, the craziness of the moment brings that insane silver haired woman to mind. I retrieve her card from my pocket. In bold font it reads:

PROPHETESS – 901-531-3377

Flipping the generic card over, it reads the same. Maybe she’s not so crazy.

-----------T H E A S S I G N E D------------

The only thing that matters to me is Chrissy. For a moment there, I was afraid I’d never see my baby again. I don’t know what the cosmos has got against me, but I couldn’t take losing Christina. To think that bastard was probably watching us the whole time. If those police allow me just seconds with him, I swear I will destroy every fiber in his body. He doesn’t deserve to live, going after my child like that. A Child!

I appreciate the athlete—for the life of me, can’t remember his name but I’ve seen him on television—and the girl for helping out. Really, I do. But their talk of spirits and demons, or ghosts, or witches, or whatever else they wanna chalk it up to, is really starting to annoy me. I call ‘em as I see ‘em and that guy is a drugged out businessman that preys on children. So what if he now sits in the squad car like a mild-mannered citizen, showing no sign of his previous crazed activity. I know what he is. He knows what he is. And he’s not fit to live.

One policeman has been talking to him for nearly 30 minutes now. What could he possibly have to say?! Anger shoots through my blood. Glad Alicia’s here to comfort Christina. Don’t want her to see me like this.

***

“A lot of stuff has been going on in my life lately,” says the hometown-great. He seems to be in pretty good shape and stands a couple inches taller than me, but still doesn’t look nearly as big in person. “And I don’t know about ya’ll,” he continues. “But I don’t think its coincidence we’re all here at this very moment. I mean, I saw black stuff, she saw black stuff, and you don’t wanna admit it, but I know you did too man.”

“The name’s Zeek,” I say.

“Okay, Zeek. Tell me you didn’t see all of that.”

I think about the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’m sure most of what I did can be attributed to just that. Adrenaline. Who wouldn’t fight like crazy for their daughter?

“I told you
bro
, all I see is a functioning junkie perv.”

“What about the fighting?” he continues. “I don’t know about you two, but I consumed enough alcohol in the last 24 hours to spontaneously combust! Now all of a sudden, I get this second wind and this …” Varsity man balls his fist. “…
this
strength
.”

“He’s right,” says the girl. Her long brown hair dangles in a ponytail. Angelina would’ve allowed her long brown locks to flow straight down her back.

“Yeah, I even saw her throw a nice swing.”