Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga) (14 page)

“You arrogant little slug. You’re talkin’ like you’re not one of us.”

Krane stared at her, into her. “But understand, I am no longer one of the petty, fickle herd. I am a new c-cre-creation.” Impatience clouded his tone. He hated that his stuttering had not yet been cured by the changes. “A new creation…of my own design, of my own will.”

“You look more like a monster to me. An accident at best.”

“You frail woman.” She spit at him. He wiped the saliva off slowly and asked, “What is your name?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I like to know the n-n-na-names of my subjects.”

“Subject, huh? Well, Ruth’s the name, but I’d rather die than be anybody’s doormat.”

“All things can be arranged,” Krane whispered over her. “Soon, I w-will-will claim what is mine. You have…no power.”

“Blah-blah-blah.” She massaged her leg, trying to smooth out the pain, but it was useless. “Drop me a postcard when the world turns to crap.”

“Do not mock me!” he screamed, striking her with his fist. “I’ve seen it.”

“Have you now? So, I’m supposed to buy that you’re a narcissist and a psychic?”

His knuckles dealt another blow. “You will t-t-tr-emble at the sight of me, mark my words. They will all tremble.”

She snickered. “Enough foreplay, Casanova, let’s cut to the chase. You want what ain’t here.”

The pulse in his throat quivered.

“That’s right. All that talkin’ for what? You heard me good and clear. The bodies you’re searching for aren’t in this house.”

“You lie!” Krane shouted, gnawing at her ear until he drew blood. Part of him relished the metallic taste.

She fought hard to pull away but couldn’t. The woman kneed him in the groin, and with a curse, he ceased but not before tearing off the lobe. “Ahh!” she said, writhing. “You’re sick! But it doesn’t…change a thing. This old broad ain’t bluffing. I suck at poker.”

Krane wiped his teeth and hovered over her like a hawk. “Where are they?”

“Not sure what’s worse, that stuttering or your breath.”

Krane pressed the lip of the Colt against her forehead. “W-W-Where are they?” When she didn’t respond, he leaned in and breathed sadistically into her ear. “I implanted them with trackers. Make no mistake, I’ll f-fi-find them one way or another.” He noticed her expression shift. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“Doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

“How do you think I found you? The signal. I tracked them here, to this exact location. You will t-tell-tell me where they are or you will die like the rest!”

Emery could only make out faint shadows from where she stood outside. She ran around to the other end of the cabin, breath still short, and found an open window. Her eyes felt heavy, and every time she swallowed, it hurt. But she raised her right hand and cut into the screen with the screwdriver she’d taken from the truck. It was enough for a small frame like hers to trespass. All she had to do was lift her body up high enough. She prayed she had the strength.

With a sigh, she pulled herself up halfway. She could hear a man screaming and dealing out blows. She wished Adam hadn’t been so stubborn and cruel. She wished he had full use of his powers so he could destroy this idiot. But this was where they were now, and she had made the choice to return, despite being warned it was a mistake.

Her chest fluttered, though, when she heard Ruth gasping, because it meant the kind old soul was alive.

Emery snaked into the room. Her fingertips touched down on a dryer. She managed to sort-of hover over the outdated appliance while she fought to get the rest of her body past the mesh screen. Her leg scraped the side of the window as she crawled in. A piece of split wood from the window frame shredded some of the denim material and scraped her shin. It stung but didn’t bleed. A thin line of sweat dripped into her left eye as she lowered herself onto the floor. So stealth she felt like a ninja.

“You never shoulda come here, boy,” Ruth said. Emery remained quiet, sliding along the tiles. She paused at the doorframe, strands of hair sliding over her face. She brushed them back, hoping her sudden appearance went unnoticed.

“I will f-f-find them,” the doctor threatened. He resembled a reptile, and looked as if he were undergoing some kind of metamorphosis. “I will reclaim my work, and you…you will not live to s-s-s-see the next sunrise.”

It became obvious that the laundry room was adjacent to a bedroom. Emery quickly leapt up, making sure to stay as light on her feet as humanly possible. She twisted the door handle, and thankfully, the knob didn’t make a sound. With tense nerves, she stepped into the bedroom. Now she had a clearer picture of what was happening. Ruth lay just feet away. She’d been shot multiple times, and her blood continued to seep into the carpet. Emery couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. It all happened so fast. Why did she hesitate?

Her eyes left Ruth for a second and retraced the events that must’ve transpired. They stopped at the entrance of the cabin. The doorway she had walked through only hours earlier had been redesigned with bullets, the front door nearly blown off its hinges and made complete by a mammoth hole in the center.

Ruth wheezed, and when she did, Emery couldn’t help but think of Abraham Finch, her elderly friend from that hospital where she and Arson had volunteered so long ago, it now seemed—how feeble and sad he’d looked right before…

What could she do? If she stormed out of this room and attempted to end the doctor’s life, he’d be able to fire off a shot, and maybe she’d die, or both of them would die. She had come back to help, not for suicide. Emery clutched the hammer in her left hand, imagining it breaking because of the pressure, though she knew the very thought was ludicrous. She held the screwdriver even tighter in her right; but flesh wasn’t meant to bend steel.

Tense, she stuck her head out just enough to get a glimpse of the altered doctor. After obtaining a clear enough target, Emery hurled the hammer with the last of her strength and managed to strike him in the chest.

“What the h—” the doctor gasped.

“Drop dead, you menace!” Ruth said with renewed fire and more determination in her voice than Emery had ever witnessed. Even when death stared her in the face, she refused to back down, jamming her fist into the intruder’s disfigured neck. In a choking fit, the doctor coughed, trying like mad to catch his breath. “Run, child!” was all Emery could hear before the horrible muffled cries of bullets.

Chapter Eighteen

Breathing was the most
difficult. A sort of suffocate-before-inhaling kind of motion, like the air circling his lungs was still somehow lost, even though his mind had found a way out of the coma. A blinding cascade of jade-like light welcomed him to this familiar world.

Arson was awake.

Nevertheless, that swelling reflex beating behind his chest, that chaotic vessel, above all seemed aggravated by his attempt to claim the chance to once more take control of his body.

“Adam!” His voice shattered out of his throat. A wet, raspy call, as if he’d been asleep for months. The exact time he couldn’t pin down.

His vision still had not come into focus. Men and women clothed in grey stood around him with probing stares. Instantly, Arson’s memories flashed, taking him back to his bedroom, to his grandfather’s cabin, the home he’d both loved and come to despise. The walls, the windows, its warped frame. How such fragmented materials could toy with and study him as he’d pace from side to side had been a wretched mystery. He hated being exposed. These coats and the devils existing within them were ill replacements. Terrible shapes stitched with bone and flesh.

But frozen they remained. Awestruck. Fearful. Perplexed. Like they had never expected him to wake. “He mentioned the Source,” Arson heard one of them murmur at length. “But—”

“How could the arson have knowledge of him?” another whispered.

“Perhaps the memories were not his only company,” a third voice imparted.

The speaker revealed himself just as new, blinding lights from every angle came to life. With a squint, Arson pieced together the man’s distorted appearance. It was Dr. Nick Carraway. But the title was a fabrication. By entering the dream world, Arson had managed to discern things, understanding the relationship between memory and the here and now. This crooked soul was his father, Isaac Gable. How stupid he now felt, realizing the pseudonym had been stolen from
The Great Gatsby
, a book he’d sadly identified with since freshman year. The notion of Gatsby dying as a result of a shallow life sewn together by empty promises and things unachieved, pasts repeated, had somehow taken root, and the themes stuck.

“Son,” Isaac said, edging closer. The veins in Arson’s wrist spiked. Power lurked beneath. But he wanted to wait before unharnessing it.

“Careful, boy,” came a deep groan from his left. Arson turned, and when he did, many of the grey coats lent a glance. He deduced the voice to be some kind of authority figure. “219 should be calmed before proceeding.”

Calmed
. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see how transparent a euphemism that was.

With a powerful pull, Arson tore out of the clamps that bound his right hand, preparing to unleash a manic wave of fire. But before his mind could focus long enough to see his strategy to the end, an aluminum tentacle rapidly emerged from a rectangular slit in the bedframe upon which he lay. It twisted around Arson’s forearm, pinning his hand to the steel. The first attempt to rip free proved unsuccessful. Isaac dared inch closer, as if testing to see if the powers might surface. Arson gazed into his father’s glasses, noticing his miniature reflection trapped in each lens. His pupils pulsated with two mystifying shades, one a silvery blue tint and the other a deep, fiery red.

Isaac gasped. “Incredible.”

“Let me go…Isaac.”

Shock manifested upon the faces of those watching. They were fearful because he knew a secret about their plot, a secret he had never been meant to uncover. But what would they do with their fear and awe? Would they inject him with some new drug he’d later believe was introduced for his own safety? Would they sedate him again so they could attempt to manipulate his memories?

“He knows,” whispered an older man, the one Arson concluded was responsible for running this facility.

“But how much do you know, son?” Isaac asked, too familiar with that last word.

Arson flexed. “I know all I need to.”

“No, not all. If you did, I suspect we’d all be dead. Your powers…have returned, haven’t they?”

“More than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I have a wild imagination,” Isaac replied, and as he said it, Arson once more pictured Isaac painting a wall with blood—Grandma’s blood.

“Stop it,” the older man growled. “Only a fool toys with a viper.”

“But isn’t that what you’ve done…
gentlemen
?” Arson’s sarcasm was amplified by the knowledge of fear, fear that now oozed from the cracks forming the mugshot of this prehistoric snake.

The detection of panic stimulated him as shapes blended into focus. Arson caught sight of syringes, wires, and the device he’d heard studying his brain’s signal from the dreams. Morph-something. With no further hesitation, his skin melted the steel bed and the metallic grips that seized him.

“You’re going to let me go,” was his single command.

The older man laughed snidely, pulling out a pistol and making sure it was cocked. A shot fired, and a sharp tranquilizer dart came at Arson, but he dodged it. Taking his first step onto the chilled concrete, he saw several others rush toward him gripping steel sticks lined with rope that they lassoed around his torso. He grinned, breaking free almost instantly. The steel hoops, and the long, metallic shafts attached to them, liquefied in seconds, and the fire fused the instruments to the palms of those who sought to do him harm. Screams raised from the voices cowering on the floor. He felt quicker, more adept. He felt stronger, fiercer. His nightmare war against the undead had created an aggressive soldier. For the first time in his life, he felt completely in control, perfect chemistry. It had taken a few moments for his powers to bend to his will, but it was happening.

A shadow approached from behind, and someone attempted to jam a venomous injection into his throat, but a sudden reflex caused sections of the flesh around his neck to harden and freeze. He hadn’t commanded his skin to do so; it just seemed to happen. His powers advanced every second, responding before he even needed them. He focused on the man’s face, how it stared oddly back when this strange manifestation of power occurred. “How weak you must feel,” Arson whispered, as the tip of the needle snapped in two.

A series of darts hissed toward him but missed.

“Sedate him! Now!” shouted that voice that seemed primordial, his order nearly breaking off a wrinkled mouth. Arson was pleased at the quiver he noticed in the man’s lip, the trembling in his knees as he thrust another dart into the chamber and fired. Arson caught the tranquilizer in his ignited hand, the material disintegrating before his palm reopened.

In a frenzy, the chief of Salvation Asylum reached for another firearm. They remained frozen for a moment. Neither of them blinked. “It won’t be enough,” Arson warned. A line of sweat slid down the corner of his enemy’s face as his finger kissed the trigger twice.

One bullet missed, but the other lodged itself in Arson’s shoulder. He glanced down at the entrance wound, at the ring of blood now starting to appear. By his next breath, the wound had forced the bullet out and sealed itself shut as the weapon used began to turn to ash.

“Impossible.”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Unrestricted power? Well, now you have it!”

The man began to run. What was his name? Why couldn’t Arson remember? He must’ve heard it while trapped in that coma. He must’ve.

“This time, I have control!”

Smoke filled the room. Alarms blared. From his right and left came two more tenacious suits. Like fools, they ran toward their deaths. Arson tilted his neck, and when he did, a sled of ice formed under their feet. One of the chasers lost his step and dropped onto his head. The impact occurred with such rapid motion that a part of his cranium split open and oozed red. The next victim leapt from his spot like a crazed linebacker and tackled Arson, and they spiraled toward a cabinet full of medical implements. Their impact had caused a blade to spill out of the cabinet’s third drawer, but the man pummeling him with furious blows didn’t seem to notice. Arson absorbed each hit, feeling the skin above his eyelid pull apart the more this chump’s fierce knuckles collided with his face.

But a thought bloomed in his mind. A mask. Emery. No, Grandma. No, his birth. His mother. His father. The murder. The lies. A culmination of dark events splashed the corrupted shore of his subconscious like a tortured wave. A violent cry raced off his lips, and Arson reached out and grabbed both of the man’s arms, preventing them from moving. He brought his knee up and drove it into the brute’s chest, sending him soaring backward. Leaping to his feet, Arson held up and steadied his hand. At once, a blinding beam of crimson light sliced his attacker in half.

Again, that vile riddle painted his mind. That blood-splattered wall. “Be fearful of the thoughts of men… Be wary of the traps of the end.”

Arson would find the murderer he now was forced to reconcile as father, and quickly. Several personnel had already fled; others stayed wailing on the floor, tending their wounds. But Arson was not finished yet. The smoke consumed the room like a wandering phantom, but he didn’t cough or shield his eyes from its wonder. He returned to the blade and picked it up.

“Isaac! Where are you? Isaac!” The calls were violent, thirsty. This was the hour when wrongs would be made right.

Kyro was getting anxious. Why hadn’t he heard from Ricky yet? More than an hour and a half had passed since he’d made his request to dig up some dirt on Lil’ Redd. In attempts to ease his mind, he resorted to chewing his nails and humming hip-hop tracks that one of the members from his crew had recently produced in a basement studio.

“We’re close,” Redd finally said.

“Yeah, what gave it away? Was it the fact you could see the gigantic dish at the top of the West Side buildin’? Shoot, Cass, give the trick a medal, ’cause she’s found the wolf.”

“Never gets old, kid,” she replied, while Joel and Aimee just smirked.

They were, in fact, very close, and the proximity between the asylum and himself brought back horrible reminders of why he never wanted to return. Apart from the monstrous satellite dish he’d mentioned, Kyro saw two landing pads constructed for helicopters to hover down atop the North and South ends of the asylum.
Easy in, easy out
, he thought. The new improvements to Salvation’s charming campus did anything but settle his nerves.

The interstate resembled a graveyard; foggy, grey, sporadic souls traveling toward destinations that seemed unreachable. He couldn’t help but wonder if they too were just foolish, sporadic souls, wandering. In all honesty, he wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t good enough yet.

Kyro dove his hands into the hoodie pocket where he kept the stolen cell. He pressed the side button that illuminated the screen, hoping to find a new text message that maybe—due to poor reception—hadn’t been delivered to his inbox until now. But there was nothing but a photo of the owner’s family. A part of him harbored guilt for taking the dude’s mobile device, but their rescue mission—possibly suicide mission—overshadowed any and all second thoughts. He pressed the button a second time, and the screen went dark again.

Aimee scrunched her brows together and leaned over. “Expecting a call?”

“Nah, Mrs. P. It’s nothin’.”

“I can only remember one time when Emery got anxious like that over a call.”

“I ain’t anxious; just ease up.”

“A boy was supposed to ask her out,” she continued, as if he hadn’t said anything. “Apparently, this kid told her at school that he was gonna call her and ask her out, make it all
official
, I think was the word, which I thought was totally weird. She was twelve. Naïve. I remember watching some sappy chick flick that night. Emery was never really into them, but in the spirit of romance, she caved.” A drawn-out pause. “Made it worse when he didn’t call.”

“Dang, that’s rough.”

“She swore off boys for years. Until she met Arson. Even now, that name sounds absurd.”

Kyro nodded, and just then felt the vibrations in his hand. He checked the text message. It was Ricky.
dude, how did u get hooked up w/ this chick?

Instantly, another text arrived.
shes connected, dawg. in a big way. didnt find much, but her pops offed himself when she was young, right after her big bro went missin, and apparently she’s got govt clearance for some nasty ish
.

Kyro typed the word
CRAP
in all caps.

A few seconds before a reply.
dude, u gotta split. she’s not just some random p.i. if i had to guess, maybe shes like some kinda ass
… The text ended abruptly.

What?
Kyro sent back.

An incoming text with the letters
assin
completed the last sentence, and he understood.

sure she ain’t just a dark blue, ricky?
Kyro’s knee jittered like he’d just downed a half a dozen Monsters. He examined Redd, noticed she was looking back at him. Aimee kept flapping her jaw, even though he wasn’t listening anymore. He glared down at the screen, and it read,
Incoming Media Message 1 of 2.