Ashes (19 page)

“Don't be scared.” Hoven paused, his tongue sliding back and forth across the wasteland of dry lips. “Your son doesn't know who you
really
are, Isaac. Not yet, anyway. His mind's a mess. Let's just hope he doesn't put all the pieces together.”

“Right,” came Isaac's solemn reply.

“You are a secret,” the old vulture whispered over Arson's body. “But we're finding you out. And this is only the beginning. When you find your exit, we'll be waiting.” He ran his fingers slowly down the center of Arson's chest as he ignored the groan of Morpheus efficiently working to decipher a coded mind.

“When will you have enough?” Isaac asked. “When will we be done with all of this? Sooner or later—if he's capable of what Krane is talking about—he'll learn who I am.”
 

“Are you worried? Take heart. His body, his blood,
his
mind…it will, like his predecessor, Adam, play its part. When we start over, our new world order won't remember the small sacrifices we made to ensure our future. All that will matter is that we played our part. They're pawns, Isaac, just pawns, remember?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“You knew the risks. You hired Lamont to catch for us this little lamb. But do not be troubled. After all, you're a patriot. A fool at times, but nonetheless, you will be taken care of.”

Isaac nodded.

Hoven was ice. Turning to Lamont and to Krane, he said, “Bring the others back. Use force if necessary. Just, for the love of St. Peter, don't kill them. They belong to me.”

They understood.

 
“Make no mistake, gentlemen, this is a war.”

Lamont toyed with the gun at his side. With a hoarse whisper he said, “We'll bring 'em back, sir.”

Hoven circled around Isaac. “Keep the faith. It's too late to turn back now. Much too late.”

25

 

A CURSE RIPPED THROUGH Emanuel Krane's throat. He stared down at the tiny red puddles collecting in the bathroom sink. With a grunt, he dabbed his face with water, letting the cold

slip
inside his tired skin.

“Give it some time. The sting goes away after a bit,”
Lamont
said, his voice scratchy from screaming orders at security for the last fifteen minutes.

“Time is always against us.”

Lamont shrugged, enjoying Krane's agony. “That puny punk's got some kick to him, don't he?” Lamont eyed his reflection. A dark-purple line crept down past his half-shut eyelid. He chuckled, forcing the cartilage in his nose back in place. “The girls will appreciate the battle scar.”

“Stay focused.”

“Look, I sold it in there, all right. I played along nice, like we agreed. If you ask me, Hoven's gonna find a new place in hell to stick you once he finds out what's really going on.”

Krane turned to Lamont. “He won't.”

“Whatever you say, Doc. Your neck is on the line this time, not mine. But it's pretty stupid to let one of them escape like that.”

“Finding Adam was never the issue,” Krane said, hating every second of the pain. “I want-wanted him to escape. To ensure m-me that everything's working as it should. Adam is special. Without him, we'd be lost. It's because of him that we are here.”

Lamont froze for a moment, chilling Krane with beady eyes. “And you let him get away.”

“Quite right. I
let
him get away. He's being track-tracked as we speak. Saul Hoven merely doubts our ability to return him. Finding him, that's no challenge. Br-bring-bringing him back may be. His powers will return soon, so we must be vigilant and act quickly.”

“I guess I just underestimated the little mutant freak.”

“Adam is no freak,” Krane replied, his jaw crunching. “Adam is special.”

“Yada-yada. You think all of them are special. I mean
,
Scarface hasn't exactly given us much of anything. But great body, though.
So young, so fresh.
Man, high school was a trip.” Lamont's eyes glowed with lust.

“You're a sick, blind fool. You've seen the powers of one with your own eyes.”

“Well, I'm not really sure what I've seen no more. Bein' cooped up in this nuthouse these last few months makes me question if I'm still me. Shoot, I'm becoming more and more like you whack-jobs. This hole messes with my head.”

 
Krane's wrist trembled. A bone splintered inside his hand and he struggled to hold back tears of anguish.

“Easy, Doc.
It's
just one little job, right?” Lamont snickered, applying a band-aid to the scar on his face, ignoring the dry blood.
 

“Saul Hoven is a menace, you know that, d-d-don't you?”

Careful, Emanuel. Tread softly. Hoven is the lord of this arena. Don't allow your doubts and your sentiments to ruin your position in all of this.

“He has his moments, I s'pose,” Lamont agreed.

Krane's jaw shifted. With a slanted gaze, he eyed Lamont from the vanity mirror. “That menace doesn't have any notion of real power. A vulture is only as strong or as int-intelligent as his weakest, underestimated prey.”

“So which one are you, Doc, the vulture or the prey?”

A cold silence split the air, and Lamont stepped back, rigid.

“Adam is the Source. He is precious to me. And we're going to bring him back.”

Lamont grinned.

“Adam be-belongs with me.” Krane tended to his wounds. “Hoven doesn't understand it the way I do. But a dog of war l-like-like you should be able to understand keeping things close to the chest.”

“Yeah, well, seems like everyone's trying to run their own circus show, and I'm stuck riding backseat in all this chaos.” Lamont got close enough for Krane to pick up the stench of tobacco escaping from his cesspool of a mouth.

“What is the mission worth to you?”

“Keep your coin. I'll do this one for free,” Lamont said. “Already gave Hoven my word.” Krane's lids were gray splinters.

Leaning over the sink, Lamont spit a string of brown slime down the drain.

“Such a filthy habit.”

“Vices, mmm, we all got 'em.” Lamont rubbed his fresh bruise. “You planning on letting Carra…I mean, Issac in on your little operation?”

“This doesn't concern the arson. Besides, that freshman thinks he's ready to play in my realm, but he's not equipped to handle what's coming.”

Lamont paused a moment. “You know, Hoven thought Isaac was getting too close. Startin' to wonder if it's you we should be worried about.”

Spit.

“You're not my keeper, Jeb.”

“Easy, Krane. I'm not judgin'. You know as well as I do that this messed-up world wasn't built for peace. It's chaos, and I thrive on it.” Lamont winced slightly at the purple bruise and furrowed a brow. “Adam ain't gonna go quietly, especially now that he's got Scarface with him.”

Krane nodded, understanding that there would be blood, there would be violence, and there would be loss. But such things in times of war were inevitable.

Seconds passed, and Lamont let himself out, abandoning Krane to the dim lights of the bathroom for the moment. The sinister reflection got lost inside the glass. He wished Henry Parker were here. But he wasn't. It was up to him to claim his rightful place. This was how the story would end, not in peace, but in violence—a war with new weapons and a new order of beings.

Emanuel Krane, worn and sick with fatigue, dragged his body closer to the door at length. Soon he'd disappear inside some hallway. The purpose and potential of a turbulent future were now clearer than ever before. He was closer. They all were. There was no return. There was no undoing.

It was coming.

All that remained would be tears and bloodshed.

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,” Krane murmured.

* * *

“Hello?” he screamed. “Hello!” It got louder each time. But nobody ever came.

Arson wasn't sure how long he'd been calling out or how long he'd been walking down this narrow school hallway, but it was getting old. This was too real.

Time slipped by, or maybe wasn't there at all.
 

Arson swallowed. His spit was a cold slide down his throat. Goosebumps raced up his forearm. His body became a living, breathing block of ice. He panted. He blinked.

Alone.

Hello?

Alone.

The t-shirt was tight against his chest, almost like it didn't fit. Hair sank weakly in front of his eyes, the grease from each loose and curly strand sliding inside determined facial creases. He coughed, and it felt like a chisel hacking away his insides.

A flash of light blurred at the end of the hall. Lockers. Images reached and called out to him from within the twisted metal cages, and suddenly it wasn't quiet anymore. The sounds erupted like distorted, tortured laughter. He recalled the bad homework piled on top of hatred and never fitting in. This place was a world of rejection. Would he ever escape it?

After shifting left, he stopped, frozen. Panic held him there with impunity. He stared into a stained, grungy locker. In there was a little girl with hair covering most of her face, head tilted low. She was breathing heavily. Arson waited for her to speak, the silence baiting him. Pity lingered inside. Then remorse. The hardest to endure was the fear.
 

Regret stung like acid in his lungs. The girl wore ripped jeans, dripping with dirt and black water. Messy, ruined hair covered the lost eyes that glowed like ashen lamps. Her black shirt and the fading flame bleached into its center seemed to shoot out from her small frame. Was it coming for him, trying to kill him?

“What do you want!” he screamed. “Who are you?”

The locker cage swung back and forth, its unsure creak enough to turn his bones into splinters. He took a step back, but the girl's tarnished face tilted and changed. He could barely identify those dark lamps; they wanted his soul. She was still and eerily pensive, her tiny hands drawn to tiny sides, where her bent fingers carefully made him their target. Though her lips didn't stutter, he felt like she was saying something to him. It was a sentence of blame and judgment.

Spiders crept around her feet, their spiny legs moving all around her as they spun tormenting red webs over her. Once he stopped the shivers and could focus, Arson caught a glimpse of her scarred hands, burned to the bone, the nail crusted with blood. Slowly, the girl's neck dragged her head from side to side, and the soundless, angry hum of lament and understanding came at Arson like a flood.

It was dark. It was light. It was cold. It was his fault.
For everything.

He blinked and shuddered. “Sooner or later…”

What did you do, Arson?
He heard her mind speak while lips stood still.
What…did
you
do to me?
And then her thoughts became daggers.
What did you do to us?
In that moment, he wondered if this girl's identity had become someone else. “Emery?”

The girl's head silently shook no, but as she did her face became a mask. The image faded in and out, reversed then came back. It happened over and over, and he turned away but was drawn back again. The mask came closer.

In his hand was a lit firecracker. When it exploded, his grip turned hot and birthed a flame. He stared back at this frightening image. The way the mask seemed to choke the girl's face and throat, like stretched fingers bending around broken skin. Her hair and flesh were singed, but those eyes never wandered from his.

“Emery, I can save you. I love you. I'm sorry!”

Once more her head shook no.
 

The white mask.
It was an empty, lifeless thing.

A scream shot out from within the locker. All of a sudden, the tarnished white mask melted off. The girl's shirt tore from her body. All of her clothes burned, exposing the marks on her skin.

Arson was heartbroken and afraid. It wasn't fear of being harmed, but fear of
doing
harm. The murderer that lay dormant inside him. The pain he knew could consume.
 

“Beauty to ashes.” Arson could see his breath as the metal cage slammed shut.
 

26

 

EMERY'S HAND REACHED FOR Adam. They'd been driving for a few hours. The strange quiet mixed with bad classic rock forced her to squirm. She wanted out of these clothes. She wanted out of this cramped space. She wanted a hot shower, wanted someone to hold her, for real, and tell her it'd be all right, that she'd make it out of this thing.

Bruce reached for the gearshift and stroked the inside of Emery's thigh. She wasn't sure if it was accidental or on purpose. She cringed nonetheless, closing her knees as awkward thoughts raced within her. How long until they reached Bethpage? What did Adam expect to find there? She still didn't have a clue why she trusted him, only that he'd gotten her out. But the uncertainty ahead was still bothering her.

 
“Are you all right?” Adam asked.

She stared back in aggravated silence.

“Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

That was close, but it still wasn't enough.

 
“No need for you kids to whisper,” Bruce said, showing off his toothy grin. “We're all friends here.”

There was something un-right about him.

Adam swallowed hard, trying to keep his cool. “So how long have you been driving big rigs?”

“Ahh, heck, ask me a real question, kid,” Bruce replied. Once the quiet had its play, he continued, “About eighteen and a half years, I guess, give or take some months. It's a weak job, but the pay ain't too bad for the work, and there's a few other added perks.” His wink insinuated something indiscreet.
  

“One-night stands…charming,” Emery sighed under her breath.

“Plus meeting roadies like you gives me a reason not to drive this big rig into a sycamore at seventy-five just outta pure boredom.” His eyes panned the cab space. “Rather interesting, though, don't ya think?”

“What?”

“My coming along right as you and the hostile one—” Bruce sent another playful wink her way, “—are storming outta the gates of hell. You'd think you were abducted or somethin'.”

Emery squeezed Adam's hand. Her pores thickened with sweat, and the lingering seconds were several lifetimes. Her cheeks and neck itched.
 

“Relax,” Adam whispered. “He doesn't know anything. You're safe.”

“Easy for you to say. He isn't groping your thigh like a horny sophomore.”

“Just…relax,” Adam said.

“Now,
friends
,” Bruce started with a groan, “you're making me feel all left out.”

“Oh, it's nothing,” Adam replied, sticking his head out to get a good look at the stranger. “She was just telling me one of her friends lived off that last exit back there. It's been years since they've seen each other.”

A nod. “Oh, want me to drop you off there?”

“No, no,” Emery said firmly, the slits of her eyes like razors. “It's all right. My buddy here just doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“You sound ticked off.”

“She's fine,” Adam said.

My hero,
Emery thought mockingly.

“No worries. Just trying to be friendly.”

A little too friendly
, she thought.

“So, got any kids?” Adam said. He was bad at small talk.

“Two. A daughter that won't talk
to me and a son that hates my guts
. Oh, and an ex-wife that'd relish any opportunity to eat my heart out with a spoon. Yeah, I got me some family.”

Their faces shifted from nervous to disturbed.

“Rough.”

“Yup, well, they caught me well and good…in bed with their aunt. Mommy and the kids didn't respond too fondly to the family reunion, let's just leave it right there.”

“Got any regrets?” Adam asked.

“Do I got regrets?” Bruce slurred. “Some, but that isn't one of them. Shoot, I was gone to them before the rendezvous with ol' Aunty. Good riddance. Geez, you two stink like a crapshoot. Should we stop and get you cleaned up? I'm no Betty homemaker, but you two are filthy as a mother.” His nostrils flared as he distracted his mind from the smell with more idle chatter. “You know something, kid. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry's got their thing. Infidelity was mine. Doesn't make that tramp any better than me. I mean, let me tell ya, she had her issues, same as the rest.”

Emery sank into herself. Her mind wandered to thoughts of her parents. How her mom had done
to her
what this peculiar trucker had done to his family. It wasn't right. It was sick. Her stomach flipped, and she felt the crunch in her nose as the grungy stranger carried on.

“I loved their mother, and I loved them good, cross my heart.” He took a moment. “But I guess I just loved myself more.” That toothy, stained grin of his came out of hiding a second time.

Emery snarled.

“Suppose they'd be about your age. Haven't called 'em in a while, you know. Last I heard, my daughter was afraid
she'd been knocked up by some reckless card player
and Zach was busted for possession of marijuana. A lot of marijuana.”

Emery wasn't sure if this guy wanted sympathy or an award for Best Deadbeat Dad. It was alarming how dysfunctional parents, families, everybody could be. There was no normal anymore. There just wasn't any room for normal. Dysfunctional was the new normal. Heartache was the normal. Separation. Lies. The more she sat and listened, the more she wanted him to shut up. She found herself wishing they'd never jumped out in front of this truck, never asked for a ride.

“You know, no matter whatcha do, history's destined to repeat itself.” He popped open a can of beer. Suds spilled onto his crotch and dripped down the bucket seat, but he ignored it. The conversation, it seemed, had gotten the best of him.

Adam and Emery shared a concerned stare.

Bruce's eyes moved over Emery. She was starting to panic. No way this was safe, or even legal, for that matter. She wanted to get out. She blinked. With his free hand, Bruce brushed her hair away from her face. He saw Adam flinch but did it anyway.

It felt like spiders were dancing along her sickly face.

“Kayley, my baby, she even looks kinda like you, come to think of it. Real pretty face, you know, without all the sexy scars.”

I want my mask. I want my freakin' mask. I want Arson.

Emery chewed her bottom lip. Anger tugged at her eyes and pulsed in her forehead. “I want my mask,” she finally said.

“Ha-ha, what?” Bruce cackled.

“I said I want my mask, you sick slob.”

“Emery, take it easy. We're getting closer.”

“Not close enough. This pig is making me nauseous.”

“Now, now, pretty bitty, what's got you all worked up?” There was something sick in his smile, something twisted in the way Bruce spoke. Stiff hairs covering the lower half of his face started to move when his hot breath blew out. His flashing eyes were violent, black needles.

 
“Nothing, I'm just fine,” Emery said with gritted teeth, nudging up against Adam.

“C'mon, freakshow, I won't bite…I'll only nibble.”

“Bruce, lay off the beer. And leave her alone. You're making her uncomfortable,” Adam ordered.

Bruce burped. “Maybe you should shut your trap when I'm talking to the little lady.” His palm pushed a strand of filthy hair behind her ear.

The seconds between his words and his touch were horrifying. No one had touched her since Arson. And she didn't want anyone to. She despised the thought. Why didn't Adam just take care of it?
 

“Don't touch me, you creep. I'm not one of your messed-up kids you can feel up and use. Now leave me alone.”

Bruce got ugly and took his focus off the road. Beer suds coated his toothy, blonde smile. Before the next blink, he swung at Emery, his knuckles slicing her cheek open as if his hand were a blade.

She screamed.

Bruce took another swing, his can of beer slipping from his grip and spilling onto the floor mats. The stench of beer filled the cab. With a curse, he tore at her with his fingernails. The dirty claws were like rusty nails.
 

A shower of panic washed over them with the screech of slick tires sliding across the interstate. They doubled over, Adam's temple crashing against the dash enough to sting. Adam's stare jumped from the road ahead to Bruce's tormented composure and back to the road again. The truck was a wild beast on wet, black silk. Other eighteen-wheelers steered clear of the scene, speeding off into the mist.

“Let us out. Let us out now!” Adam ordered.

How much longer?
Emery wondered.
God, how much longer?
She felt filthier. She felt rage, filled with panic and a longing for someplace safe. A place removed from the nightmare of these last…
how long had it been?
She wanted to escape, from that facility, from this trucker.
From all of it.
Get me out
, she thought as she began to cry.
Just get me out
.

Adam suddenly jerked Emery's body forward, accidentally shoving her chest into the
gear shift
, and with a quick thrust he jammed the heel of his hand into Bruce's beet-red mug. The trucker's jaw crunched and seemed to hang limply in the air, part of the bone jutting out of baggy, stubbly skin.

Nearly shredding to pieces from the pain, Bruce cut the wheel to the right hard. The road divots shot vibrations up their seats as the truck slid toward the breakdown lane.

 
“Got a pair of brass balls on you, don't ya, kid?”

Adam didn't flinch. Instead, he struck the driver a second time with his knuckles and Bruce's head quickly turned the driver's side window into a spider web of cracked glass. As he beat the hound, Adam saw pictures of some young punk's face. A child. The hard, calloused eyes betrayed the child, though, and so did a mouthful of spiteful words. “Prove it! Prove it! You think you're special, freakwad? Prove it!” Adam's neck twisted as curses tore through the filthy air of the cramped space.

Emery glanced up from her hunchbacked position and saw Adam's eyes flash. He looked like an animal finally free from its cage.
 

 
“Arson.” She didn't mean for it to come out, even if it was breathed to life in the form of such a faint whisper.

“Prove it!” The voices screamed in his ears, so loud it was like it was happening right here, right now. “Prove it, or we'll hurt her!” In an instant, he was inside that small body of his, smaller and frailer than the one he now possessed. He was wearing a black t-shirt, one with a fiery bird sketched into it. Bits of the bird's color and skin hadn't survived the numerous wash cycles, but its vivid depiction of the phoenix reminded him of some weary soldier who'd been given a second life.
A chance to become…something new.

She was there among the mockers. They danced around her, taunting her because of him. His sister.
His beautiful baby sister.
They tugged at her ruby-red hair, its brilliance an enduring and mystifying thing, unique and beautiful. He'd counted the freckles on her face before and claimed he knew each one by name, by shape, by hue. A row of not yet fully formed teeth hung down from a pair of lips that seemed wider than a face her size could hold. He had to save her. The young mob tore at her skirt, her thin legs shaking and afraid. Her teeth chattered; her eyes were lost in the pale and unconcerned dark.

Adam blinked and returned Bruce's wounded grunts with more blows, his knuckles shredding the man's cheek and tearing into a withering jaw. Blood and meat dripped over the ridges of a violent hand. The inside of his chest was a shotgun. “Don't you ever touch her again!” he screamed.

Emery sat still and witnessed Adam's elbows, wrist, forehead, and knuckles tear and wound. There was no sound but the sound of smacking and coughing, and then the stillness. Adam finished by grabbing Bruce by the throat. With one squeeze, his dirty fingernails bit into the trucker's hairy gullet, and drips of red suddenly burned black. There was a vengeance in Adam's stare.

“Adam!” Emery screamed as the truck spun toward a ditch. Frantic, he twisted the wheel, fighting to gain control again, but it was lost. The truck jackknifed and then crashed, its wheels a slippery mess and the three of them thrown over one another's bodies. The driver's window exploded, and glass showered over them, cutting up their arms. Then the truck ripped off the road and tore through a wall of soaked trees. Emery's head swam.

The color faded from Adam's skin. He fought for breaths. “Are…you…k, Lana? You o—…won't let them hurt you. I won't let him hurt you.”

He faded completely.

She was still shaking. She couldn't stop. Bruce wasn't moving. Adam wasn't moving, but she knew
he
was still alive. How long before Adam woke up?

She wanted to scream, but her lungs wouldn't give. The pain was a hornet's sting. It pulsated through her body. It swelled and ached. The rain bled on her face, cold, as she whispered Arson's name again.