Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

They were standing at Suva Point, in Fiji, their favorite place to fish as children; only the storm surrounding them was growing thicker, the rain picking up. Another child then walked past Mohammad, going to stand beside Shorab, where they reached out to take each other’s hands.

The child was Mohammad, at nine years old.

They smiled thoughtfully back at him, before turning to walk away.

“Wait!” Mohammad shouted. “I don’t understand!” But his feet were sinking into the sand and he couldn’t move, couldn’t follow them as they disappeared beyond the darkening shoreline. The rain became violent as he sank deeper still, the water continuing to rise as it washed over him.

Thrashing for the surface, his hand met an object and he grabbed hold. Water receding, Mohammad found the face of a man looming over him–his eyes wide, mouth agape–as the Fijian had taken hold of his neck, squeezing hard. They locked eyes as Mohammad bared his teeth and screamed.

The man tried to pry himself free, but it was of no use. Mohammad was going to wring out his life, wouldn’t release until the struggling was over. But something came in a flash of brown and silver, latching onto his arm. The man freed himself in that instant, only to collapse as he gasped for air.

The thing anchored to Mohammad’s arm was resonating, deeply guttural, penetrating his skin as it held strong. Mohammad screamed again, wrapping his free hand around it as he tried to wrench it off.

It was the head of a German Shepherd.

The man rolled over to shout something, the dog releasing Mohammad and returning to its master’s side.

“I was trying to help you!” the man yelled between coughs. “Shoulda let him rip your arm off, Fucking asshole!”

Mohammad rose to his feet, the German Shepherd raising its haunches at him as he surveyed the surroundings. He was not at the plant, which was his final memory before the vision of Shorab. He appeared to be in some inner-city back alley, the brick walls of adjacent buildings towering over him.

“Where am I?!” Mohammad demanded. “How did I get here?!”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing, ya Jackass!” He continued to nurse his neck, rising as well. “Those bastards musta hit you over the head real good.”

“Who?”

“Probably the Kielbasa boys, on account of you still bein’ alive. What are you missing?”

“What?”

“What’d they take? You musta had somethin’ good,” the man asked.

Mohammad turned his back to him, peering down the alley. “They didn’t take anything.” He was growing irritated, the aggravation present in his words.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Falling … and then
… “A beach.”

“Man, they musta clobbered you senseless.” The man shook his head. “Well, now that you’re coherent, it’s best you get off the streets. Night comes in a hurry around here. Better get to wherever it is you call home.”

“Where are we?”

“Lexington and Maples.”

That’s the other side of the damn city!

The man turned, whistling for his dog to follow. “Welcome to Thunderdome,” he said dryly.

Mohammad’s clothes were different than last he remembered–weren’t even his, in fact. His pants were of a strange, soft, beige material, same as his long sleeve shirt. The left arm of the garment was ripped to shreds by the German Shepherd, each tear a window to the bloody state of his skin beneath.

Odd that he felt no pain–his nerves should have been screaming at him.

Mohammad found nothing on his person, no weapon with which to defend himself, nothing but the dampened clothes on his back. Even his shoes were unaccounted for. He looked down at his feet, half expecting them to be coated with a cold layer of sand, but not a single grain adorned them.

The Fijian watched as the man with the dog disappeared beyond the bend of the alley. He was right. Night was coming. Even the rain was making way for its arrival, becoming nothing more than a delicate sprinkle. The setting sun was sending up its dying burst of crimson, splashing the alley ahead in dark, elongated shadow.

Mohammad had no interest in staying. He was not intimidated by the coming of night and he’d not be finding any shelter other than what was rightfully his.

The box plant awaited, and he would reach it before the next rising sun.

It wasn’t long before the city was doused in a veil of blackness; but night looked different than last he’d seen it, its density far less impenetrable.

With nothing but the light of the moon he walked Lexington, center street, when he should hardly have been able to see his own hand in front of his face. But from license plates to street signs several blocks away, the night hid nothing from him–everything visible. He was even able to read some elaborate graffiti garnishing a building side:

Mohammad knew it wasn’t the night that had changed. He could feel it in his legs as he walked, his neck as it turned, his body as it moved, he was undoubtedly different. Improved, somehow.

His last memory was of death; and yet, with the beating of his heart and breath in his lungs, he’d never felt more alive.

He lifted his torn sleeve to inspect his injured arm. Drying blood could be found in thick streams along his wrist; but beneath them, his skin was without any laceration.

How is that? How is any of this?

He’d already healed from what probably required numerous sutures–simply impossible. And from his fall, he would have expected to find broken or protruding bones, but there was not a scratch, no wound to hinder any desired movement.

Leaping onto the trunk of a parked sedan, an action of minimal effort, he heard the creak of its rear suspension beneath the strain of his addition. Mohammad’s legs were strong, far stronger than before, the aches and pains of the past alleviated entirely. On bare feet, Mohammad crossed the sedan, stepping back onto the street.

The night was given relief on one of the coming blocks, the glimmer of fire dancing in the distance, the voices of men in the air.

Still Mohammad continued on, unwavering in his direction or intention, despite the crucial fact that he remained completely unarmed. But with the memory of his death so vivid, whichever anxieties might have restrained him previously were gone.

Mohammad was a ghost.

And something as trivial as fear must certainly be reserved for only the living.

T
he fire escapes glistened upon Mohammad’s approach. They were suspended from an apartment building directly across from the group huddled about the fire. One man was speaking, engaged in some story involving him, another man, and a knife on the floor. The storyteller was animated in his recounting of the tale–arms flailing, voice changing octaves to emphasize the struggle that followed.

Mohammad listened intently as he passed between them and the apartment complex, going unnoticed for a time … until the storytelling ceased.

“What the?”

Mohammad knew, before he even turned, that he’d earned their undivided attention.

The storyteller was already making his way out to the street. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Mohammad smiled. “Fascinating story you were telling,” he offered politely. “Please don’t let me interrupt.”

His response won some mild commotion from the group as the storyteller turned to look back at them. It appeared he had something to prove.

Mohammad leaned in. “I assure you, Youngster,” he whis-pered. “It would be beneficial for you to let me pass.”

But the storyteller only grimaced, curling his nose as he bared his teeth. “Who you callin’
youngster
, ya shoeless fuck?!” he spat, yanking a revolver from the back of his pants.

Mohammad watched it closely, could count the number of chambers as it rounded his waist, the storyteller’s thumb as he pulled back the hammer.

Curious choice–a revolver. Probably thinks it makes him look edgy.

But Mohammad already hit the storyteller twice in that time. Once in the wrist, making him release the weapon, and again in the chest, knocking the boy from his feet and flipping him across the asphalt. He landed about where he’d been standing before, again at the center of his group’s attention. They stared down at him, blank-faced and astonished, before any of them remembered to withdraw a weapon. Multiple shots were fired thereafter, shattering windows or skipping harmlessly off various surfaces.

Mohammad watched from the comfort of the block over, a smile finding its way to his lips. And once the firing had ended, once the group went to tend to their fallen member, that was when Mohammad returned the boy’s revolver. He sent it straight into their blazing trashcan, the clank of its metal upon the inner surface. They scattered like insects, taking cover after the first discharge put a hole in the can–their screams like music.

And as he ventured back into the night, Mohammad’s laughter could surely be heard as it echoed off the surrounding structures.

At the rate of his movement, he’d soon found himself standing before City Hall. The factory was within minutes, its shipping yard awaiting his return.

Would he find Radia there, her handless body upon the concrete? Anger came to clench his jaw and wind his fists tight. Whatever miracle conjured his return, Mohammad could not fathom; but he would see to it that it didn’t go wasted.

Along with the Fijian, the rain had also returned, forming moon-mirrored puddles where space allotted. He stepped across those same train tracks, their cold steel beneath his feet, as he entered the shipping yard.

Presented again with an area he’d seen countless times before, an area he knew better than anyone, the sight of it night-slickened was something else entirely. There was not a feline that could hide from him, no shadow deep enough for them to evade his eyes. There were textures and angles that had never taken his notice until then.

And in the cluttered ruin of the shipping yard, Radia’s body could not be found, nor the incineration of pallets used in the funeral of three. Some objects had been moved as well, shifting the correlation of certain pieces of weathered equipment. It looked as though the place had been occupied by many.

Mohammad felt the crinkle of something beneath his foot. He looked down, discovering a sheet of tinfoil protruding out from under the corner of a pallet. Removing it, Mohammad found it to be a flattened bag of potato chips, its outside edge sun-bleached from prolonged exposure.

How long have I been gone?

It only felt like a moment, but the state of the shipping yard forced him to reconsider his perception of time. Something then caught Mohammad’s eye as it swayed gently to his left, welcoming the master of the house home again.

It was his rope, still dangling there along the building side. He walked over and wrapped his fingers around it, pulling hard, its other end holding strong. Hoisting himself thirty feet, Mohammad reached the roof’s edge and climbed over. The memory of Radia stood before him, her brilliant eyes the night they first met. It was right there, right where he was standing, the night he let her into his home.

With the monstrosity of the cyclone eclipsing the night sky, Mohammad began the path to his nest hatch; but the moonlight hinted to a patch of roofing as its radiance was reflected back to the Fijian.

He found it to be a large X, made with a high-gloss spray paint, a mark of extreme significance. And above it, written in the same:

It was her only tombstone, her only mark left on this world. And there, standing above Radia’s X, Mohammad collapsed to his knees.

He hadn’t yet been given the time to mourn; but now that he was able, Mohammad felt no tears accompanying the water already dripping from his face. He felt numb to the sadness her loss should have brought him. He was preoccupied with a brewing hatred, and by the enigma of his impossible existence.

Mohammad was not yet in the frame of mind for mourning. Still he hung his head in her honor, offering Radia the stillness of his soul in humble consolation.

There would be a time for tears, Mohammad was sure of it; and when it came, he would not resist.