| operative network | personal site: creative - relativity
fiction: comic books
bigger: issue two narrative
It wasn't the blare of the roach coach, one of the endless streams of oversized delivery trucks repurposed into mini-grocery stores, with fruits and treats and the tune of "La Cucaracha" to herald their arrival. It wasn't even the dingy sunlight, filtered through blinds which had seen better days. No, Raphael finally woke up, after wading through milky semi-consciousness because it was late, and after living on the prison's schedule for months, it felt too strange to be luxuriating horozontally while it was bright.
Raphael sat up and ran his hands over his face, yawning slightly. He swiveled the tiny clock radio around to note the time -- 10:47 AM -- and stared blearily at the window. He got up and crossed the few feet to the window, his back against the wall, glancing through slivers of perception. There was nothing unusual -- gardeners with air filters and dirty clothes blasting away fallen leaves and cut grass, the same three cars he saw last night, parked and largely forgotten, in the lot. Raphael wondered to himself, "I'm gonna go nuts if I just sit around here, but I can't do too much."
Raphael switched on the TV, one of the models so old it still had a dial, and found Fox 11, hoping some ridiculous talk show would be on and take his mind off his problems. Instead, he saw the frantic image of an Asian reporter, trying to say something but continually looking over her shoulder. Chi turned up the volume to catch what was happening.
"... here in downtown LA, I'm Susan Hirasuna," the reporter said, her powder-blue business suit slightly smudged, her right hand holding an earpiece, "about three blocks from the First Interstate Building, where this morning's unexpected crisis is taking place. As you can see in this footage, a lone suspect has invaded the tower and taken a young woman hostage, whose name has not been released as of yet, and holds the rooftop against all assaults. The police are baffled to explain the suspect's motivations or methods, as several attempts by police snipers to end this crisis quickly have failed, and no one is sure why. The suspect is also somehow capable of long range attacks that look like artillery fire, knocking out two police helicopters already, but as you can see, we can't discern where these weapons are."
Raphael leaned in close to the screen. Sure enough, some shirtless jackass was on the roof's ledge, swinging his arms at helicopters in the footage. Some kind of blast of energy flew from his hands and swatted the helicopters down like pesky mosquitos on a summer evening. Raphael pondered the situation until he was stricken by horror, looking at the guy's shirtless torso. The thick swastika tattooed on the left pectoral, the tattoo of a gash across the stomach ... it was Dillon. Raphael thought back to the scene at the jailbreak and the one on the yard, Dillon seemingly possessed of unexpected strength, the energy blasts. Raphael also thought about the changes in himself, and realized something had gone massively wrong at Mule Creek, something that was going nuts downtown right now. Raphael thought to himself, "They can't handle him ... maybe I could. That's crazy though! The cops are looking for me too!"
Raphael turned down the sound on the TV to give himself time to think. He paced in front of the bed, his mind racing. "Dillon's too dangerous for the real cops," Raphael thought, "and people can get hurt down there. But the cops are looking for me too! I don't wanna go back to jail ... I don't know what to do."
Raphael glanced at the TV, as downtown people ran from debris falling from the sky above, part of Dillon's mad rampage. Raphael felt a tinge of guilt, feeling somehow a part of all this. He groaned to himself, grabbed his stuff, and made for the door.
Out in the light of day, he glanced around furtively. He made the brief walk down to King, stopped quickly by Popeye's to grab a 12-piece, and sat down at the bus stop, to catch the 40 downtown. As he started devouring the food, a police car drove by in the lane farthest from him, and Raphael watched it carefully. The cops never even looked his way as the cruiser kept moving. Raphael fought down his nerves, pulled his cap down and was overjoyed to see the bus coming along. He nervously fumbled to keep his food and his money in hand and boarded the bus.
• • •
"None of you can stop me! I'm David Dillon!"
That sound, and the horrible fury of his fists, kept playing over and over for Heather Flynn as she tried to shut them out. The wind picked up now and then, blowing her blonde hair around her eyes, but for the most part she was stuck in this nightmare.
"How did this happen to me?" Heather asked herself. She drove in from Pasadena, as she did every morning, her Range Rover weaving down the 110 in the pre-rush hour dawn. She reviewed her morning -- the regular batch of emails, had her assistant re-schedule some meetings so she could make tee time with the CFO, and so on. It was only when she snuck out for some coffee did it go wrong.
Heather had her head down as she walked, poking around in her purse for her punchcard, just two cups away from a free frappacino, when she literally bumped into him. David Dillon, her ex-husband, gone six years in prison, and a part of a life she wanted to forget. There he was, his bare torso covered only by what looked like the jacket of a security guard, his face a twisted mask of hurt and rage.
"You walked away from us, Heather," he said quietly, his voice a field of broken glass.
Heather looked dumbly at him, amazed that she had walked into this. David was serving a double life sentence. Heather had imagined they chained him to the floor, deep underground, far away from humanity. "David, you ... you can't be here ..." she began.
"But I am here," he said, his voice starting the slow ascent to anger she remembered so clearly, and with no fondness. "I'm your husband, and you divorce me when I can't do anything about it, and get out to find this?"
Dillon thrust a magazine in her face, a clipping of her and Javier at the mayor's reception for the Japanese trade delegation some months ago. Her eyes sprang wide, remembering David's nonsensical hatred for people of color, and for the first time she realized that this could go a lot worse than her nursing a black eye.
"He put you up to it, didn't he?" Dillon said, advancing towards her and pushing her back through the front doors. "He made you leave me, this goddamned wetback spic fucker! Goddammit, Heather, you're supposed to stand by your man! Didn't you ever listen to fucking country music?"
The guards were starting to make their way over, one hanging back and radioing in the situation. Heather started to cry, realizing if they didn't get David fast, they'd never see their families again. She watched them, hoping they had tasers or something, and was horrified when David lifted a hand at them and they were hurled back across the lobby by some strange burst of energy. Snarling, he grabbed Heather and tossed her over his shoulder, making his way for the elevator. A dull thought went through her shaken mind, "This is just like when he beat up Daddy and took me back ..."
Dillon practically barked when the door opened, scaring the passengers out with his sheer ferocity. He let the doors close and hit the button for the top floor. "The only way you're getting away from me, girl, is off the top of this goddamned building. Shut your crying!"
That was a half hour ago. Since then, three more guards lay on the rooftop, their bodies crumpled by whatever David had done to them, and things spiralling further and further away from sanity. She'd been shaken and cursed at and even kicked, a victim of his anger, as he began to realize his anger had once again painted him into a corner, like the day they pulled his unconscious form from that saloon, stinking drunk and eyes streaming from the tear gas. Heather looked up at him, the man who once told her the beauty of the skies would have to lay down and surrender to the wonder in her eyes, and couldn't understand the monster he'd become, knocking down helicopters and punching in the sides of buildings from a distance by swinging his fists at them, symbols of hatred and pain his personal talismans, stenciled across his body. Police snipers were still taking potshots at him, and from here she could see the slugs freeze inches away from David and drop to the ground, harmless. Heather cried again, and wished it could end.
• • •
Raphael got off the bus as it was rerouted away from the "crisis area" at 6th and Broadway. It was only a few blocks over to the First Interstate Building, Raphael remembered, from when his mother took him and Angela on a tour, their first week in Los Angeles. Raphael noticed, however, that most of those blocks was crawling with police and emergency personnel. Cursing, he began pacing the perimeter, looking for a weak link in their protective chain.
Raphael carefully paced, always checking over his shoulder, closer to the skyscraper. As he walked west on Sixth, he got a sudden flash of insight that made him duck into an alley, seconds before a SWAT van rolled past him, unheeding. He pressed himself against the wall and noticed a fire escape ladder, hanging several feet above the alley. He looked at it, and it seemed to become more visible than anything else. He glanced at the street, which somehow seemed more opaque, and realized his intuition was telling him something, just like when he was driving somewhere and instinctively found the right way to go. Without another thought, Raphael leapt for the ladder, easily eighteen feet off the ground, and grabbed the bottom rung, the ladder starting to give but holding firm on its rusted hinges. "Man, if I coulda jumped like that, I'd have gotten a scholarship," Raphael reflected, looking down at the ground. He pulled himself up and climbed to the roof.
From this perspective, he was able to see the helicopters keeping a considerable distance from the skyscraper, fearing the fate of the police choppers from earlier. The skies were empty around the building, and an irregular field of rooftops seemed much more clear than the streets. Raphael made a running jump and cleared Sixth street easily, and kept going until he reached 5th and Olive.
Raphael again looked down and saw single policemen walking along, sweeping for stragglers in this dangerzone. Raphael watched one start down the alley near him, and suddenly imagined himself wearing the uniform. Raphael thought about it, and figured a disguise might help him get there easier. "What I'm gonna do when I get there is a different story," Raphael pondered.
The policeman looked left and right as he walked along, and radioed in, "Unit Alpha 42-47, this alleyway is clear, over." As he finished the word, Raphael came plummeting from the rooftop and crunched into the pavement behind him. The cop started to spin, and Raphael bonked his helmet, knocking him out instantly. "That was easy," Raphael noted, pulling the cop behind a dumpster and started nervously to remove the cop's uniform.
Moments later, Raphael stuffed his folded jeans and shirt in the utility pocket on the back of the bulletproof vest and slid into it. He looked again at the burly cop, left in boxers and a v-neck t-shirt and felt a twang of guilt. "Better me than Dillon, guy," Raphael muttered, pulling down the visor on the helmet and walking off, MP5 in hand and the strap of the helmet swinging as he went.
Sure enough, Raphael walked past several more police officers and even some EMTs with no sign any of them was interested in him at all. He made it to the front of the building, passing through the police cordon, before something started to go wrong.
A red-haired sergeant was on a radio and stopped when he saw a lone policeman in riot fatigues walking calmly towards the front door. "Get back here, you goddamned idiot!" the sergeant hollered, setting down his walkie-talkie. "We gave the order to seal off the building, the hostage negotiator is gonna patch in to the PA! Don't try to be a hero, you damned fool!" The sergeant ran over to try and pull Raphael back, and was easily shoved aside, knocking the older cop down. With no more fanfare, Raphael walked in the front door and towards the elevators.
• • •
"I guess I showed them who's boss, huh, Heather?" Dillon laughed, stepping back from the edge of the roof. Somewhere along the line he'd found some beer, and cracked a can open.
"That's absolutely right, Mister Dillon," a tinny voice replied from nowhere, "you did."
Dillon leapt up, fists at the ready, his beer can falling at Heather's feet and spilling, soaking her skirt. "Who the fuck is that?!" Dillon screamed, spinning around and looking for the source. "Where are you? I thought I told you fuckers I wanted some time alone with my wife!"
"You are alone on the roof, Mister Dillon," the voice continued calmly. "My name is Lieutenant Kevin Deutsch of the LAPD. I'm able to speak to you through the building's security system. I am on the ground, actually about a block away, but I'd like to talk to you for a little while, if you don't mind."
Dillon relaxed a little, glaring at the sky around him. "You can talk all you want, you headshrinking son of a bitch. Won't change anything."
"Thank you, I appreciate the chance to talk a little," Deutsch continued, his voice clear and unrushed. "Is Ms. Flynn still there, with you? Is she all right?"
"She's fine," Dillon grunted. "Speak up, Heath."
"H-hello?" Heather managed. "Oh dear god, help me!"
Dillon jumped at her as though he were going to backslap her, and she curled up into a ball, whimpering.
"Thank you, Mister Dillon. I ..."
"How the hell do you know who I am?" Dillon demanded, pacing a little.
"The video footage of you going in the building was cross-referenced with police files," Deutsch said carefully. "We actually believe you may have contracted some kind of viral agent while you were at Mule Creek, but we can talk about that later ..."
"Viral agent, heh," Dillon said gravely, glaring at his hands, flexing them. "I know something happened, and I know I managed to kill most of the people it happened to, at least the ones I saw. It doesn't matter. If I can do this, it's worth getting sick."
"Mister Dillon, I'm sure you understand we'd like to get downtown back to normal, and we'd like to know what it'll take to get you and Ms. Flynn safely down from there."
"Her name is Dillon, Heather Dillon, fuck that paper divorce. I got everything I want right here. Got my wife back. Got the power to make sure nobody can take her from me again. Still, you bastards aren't gonna just leave us alone, will you? So ... let's talk about how to end this, then." Dillon, entertained, walked back and forth stroking his goatee. "Uh ... I'm gonna need a plane. Yeah, a plane. Oh, and you need to get me my own pilot, I don't trust you fuckers. You get me Chuck Nixon, he's doing time at Corcoran. He can fly most planes, so get something he'll know. Yeah, and ... let's say, gimme a few million dollars in cash. I could always go bust open the vault here, but we all want things to get back to normal, and you'll need the vault for that I guess. Yeah. We'll need gas to get to Europe, I dunno where yet. That'll do."
"That's a pretty tall order, Mister Dillon ... I don't know if we're gonna be able to do all of this."
"That's your problem, Douche-bag."
"It would help me get this deal past my bosses if I could tell them something positive. If you let Ms ... Dillon go, that would probably make them a lot more agreeable."
Dillon furrowed his eyebrows. "That's just stick stupid, boy? Why the hell would I go all the way to Europe without my wife? There's not much for a man there, anymore, goddamned effeminate sons of bitches. Still, I can't stay here, and at least Germany won't have as many damned darkies and wetbacks."
"Mister Dillon ..."
"Now listen here, sport," Dillon countered, starting to smile slowly. "I've been hitting buildings by accident so far, missing helicopters and trying to take out your little snipers. Here's what you tell your bosses: 'Mister Dillon' agrees not to make it start raining concrete on your heads down there, and you agree to get me what I asked for. As for you, I don't want to talk to your flunky little ass anymore, so if I hear one more word from you, even after I finish this sentence, it's gonna get really exciting down there, allright?"
The disembodied voice remained silent.
"Cough if you understand me," Dillon said coldly. "That's allowed, but only once."
Deutsch coughed, and there was an audible click of the channel closing.
"Good boy."
"I always knew you were a fuckin' nutjob, Dillon, but this is some all new shit."
Dillon spun to see the police fatigues, the gun, and the lowered face shield. He laughed aloud, managing, "Is that you, Deutsch? You're bigger than you sounded, but you're also a lot stupider. If I can knock down helicopters, what makes you think you can do anything with that pop gun?"
Raphael pulled off the helmet and dropped it to the ground. "I'm not Deutsch, but I heard your little conversation. You're a moron, Dillon. They'd shoot that plane down a long time before it would ever get to Europe."
Dillon stared in amazement at Raphael. "Riley? You spear-chuckin' little sumbitch! Lookit you, eatin' your vegetables and growin' up some! I'm finally gonna give you the pounding you deserved."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa ..." Riley said, raising his hands. "Look at me. I'm different now, just like you. I heard that part, about how you killed some of the others. I slipped away. If the two of us go all out, your wife there will probably get hurt, right?"
Dillon glared at Riley, then looked at Heather with some confusion. "You're nothing like me, but still, I guess niggers ain't all stupid after all." Dillon grabbed Heather by the arm and lifted her to her feet. "Go. Take the elevator and go. I found you this time, I'll do it again. Get out, you cow." Dillon shoved Heather towards the door, and she blinked at him for a moment, unbelieving. She turned and ran, hollering, from the rooftop.
Dillon flexed his fingers and smiled. "Thing is, she was the only thing keeping the cops from dropping a mess of napalm on this roof and making this permanent. I suspect this could be it for us, tar baby."
Raphael grinned slowly. "I'm going to enjoy this."
Screaming, both men charged each other, Raphael tossing aside the gun as he went. They slammed into one another with enough force to be heard below, as news copters ignored safety and started angling in for a shot. Dillon was swinging and wrestling like a berserker, his fists packing the extra punch of a rocket booster. Still, for all his fury, Raphael was easily stronger, and matched Dillon's ferocity blow for blow. They traded blows and kicks for several minutes, until a crafty foot sweep knocked Raphael on his back, with Dillon pressing the advantage and going for a choke. Raphael finally wedged his legs between himself and Dillon, hurling the shirtless man off and slamming him into a wall. Raphael stood slowly, and Dillon cleared his head, screamed, and charged at Raphael in a tackle. Raphael saw the danger of this, but it was too late -- Dillon's mad charge pushed them both over the edge, descending towards the street below, still duking it out all the way down. They hit the street like a meteor, smashing through the blacktop and coming to a hard impact in the sewers below, both crashing a few feet into the hard rock below.
Scant moments later, Dillon recovered, slightly more quickly than Raphael, and notices the sirens and flashing lights. He looks down at Raphael's fallen form and says, "We're not done." Snarling, he runs down the sewers and disappears.
Seconds later, as the sounds of Dillon's footsteps are just starting to fade, Raphael pulled himself achingly out of the hole he'd sunk into, looked up to see people starting to peer down the hole at him, and bolted, coincidentally the opposite direction from Dillon.
Several miles down the line, Raphael punched open a manhole cover in an alley east of the Fashion District. He pulled himself out slowly and removed the vest, pulling his now-battered jeans and shirt out. Cursing at the pain from the fall, Raphael changed clothes and dragged himself to the nearest bus stop. He caught the first one that came along and rode, dozing ...
Raphael woke up and ended up having to switch busses three times to get back to the Snooty Fox. He paid for another day at the front desk and managed to make it to his room before falling over in a heap on the bed, ignoring the flashing light on the phone next to the pillow.
|
