Outcasts Page 2

  “Yeah, but all I’m saying is, we could have become something.” Crumbs dotted the side of his mouth, and he quickly shoveled them in.

  “Fine, and all I’m saying is, we didn’t. End of story.”

  In response, Joe spun the laptop around. Damn it. He’d logged into my email server. I regretted telling him my password. The two names on the screen immediately caused my mood to go sour. Up until that point, I’d been feeling all right, but bringing back old memories—bad ones, too—could take anyone’s good mood and turn it rotten.

  Wonderful. “You sent Neil and Callie messages, didn’t you?” I asked.

  This time, Joe turned to face me, a somber expression working. “Yeah, I did, and what’s wrong with that? Don’t you miss the old days?”

  Oh, for Chrissake! We’d been out of circulation for about a year, and he was talking about it like it was some high school reunion. Technically, we’d just graduated high school, although we’d studied online for our diplomas and received them only a week ago.

  Had we stayed at Independence High, our counties’ lone high school, we’d have graduated with the other seniors earlier on this summer. However, time, circumstance, and mutation had changed all that. “No, I don’t miss them. Why?”

  “They were fun.”

  At the mention of the word fun, time for a flashback. Yeah, they had been fun—sort of—for all of two weeks. The rest of the time after that fortnight had been spent going to school, putting up with crappy comments from other students, and attempting to live a semi-normal life with my mother.

  However, now that school was officially over, time to do the job-hunting thing. No more dreams of football glory. I hadn’t practiced for over ten months. What company would take me, though? “I’m going to look at the want-ads,” I said and pointed to the tray.

  “Got it.”

  Immediately, Joe pulled off the rest of the sandwiches and ingested them at high speed, one-point-two seconds, to be exact. Then again, he did everything at high speed. Why walk when you could spin? That was his power—high-speed spinning.

  As for mine, it lay outside, and that was flying. My wings propelled me along at around a hundred miles an hour at top speed.

  “Totally cool,” enthused one spectator when he’d seen me soar. He was around ten and wore a look of rapture. It was as though he’d seen a real-life superhero. “That’s awesome!”

  Sure thing, kid, sure thing. Maybe he’d thought it was cool. Personally, it wasn’t anything I liked doing, especially during the daytime. Daytime was when people walked around. Daytime was when they stared.

  Because they stared, I kept my wings retracted most of the time. It hurt, but appearing normal was half the battle. Since only Joe was in the room, I took off my shirt and let my wings out. It felt good letting them unfurl. This was my time, and privacy was something I needed and deserved.

  Long, black and leathery, my appendages reminded people of some kind of mythical being that had long been a fixture upon church steeples. In fact, everyone had given me a nickname, one that I hated more than anything.

  Gargoyle.

  It wasn’t only due to the wings. When I got angry, my face changed to that of those church statues, something dark and evil, something totally beyond my control. The wings I could control, but the face, no. It just happened. An ugly face, claws, leathery wings... merely looking at myself in the mirror made me long for oblivion. Sadly, life didn’t work that way.

  Punks who tried to start something, they never got very far. Call it genetics, call it something else, but my body was far stronger than average. Perhaps the day would come when someone or something would come along to injure me. Until that day, though, I was almost invulnerable.

  For now, I had to deal with my enhancements, so I shifted around on the bed and let my wings flare out. “Just be careful with those wings, man,” Joe warned. “They’re longer than you think and the edges are sharp. I cut easily.”

  “Whose room is this anyway?”

  My retort came out mildly, and I stole a look at the empty tray. Thanks for leaving me nothing.

  Joe turned his attention back to the computer, and I’d talk to him later on about him emailing Cal and Neil. As I checked the Help Wanted ads, nothing came up. Lack of experience, lack of connections, and who wanted a flying kid, anyway? In a sudden burst of disgust, I tossed the paper aside.

  Bagging groceries, lifting and loading, working for a moving company, all those options were there, but no one was hiring. “We’ve got enough people, Mitch,” the personnel manager of a moving company said. “Sorry, but that’s how it goes.”

  Yeah, no one was hiring, or so they said. Once they saw my name and then my face, I knew what they were thinking. Oh, they kept their expressions bland, but there were some things a person couldn’t hide. The disgust in their eyes, the barely concealed sneers, they all pointed to the power they held to say no

  Perhaps Joe heard the rustling of the paper, as he said without looking up from the computer, “I’ve been trying, too. I asked my father if he had any connections.”

  “And?”

  “No way.”

  His answer didn’t surprise me. I’d spoken to my mother. She’d asked at her company and a few others as well. Result—nada. At least she still had a job, and as for me, I felt useless. Joe’s foot tapped rapidly on the floor as his fingers spun on the keys. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “What else? Jobs, either here or in Portland.” He stopped tapping his feet and the keyboard simultaneously. “Mitch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to get some pizza?”

  “You just ate.”

  When he turned around, his expression—a cross between a starving man’s visage and a rabid dog’s—spoke of a bottomless pit for a belly, and it made me laugh. “And you need to eat again, right?”

  He nodded. “You read my mind.”

  Whatever, a mid-afternoon snack would make things better. Pizza always did. Getting to my feet, I contracted my wings inside me. My skin split, but no blood ever came out. A second later they were gone, lying beneath the surface, waiting to come out once more when needed, even though I didn’t need them.

  Call it science or magic or genetics or all three. Some people would have called it a blessing, but to me, it was a curse. My curse left me with a slight hunch, but that was the least of my worries. My biggest one was going outside in the everyday world and interacting with people.

  Actually, interacting really meant staying away from everyone. Or rather, they stayed away from me. Up until my powers surfaced, I’d been your average kid, but after that, things changed. People’s attitudes changed. They wanted to see the gargoyle kid. They wanted to see Joe spin. They wanted to see our two other acquaintances do the impossible—and not everyone liked it.

  “Mutants and monsters, living in the great state of Oregon,” ran the news reports from our area. “We have freaks among us and is the citizenry safe, that’s what we want to know. The public deserves to know the truth!”

  Truth was an elusive thing. When the news broke, the reporters came around and pretended to listen to our side of things. However, when they saw my wings come out, once they saw the footage of Callie changing from male to female and back again, and once they got a look at Neil—more rock than person—their views of fair and just went out the window.

  “Pretty motley crew,” one reporter had commented wryly.

  The other reporters laughed. Me, I thought the man a jerk for saying so, but thinking about it, we were a collection of people with disparate powers, and we had only one thing in common—no one liked us.

  Donald Lucas had acted as our buffer. He’d attempted to smooth things over, told the press that the four kids he had under his aegis were special, they were there to help... all of that. “They may be a little different from the norm,” he’d said. “But they’re just the same as everyone else.”

  He sounded like
everyone’s avuncular uncle, but from the skeptical expressions on the faces of those present, I had the feeling the general public would go with the motley crew definition.

  One reporter piped up with, “And just what branch of the government are you with, Mr. Lucas?”

  “Technically, we’re with the Department of Defense,” he’d replied. “That’s as much as I can tell you.”

  Ostensibly we were working with the DOD, but within them as a sub-group. Who controlled that? The press had made a big deal out of it, put up a few names of those who held the reins of power, but I never met them, never even saw them, only Lucas.

  My mother—my father had died when I was two—had stayed out of the way. So had Joe’s father. We tried to live normal lives, but every now and then, certain individuals would make it clear Portland was no place for freaks to hang out in.

  Crank phone calls didn’t bother me. They’d started around the same time the news on us broke but soon died away. My mother, though, had to put up with getting quizzed on having a freak for a son. Verbal fights ensued, and we didn’t have many friends. Check that, Joe and his father happened to be our only friends.

  Being called a freak was bad enough, but if there was any word guaranteed to piss me off, it was being called a gargoyle. Truk and Paul were two morons who’d tried their luck. Others did, too. They’d never succeeded. I hadn’t asked for this to happen...

  “I didn’t ask for this to happen,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  Picking my head up, my reveries of the bad ol’ times faded. Joe looked at me, curiosity emanating from his eyes. “You okay, man?” he asked.

  Never mind. Joe loved being a spinning top. He never had to worry about his looks changing or getting dizzy. All he had to worry about was eating enough. Speaking of which, my stomach growled. “I’m fine, let’s get going.”

  In a quick move, I went to my dresser, grabbed a new shirt and threw it on. Outside, the weather was hot, and things were peaceful. My house was a simple two-story affair that lay around fifteen minutes from downtown. Call it the best and worst of both worlds, we lived in a quiet neighborhood, yet shopping and going anywhere for fun had always been outside arm’s reach.

  As I gazed at the faux-Georgian style of my house, I couldn’t help but smile. There were a lot of memories here, many of them bad, but a lot of good ones as well. I’d never thought about living anywhere else.

  Looking up, Joe had already started to saunter down the main road. The air flowed by us, and the smell of cedar and hollyhocks wafted into my nostrils. “So, I emailed Neil and Callie,” he said after I caught up to him.

  There it was, the opening. “Did they say anything?”

  “Nah.” Joe sounded deflated. “Callie didn’t mail me back, and Neil, well, you know he doesn’t play well with others.”

  “True that.” Now curiosity bit big-time. “What exactly did he say?”

  “He told us to piss off.”

  Neil Morton was a quiet sort. His mutation—crap, I really hated that word—was such that his body was covered in stone. His face looked human enough, but his body was solid, heavy, and he couldn’t use regular chairs or beds. He subsisted on rocks and stones. He’d lived in Portland his whole life, but after our group disbanded he’d relocated with his aunt to a suburb in San Diego. There, he tried to live a normal life.

  Tried.

  Didn’t succeed. He’d been harassed from day one since his transformation, but since nothing could hurt him, all a person could do was to insult him. In his case, the old saying of sticks and stones was only half right. As for Callie...

  “Why don’t you fly over?”

  Joe’s question broke my train of thought. Was he a mind-reader or what? “You said something?”

  He chuckled. “You’re thinking about Callie, aren’t you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  The corners of his mouth curled up into a slow smile. “Your eyes are glazed over, just like when you first met her. I remember.”

  Was it that obvious? Apparently, it was, as he continued with, “You like her, I know that. She lives in Portland, so just fly over and see her. You know where her house is, so do it.”

  Easy for him to say. In the past, I had flown over her house a few times but always chickened out at the last moment. Commitment wasn’t easy, not in this kind of not-in-a-relationship-but-want-to-be-in-a-relationship kind of thing, which wasn’t a relationship at all. Bad enough people saw me as a monster—even worse if they saw me as some kind of stalker. No, leave her alone. She had her own problems, and...

  “Mitch, wake up. We got company.”

  Blinking my eyes and waking up from my semi-stupor, we’d arrived in the downtown area of our fair town, population around nine thousand. Young and old, whiny children with their parents, jocks flexing for the attention of the hotties, businesspeople in their suits—everyone seemed to be here, enjoying the calm and quiet day. Everyone except us, that is.

  “Hey, you two better haul ass.”

  Wonderful, Paul Sampson had decided to show. He’d gotten taller, filled out, and even though we hadn’t seen each other for almost a year, one thing hadn’t changed. He still had a whiny, petulant voice. “How’s it going,” I asked. “Managing to pass life?”

  “Screw you,” he responded, a sneer working overtime. “I graduated, you know? Did you? Freaks like you should find somewhere else to live.”

  That word—it got my pulse racing which was a bad thing. “Stay cool, man,” Joe whispered. He turned to Paul. “We’re just here to grab a pizza. That’s all.”

  “Grab this,” someone else said.

  Looking around, Truk had also decided to put in a guest appearance. Aw crap, this isn’t going to end well.

  Truk had a smaller kid in his grasp. The kid, maybe sixteen, skinny and with an expression that read help-me-now, was struggling and yelling, “Lemme go, man!”

  Great, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber just had to come and ruin things. “Let him go, schmuck,” I said. “What’s he done to you?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “No, I don’t,” the kid choked out, starting to cry. “He’s... he started screwing with me, him and his loser friend.”

  “Watch your mouth, punk,” Paul said as he walked over to the kid to smack him across the face.

  Seeing something like this, seeing them pick on someone weaker for no reason almost made me lose it, but Joe murmured, “Cool it, man, that’s what they want.”

  Looking around, a few people had gathered. They were waiting. They knew who I was, knew who Truk was, and probably knew what was going to happen if I let my rage get out of control.

  That’s what they want. Yeah, they—meaning everyone—did, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t say something. Keeping my eyes focused on Truk, I laid down an ultimatum. “Let him go. You beat him. Let him go or face the repercussions.”

  It seemed to take forever for those words to sink in, but finally, they did, and with a huff of air that sounded like an elephant’s fart, Truk released his grip on the hapless dude. Said hapless dude ran off, throwing us a look of gratitude as he went.

  Once he’d gone, Truk planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest, as if daring me or anyone else to try something. He’d gotten even bigger, standing well above six feet and built like an NFL linebacker. I’d heard rumors around town that he’d tried to do a walk-on for a university football team, but considering his lack of IQ, he’d probably gotten lost on the way to the campus.

  As usual, the dullness in his eyes hadn’t changed. With him, it seemed as though thinking and speaking weren’t directly related. It took him a long time to come up with anything comprehensible.

  However, this time, he sounded almost articulate. “So you freaks stick up for freaks. You’re not part of this place. You never were,” he snorted. The snort caused a wad of gunk to come out his nose. Gross me out time, but he didn’t seem to care and wiped hi
s nose with his hand, smearing the excess on his pants.

  And that was where it all started. You’re not part of this community. You’re not one of us. You’re not human. “Get lost, schmuck.”

  “My name is Truk.”

  I didn’t care. Picking on someone was bad enough, but being called a freak, that made my temper rise a notch. “Whatever, truck, schmuck, we’re here to get something to eat. Don’t push your luck.”

  Apparently, the word restraint didn’t figure into his vocabulary. His meaty hand smacked my shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but it managed to raise my Mad-O-Meter another few degrees. “Knock it off, Truk. I’m warning you.”

  He leaned over to leer at me. “Or you’ll do what, freak?”

  By now, some people in the crowd were chanting, “Fight-fight-fight,” as if it would make their day. Joe already had his fists balled, ready for action. Even though he gave up six inches in height and over seventy pounds of bodyweight, he wasn’t the type to back down.

  My only thought was if Truk pulled any crap, he was making a monumentally bad mistake. Then he made the biggest one of all. “You going to tell your mommy on me? She messed up bad when she had you, gargoyle boy.” He followed up his insult by smacking me across the face.

  Enough!

  Something akin to a tidal wave of rage swept through me. Wings, I could control when they came out, no sweat, and they emerged from my back, unfolding themselves and causing the onlookers to gasp.

  As for the claws, anger and willpower were my allies. “Wrong thing to say,” I growled. Joe tried to intervene, but I pushed him aside. “Sorry, Joe, too late for forgiveness.”

  A split second later, the claws came out. Harder than tempered steel, I sank all two inches of them into the upper part of Truk’s left arm. Blood spurted, and he howled in agony as he sank to his knees.

  His howls drew an even larger crowd, and they quickly formed a circle around us. People were taking pictures, and my ears picked up the sound of a man calling the police on his cellphone. Good, call the cops. I’d been expecting it.

  I was barely able to keep myself from inflicting more damage. “You ever mention my mother again, and your parents will be missing a son. You got that?”