Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst Read online

  THE CATALYST

  By LE Barbant and CM Raymond

  First Edition

  Copyright © Smoke and Steel Books

  April, 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people or events are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  The Catalyst

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE CRUCIBLE PREVIEW

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  DEDICATION

  Chris and Lee would like to thank their beautiful and talented wives for letting them go on this strange adventure.

  PROLOGUE

  Homestead, Pennsylvania

  1902

  “You’re forcing my hand, Gabrijel.” The man’s bleached white shirt peeked out from under his wool overcoat. His bowtie seemed comically out of place.

  He didn’t belong.

  But for Gabrijel, the dirty mill floor was more than familiar—it was home. He had crossed the exact spot more times than he could count. His feet knew the floors, his hands the machines. His soul was knit into this place.

  He loved the steel mill in ways the well-dressed man could never understand. Gabrijel believed in the industry, believed in the work done there. It was why he decided to fight. And, one way or another, fights always came to an end.

  Familiar men surrounded him in this unfamiliar moment. They were the management’s muscle, and he had become the brains of labor. In the abstract, they were enemies; though in practice, this wasn’t quite true. They were good guys. Funny. Usually reliable for a bummed smoke after a long shift.

  But things had changed. Just like Gabrijel, they had a job. And, good guys or no, they had come here to do it.

  “It’s far past time your hand was forced. You don’t know what it’s like for us, for your workers. The conditions are terrible, the pay a crime. You’ve pushed us too far, and we had to stand up. For our rights, for our families, and for this city,” he uttered through a thick accent.

  The man laughed. “Do you really think you know what’s good for Pittsburgh? This isn’t your home, it’s ours. You’re nothing but strangers here. And we own you. It’s time you learned that.”

  Holding his chin high, Gabrijel tightened his jaw and stared down the men. This wasn’t going to end well, and he knew it. The labor war would be long, and this was only one of many skirmishes to come. The Croatian millworker was nervous, but he had been beaten plenty of times before. He could take it.

  “Then let’s get this over with. Make an example of me. We’ll only come back stronger.”

  The man sneered. “You have no idea, Gabrijel. This latest protest of yours might cost us everything. The workers’ demands could destroy steel—ruin this city. You’re right, we will make an example of you. We all know that any truly great enterprise requires sacrifice.”

  The man turned to leave, then, hesitating, he walked over to his prisoner. Smiling, he grabbed the medallion hanging around Gabrijel’s neck and ripped it off.

  “Something to remember you by.”

  The boss nodded to an enormous bald man with a crooked nose and wide-set eyes. Without hesitation, the ox took out Gabrijel’s legs with a steel bar. Bits of rock ground into his knees as he hit the floor. His arms pulled against the rope that fastened him, but it only sank deeper into his wrists.

  Gabrijel tried not to scream but bracing himself was useless. Defensive postures never lessened the pain. All he had left was his pride, and he was determined to hold onto it as long as he could. He looked up into the eyes of the bald man. They were devoid of emotion.

  Blank.

  Inhuman.

  The thug kicked Gabrijel, knocking him to his side. The rest of the men retreated.

  Boli me kurac? he thought. Is this all they had for me?

  Only then did he realize where he lay: directly under a crucible. He tried to move, to roll out of the way, but with his damaged knees and restrained arms, it was hopeless.

  The bald man nodded to another standing across the room at a lever.

  His fate became clear. The sacrifice was greater than he had anticipated. He was a lamb and this was the slaughter. He thought about Adrijana. He thought about his men and the fate that would soon befall them. He thought about Pittsburgh. Rage filled his heart.

  “Rana te ljuta zapala.”

  His words were lost in screams, and the molten steel covering his body had begun to cool before his cries ceased ringing through the mill.

  PART ONE

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Current Day

  A bar of steel—it is only

  Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.

  A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,

  And left—smoke and the blood of a man

  And the finished steel, chilled and blue.

  So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,

  And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,

  A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;

  And always dark in the heart and through it,

  Smoke and the blood of a man.

  Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men.

  In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys

  The smoke nights write their oaths:

  Smoke into steel and blood into steel;

  Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.

  Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.

  “Smoke and Steel,” Carl Sandburg

  CHAPTER ONE

  Second puberty was proving harder than his first. Sean’s dad had explained blowjobs and other illicit acts when he was only ten. The lesson included faded VHS tutorials and the admonition to “be safe.” By the time he reached high school, Sean knew more about the human reproductive system than even his health teacher—not that the theory ever led to much practice.

  Nevertheless, the first metamorphosis of body and mind came with little surprise.

  The city bus heaved with commuters, students, and a few homeless folks
taking a brief respite from the chilly winter morning. Despite the close proximity of fellow passengers, Sean was alone. Earbuds and screens formed invisible barricades between each of them—a digitally imposed order effectively pacifying the group. The twenty-year-old was grateful for the division. The changes made him seek disconnection.

  61A coughed its way up the gentle slope of Forbes toward Oakland. An undersized twenty-something, with an oversized designer bag and a rolled up yoga mat, stood adjacent to him. Her butt, encased in tight pink leggings, bumped his thigh with every jostle of the bus. Most guys would love it. Sean considered it a violation of his solitude.

  For two years he had lived in the Litchfield Towers with a guy he didn’t hate. He tried, without much success, to flirt with girls and make friends; to maintain an average social life. But when the second puberty hit, solitary confinement—as much as was possible—became his modus operandi. Sean wrapped himself in a cocoon, oblivious to the creature that would soon emerge.

  City of bridges, rivers, sorrow. And #change. #pgh #61A

  He thumbed the “tweet” icon and turned his eyes back out the window. A Twitter poem inspired by the commute was his self-assignment. It was preparation for class—for her class. If Dr. Weil taught more than two courses at the university, he would major in her. Instead, she had become his independent study. Stalking would be a strong word for it. Sean was a fan, and she his celebrity. Professor Weil was beautiful. Not hot or even pretty; those terms were far too thin. The poet was an understated Hepburn kind of classic.

  It was inexplicable, but her words created the only solace from his tumultuous life.

  Strong shore in a stormy sea. U R the one for me #WCW

  Sean considered the poem, then discarded it.

  The bus leaned around a corner and crested the hill, signaling their entrance into Oakland. Students would exit, along with a professor or two, and make their way to one of the several universities that resided in this part of the city. Sean saw a guy in skinny jeans with a longboard cradled under his arm. His eyes were hidden behind black dollar-store Wayfarers, but Sean knew that he was casing the bus. He could sense Skater’s unease.

  Little skater boy—I know your heart. Not the light parts, but the dark. #pgh #61A

  The poems were total shit, and he knew it. But his thirty-eight followers didn’t mind. Half of them were tweeting about knock-off Viagra from Mexico or ways to get rich without leaving your house. The other half were refollows. Every now and then a little poem, his gem of the month, would get retweeted once and then twice. For Sean, this was “going viral.” They were usually the ones hashtagged “steelers,” but he didn’t mind.

  Semple Street, then Atwood. Seven more blocks to Professor Weil, to comfort.

  The 61A slowed to a stop at the first light. The crowd eased forward with the change in momentum, then snapped back. Traffic was heavier than usual on Forbes. He would have to hurry to make it to class early, as was his custom. The bus doors struggled opened with a sigh and a clunk.

  “You little shit!”

  Sean couldn’t help assuming that he was the little shit. It was an adequate description of how he had felt since the changes began to manifest.

  Skater dashed off the bus, his board in one hand, the oversized designer bag in the other. Pink Tights kept screaming, her yoga mat abandoned on the floor. In times like these, a person either does the right thing or blinds themselves to the struggles of others. For nineteen years Sean did the latter. But the change had come. He didn’t understand it, but he knew it was almost complete. A lifetime of comic book movies shaped him for this moment, informing him of his new responsibilities.

  Impulse took over.

  Barely clearing the doors, Sean slid sideways into the brisk Pittsburgh air. Temperatures were always fickle between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but a lifetime of winters in the City of Bridges had accustomed him to the climate. His right foot hit the concrete, and he sprung like a JV triple jumper trying to make the pit. His aim was fair and he crashed right into Skater’s unsuspecting back. Given his velocity, they should have fallen into a crumpled mess. But Skater’s baggy flannel and Ramones tee concealed a brick wall beneath.

  The boy staggered under the impact but remained standing. “What the hell?” He turned to face his attacker. A grin gathered on his face as he sized up the thin undergrad.

  Dropping the purse, Skater rolled his head. “Somebody wants to be a hero.”

  If he only knew, Sean thought.

  In a fair fight, Sean wouldn’t stand a chance. His puny arms and 160-pound frame weren’t meant for martial combat. But this fight wouldn’t be fair. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the heavens. With balled fists, Sean visualized his feet and legs blending with the sidewalk below. His shins tingled as he felt the earth’s energy moving up toward his core. Sean’s arms rotated up, palms pointed at his adversary, channeling the power now coursing through him. His teeth nearly shattered from the tension in his jaw.

  This was his moment. A course correction that would alter his destiny and mark him as the man he was meant to be.

  “Now,” he yelled.

  Sean opened his eyes just in time to see a longboard swinging for his face.

  ****

  “Hey, man. You alright?”

  The smell of old booze and fresh cigarettes brought him back to Oakland.

  “What time is it?” Sean asked, scrambling to get up.

  “Slow down, man. Your nose is broke or something. King is going to take care of you.”

  Blinking, he tried to make sense of it all. “Who?”

  “King. That’s me. I’m the King of Oakland.” The man reached into the cargo pocket of his camouflage pants. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “You need a Lucky? They ain’t filtered, but a man’s gotta do. You know. In the wake of the Great Recession and all.”

  Sean looked up and down Forbes. “Did you see a guy, red flannel and a skateboard?”

  “I saw him knock you on your ass. People call the King crazy. Yinz guys are the crazy ones.” The man planted the Lucky Strike between his teeth and reached a hand big enough to palm a bowling ball toward Sean. “Come on, my man.”

  “Thanks, Mr., um, King.”

  “Nah, it’s just King.”

  Sean glanced at his watch. 9:58. “I gotta run.”

  Breaking into a sprint, Sean took off toward the university. King stood alone on the sidewalk and lit his cigarette. Shaking his head he laughed to himself.

  “Damn kids are crazy.”

  ****

  Dr. Weil wore the same black pencil dress she donned every other day. A black wool cardigan covered her shoulders. This was her uniform, and it never disappointed. While her clothes were always the same, her straight, black hair varied class to class. That day it was gathered up in a messy bun pinned together with chopsticks.

  She adjusted her oversized glasses. “Sean, are you okay?”

  He dabbed his nose with his finger, pulled it away and saw red. The bridge of his nose pulsed with his heartbeat. “Oh, um, yeah. I’m, ah, I’m fine. I just slipped on the stairs trying to, ya know, get here on time.” He tried to fake a smile.

  The professor placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “After great pain, a formal feeling comes—

  The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs.”

  Her words were a balm.

  Sean sensed her power as his loneliness and anxiety dissipated into the calm embrace of her poetry. He hadn’t recognized the tension in his shoulders, but it was released as she finished the stanza.

  She smiled. “Grab your seat, Sean.”

  Three rows back against the wall had become his territory. The front row would have been more suitable, but from there he could be less conspicuous. The lecture hadn’t even begun and phones were out. Eyes were glued on timelines, tweets, and whatever else was Internet du jour.

  Dr. Weil was inspirational. While Sean was enraptured the others were enraged. “American Wome
n Poets” was supposed to be an easy gen ed class. That’s why most of them were there. Listed only as “staff,” the course would likely be taught by a grad student or adjunct hungry for good evaluations and little grading. But Weil orchestrated it more like a graduate seminar. Sleepwalking through the semester wasn’t an option, though there were those who tried. While Sean wasn’t an expert in the subject manner, he worked harder than normal to impress his professor. She was, after all, why he took the course. The other students rolled their eyes—if they were open—as she delivered verses.

  For Sean, every word was ecstasy.

  “Soren Kierkegaard, the famous Dane, said, ‘Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.’ I disagree, as do most of the women poets of our time. It’s not freedom, but captivity. So many of our female poets, fighting the claustrophobic trappings of their time, dealt with the epidemic of strain. For some—like Dickinson—this anxiety was their calling card.”

  A small Moleskine notebook quivered in her hand. Her voice trembled, as was customary for the first few beats. A tattered paperback collection of Dickinson sat on the edge of the wooden desk, though she seldom needed it. Without hesitation, Weil closed her eyes and began her recitation:

  “The bee is not afraid of me,

  I know the butterfly;

  The pretty people in the woods

  Receive me cordially.

  The brooks laugh louder when I come,

  The breezes madder play.

  Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?

  Wherefore, O summer’s day?”

  She paused, letting the poet’s words change the very fabric of the room. The cold winter faded as the professor brought forth Dickinson’s “summer day.”

  The eyes of the classroom, which had all been trained on their devices, turned toward the classroom’s captain. The distracted mess of students became a focused entity. The change was palpable.

  “Emily gives us this gift wrapped in metaphor and nature, as she often does.” Weil continued with hands as steady as a master archer’s, her voice now confident. A smile danced across her face. “What do you feel?”