Corrosion Read online

  “What was it like working for them, anyway?”

  “Blackbow?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t expect you to go back into the fight after what happened.”

  Tim lied, “Not much different from the Marines. Mostly sitting around bullshitting with a bunch of other meatheads.”

  “So, it was like you and these other asshats in high school?”

  Tim gave her his first genuine smile of the night. “Yeah. Pretty much like high school.” Tim pulled a pack of Camels out of his jeans and motioned toward the door. “I’m gonna get some air. Want to join me?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Liz said. “Quit last year.”

  “Me too,” Tim answered. “And the year before that. I’ll catch you later.”

  Ford didn't wait for an answer. He gave his childhood crush a nod and turned for the front of the bar. On his way out, his eye caught a guy sitting near the back of the room with a tight beard and button up shirt. He figured it was some sort of businessman or professor by the looks of it.

  Ford raised a glass to the man. He wished he could be like him, just some common schmuck drinking a pint with his friends.

  No worries about tomorrow.

  No regrets about yesterday.

  No screams gnawing at his mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tim barely heard the door slam behind him over the sound of the classic rock anthem his friends were belting out in the bar. Their chorus bled out through the two double garage doors that opened up into a cool little seating area inhabited by a few patrons. He took three paces in the opposite direction and leaned against the wall. He exhaled, long and hard, squeezing his eyes closed tight, as if some yoga-breathing bullshit might settle his nerves.

  Ford opened the pack of Camels, holding them up to the light that cast down from the lonely street lamp overhead. His eyes dashed over the little white dots, taking stock of how many cigarettes were left. He cursed the price of smokes, and the fact that he was let go with less than a full severance. The price of how things all came to an end with Blackbow.

  They didn’t like deserters, after all.

  Fishing into his pocket, he found the Zippo that he had carried with him to the four corners of the earth. Raised up on the silver metal plating was the emblem of a bow and a set of crossed arrows. The emblem matched the tattoo on Tim’s massive bicep. A reminder of his life, and how things went sideways faster than you could say “shitstorm.”

  He flicked the lighter open with his thumb and snapped the striking wheel, bringing the flame to play in front of his eyes. Tim watched it dance for a second before lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. The smoke felt good in his lungs, so he held it there as long as he could before discharging a thin blue stream into the still night air.

  Anger, guilt, and sadness warred for control of Tim’s mind, the drink and the smoke not enough to dull them all. His friends meant well. They were trying to honor him, and he knew it. Good intentions, road to hell, and all that bullshit. And he’d be a bastard if he didn’t play the part of the grateful soldier finally home.

  But it was a lie.

  Jonesy, his mechanic friend who destroyed his body daily at work so he could afford his dad’s cancer treatments was a hero. Melissa was a hero, pulling double shifts at Walmart to support her kid after her asshole boyfriend left town with their car and a blonde from the East End.

  The people in the bar were heroes.

  Ford was a monster.

  If only he could go back, make different decisions. He imagined himself getting a job hammering nails or working some factory line. If he could put in a good day’s work only to come home to an honest woman, everything would be all rainbows and unicorns.

  But the problem with time is that it always moved forward. It was the surest lesson war taught him. And the evidence of that just rolled out the door looking for him.

  “There you are,” Bobby said. “Things getting too hot for you in there?”

  Tim took another drag. “A tactical retreat. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Sure,” Bobby shrugged, but he didn’t take his eyes off Ford. “Look, I know you hate this stuff, but everyone’s really excited to see you.”

  Ford kept silent for a moment, but he couldn’t keep the words in. “They wouldn’t be if they knew the truth.”

  Bobby reached up and punched Ford in the shoulder. “Hey asshole, we’ve been through this already. They know the truth. You fought for your country. You fought for them. And you saved my life.”

  Ford threw his cigarette down. “I ruined your life.”

  “Look at me,” Bobby said. “I’m still breathing. I chose to join the Marines, same as you. I followed orders that day, same as you. And the fact that you carried me out that day means that I get to keep living. It’s time you started living again too. I know why you joined those Blackbow psychos, but whatever penance you think you owe you’ve already paid it out in full. You’re home now. Be home.”

  Bobby turned and left Ford stewing in his thoughts. The sound of laughter broke him out of them. His head snapped to the left, looking for the threat, only to find three guys walking toward him. They were joking, laughing, carefree.

  And they were pointing in the direction Bobby just went.

  The scene was all too familiar. He'd seen it in a hundred cities in fifty different countries. Men everywhere were the same. They felt strong in numbers and were compelled to prove themselves by preying on the weak. As the guys came into sight, Ford realized that they were two Jagerbombs from throw-up drunk. Probably a regular occasion for them, and he knew they’d likely be looking to start shit.

  Ford was happy to comply. The thought of them making fun of Bobby snapped something inside of him, and he needed to return the favor. Guns fired in his brain.

  Tim pushed off of the wall and stood on the sidewalk in front of them.

  As if on cue, the biggest of the three said, "Well, look at this douchebag."

  "Hey," another said. "Asshole, the 90s called, they want their flannel back."

  Ford smiled as his anger subsided. He took another breath and remembered that he was home now, the war a million miles away. These punks were idiots, certainly, but not worth breaking a sweat over. He thought about the party inside, the cold beer and the hot women. That sounded a hell of a lot better than dealing with three drunks out here.

  “You boys have a good evening,” Tim said and turned to walk away.

  One of them shouted, "Hey, dipshit. We’re talking to you.”

  Ford ignored it. Maybe he’d try an IPA. Apparently, they were all the rage these days.

  “That’s right, Run back to your friend. He probably sucks your dick nice from his chair.”

  The sound of automatic weapons echoed through Tim’s mind. Explosions rang out. He was no longer in Pittsburgh, no longer in a quiet neighborhood. He was back in the shit, and these three were his enemy.

  Ford knew how to deal with enemies.

  He spun. Before the man could blink, Ford’s right fist came up in a wicked uppercut, snapping his head back like a bobble head. As his body dropped toward the ground, Tim gave him another left into his rib cage just for good measure. In that moment, everything came into focus, and there was nothing in the world except for Tim Ford and bones in front of him waiting to be broken. His head cleared, and he could feel the sweet adrenaline course through his veins.

  He felt alive.

  The next guy, a tiny little dude, stared at Ford like a rabbit right before it bolts. But to his credit, he stood his ground, and even came at Ford swinging. Unfortunately, he was a rookie who projected his punch from a hundred miles away. Ford had no problem blocking it with his left. With a quick twist of his wrist, the guy was on his knees, crying out in pain. Ford landed three quick punches, dropping him to the ground.

  Tim spun to face the last man standing.

  What he didn't expect was to be staring down the barrel of a 90’s model Lorcin .380 with a silver barrel. Tim hadn’t s
een one for years. It was a cheap street gun but would do its job, especially if it had all seven rounds in the clip.

  He snapped his hands up as if he were terrified. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Doesn't have to end like this."

  The man glanced down at his friends who weren’t moving. Ford's gaze focused on the gun. It shook, ever so slightly in the man's hand. His finger curled around the trigger instead of sitting up on the barrel. An amateur, through and through. Ford could judge a man’s firearm experience with his eyes closed. But amateurs had a way of doing stupid things.

  Really stupid things.

  "Like hell it doesn't. Don’t you know who I am?” the man asked.

  Ford gave him a once over. The clothes looked expensive, as did the haircut. The square jaw and pale blue eyes did strike a chord, but Ford couldn’t place them. Either way, it didn’t matter. The man made fun of his friend. And he held a gun at Ford’s face.

  Which meant that Ford knew exactly who he was.

  “You’re a dead man.”

  “I’m the one with the piece, shithead.”

  Ford smiled. “Won’t do you any good with the safety on.”

  The man looked down, and Ford lashed out, faster than the man could pull the trigger. A fist to the throat, then a rapid-fire combination to the man’s stomach and sides. He was on the sidewalk before he knew what happened, with Ford on top of him. Part of Ford’s mind registered the sound of a breaking jaw, but Ford could see nothing but the fear in the man’s eyes.

  But they weren’t staring at Ford, they were looking at the gun in Ford’s hands.

  Ford looked down at the piece. He didn’t even remember taking it from the goon, but now that he held it, it felt right in his hand. Ford leaned the barrel into the man’s cheek. He could feel bone moving beneath as the man whimpered in pain. Then Ford pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  The man shuddered as if he had been shot, but once he realized his brains were still in his head, he opened his eyes and looked back at the pistol with the safety still on.

  “Told you,” Ford said as he rose to his feet.

  He popped the magazine and racked the slide to eject the bullet from the chamber. Tossing the impotent weapon down on the concrete next the man, he slid the magazine into the back pocket of his jeans and palmed the single bullet. "This is my town, shit head. And if you want to keep living in it, it’s time you learned some respect."

  Looking down at the drunks, Tim’s heart rate slowed. The world stood still.

  He was at peace.

  Then he opened the door and embraced the sound of cheers welcoming their hero home.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chem stared across the table at Elijah. The historian’s face adopted that far off gaze that meant the beginning of some dour reflection. Not a good sign for Chem, who was currently enjoying a wonderful mood—for once. In his down-and-out life, things were actually starting to look up.

  In his mind, that deserved a drink. He wanted to celebrate, not sit and watch his friend wallow.

  Chem snapped his fingers twice.

  "Hmmm?" Elijah said.

  He laughed. “I don’t know how they do things up in Boston, but in the Burgh, drooling toward a woman is no substitute for a good pickup line.”

  Elijah’s eyes focused, and he seemed to realize that he was staring in the direction of a beautiful blonde hanging out with the partygoers. He quickly looked down at his beer.

  Chem only laughed harder. “Why don’t you just go talk to her, man. A sophisticated brother like yourself, I’m sure you’d make one hell of an impression.”

  Elijah picked up his pint glass and swirled the contents remaining at the bottom. He tilted it and poured the remnants of the IPA into his mouth. He shook his head. “That’s the last thing I need right now. And besides, I try to make a move and there’s a good chance one of those brick shithouses in flannel kicks my teeth in.”

  Chem drank from his own pint. “That’s probably true. And for the record, I would not have your back in that fight.”

  “Noted,” Elijah said with smile.

  “But seriously, a woman would be good for you. Keep you grounded. When was the last time you even went on a date?”

  As soon as Chem asked the question, he knew it was a mistake. Elijah’s already low mood sank lower, as it did every time he thought about Brooke Alarawn.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Chem tried at an apology.

  Elijah tried to blow it off. “No worries. It’s just hard to think about new relationships when the last one ended so epically.”

  “Yeah...” Chem never really knew what to say when this topic came up. Elijah never blamed Chem for what happened—the historian opted instead to carry most of the guilt on his own shoulders—but Chem assumed his friend had to harbor some resentment. Without Chem’s work, without the Vida Serum, there would have been no Cold Steel.

  “But you’re right,” Elijah said, brightening up. “Once you’ve figured out how to cure me, I can move on. You and I can both move on. And there’ll be no chance of anything like that happening again. Right?”

  Chem fought the urge to break eye contact. He smiled confidently and nodded his head. Then he lied. “Right.”

  It wasn’t a full lie, but it was at least a few shades darker than a little white lie. Chem was working on a way to cure Elijah. But it just so happened that his work on the cure coincided with his old work. Chem didn’t think Elijah needed to know about that.

  After Brooke stole his serum and used it to murder a dozen people, Chem had considered throwing the Vida Serum away...for all of two seconds. Elijah and Willa assumed he would—it only made sense to their minds. But for Chem, the Vida Serum was so much more than a pet project. It was his life. And with every new ounce of control the historian exerted over his powers, Chem’s hope rose. He still didn’t understand the power in Elijah’s blood, but every test brought him closer to figuring out how to use it. Which meant the end was near. He could see the finish line, and only a few hurdles stood between him and total redemption.

  Nothing was going to get in his way this time.

  “What about you, man?” Elijah asked. “You got a woman that keeps you grounded? Or a man?”

  "I like women," Chem snapped. "Not that I have an issue with other people’s predilections. I'm a cosmopolitan mother fucker. But, yes my proclivity is for the fairer gender." Chem looked down into his Cowbell Oatmeal Imperial Stout and stood silent for a beat. He liked talking about his personal life even less than he liked talking about Brooke Alarawn. "There was someone, not so long ago. But you could say she's a little out of reach now."

  "But not fully out of reach?" Elijah asked.

  "Hope not, my man. You never know. Sometimes love takes more work than the grocery store romance novels like to admit."

  Chem considered her again, for the hundredth time that day. No matter where he was or what he was doing, his thoughts always seemed to find their way back to her.

  Elijah reached over and slapped Chem on the shoulder. "I don't know that much about you, Chem. One thing I do know, you're not afraid of hard work. You spend more time down in the lab than I do in the library, that's for sure. Too much time. Maybe you give this girl another shot. You can’t grow love in a lab, you know.”

  “Not yet you can’t.” He finished his beer, hoping to reinvigorate the mood that had slipped away seconds ago. “But I’m trying.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, each of them mulling over the conversation about love lost. Finally, Elijah nodded at the day's edition of the newspaper, left behind by another patron. "Any talk in there about strange sightings?"

  Chem shook his head. "Nope. That's the way we want to keep it. As much as I appreciate your company, I’m ready for a world without magic and monsters. If you and the poet want to keep your asses out of trouble, best thing is to continue keeping your head down.”

  Elijah ran his palms over the table as if he were smoothing out a long sheet of paper. After the eve
nts at PPG Place, the local news had reported on sightings of The Foundry and Cold Steel. Other than some grainy security footage, there wasn't any evidence of what really took place that night, or who those mysterious figures were. All the cops found was a boardroom full of chopped up executives, a shit ton of broken glass, and one dead Brooke Alarawn.

  The investigation was technically still ongoing, but after a few months, the public conversation descended into competing conspiracy theories, each more outlandish than the next. Most folks moved on to other things, happy to let the strange event slide into the realm of urban legend.

  "Our thing kind of turned into a Sasquatch sighting," Elijah said. "We’re lucky that all sorts of strange stuff happens in Pennsylvania."

  "It's always Pennsylvania," Chem replied with a grin. "There was that fish girl too."

  Elijah laughed and pushed his fingers through his thick dark hair and interlaced them behind his head. "The Creature that Crawled out of the Monongahela River. Yeah, when I saw those posts online about her, I knew we were in the clear. Message board blather will only make people assume it’s all a load of whacko horseshit."

  "Actually, maybe it would be best if we started a few more rumors on the street," Chem said, raising an eyebrow. “Aliens running around in suits, infiltrating the highest forms of government. The gods are real and they want their world back. Sci-Fi terrorists on the run from the X-Files.”

  Chem placed his glass on the pallet table and glanced over at the party that was starting to get loud. Overhead speakers were playing some dirty 90s rock, which riled up a good portion of the group, all of them singing along off key. The blond man at the end of the bar, the object of everyone's attention, sat looking like a king among his court. But Chem couldn’t help but wonder if his smile was a con. Takes one to know one, and all of that.

  Chem turned his attention back to Elijah. "I hope you're right about my work ethic and our eventual success."