Chapter Four

Pounding the Pavement

 

 

 

Angela’s face turned even whiter. “This isn’t true,” she whispered. “I’m not a weapon. I’m not.”

As if in shock, her legs started to shake and with a series of unsteady steps, she tottered over to the chair by the worktable and sat down. With trembling lips, she heaved in a series of deep breaths. Finally, she got herself under control. “This is all wrong.”

“What do you remember?” Paul asked, fascinated by the idea of someone stepping out of a chamber fully grown—almost—and up to speed on most things. Being born with full adult knowledge took the difficulty of growing up out of the equation. In a way, he could relate. It would have saved him a number of years of agony.

Angela related her afterbirth in a somber voice. “The first thing I saw was the chambers. I…I knew where everything was, where my room was and where my clothes were. It was as if someone was guiding me.”

It made sense. She had downloaded knowledge, so it was like operating on auto-pilot. After listening to her explanation, Paul went back to the page he’d been perusing. It listed the specifics of each individual. They were only a few lines, and he read them out.

“Subject—Angela—abilities include the powers of flight, enhanced strength and regenerative abilities. Objective—Aerial reconnaissance and pacification of violent extremists.

“Subject—Cannon Fodder—abilities include the powers of super strength and regenerative abilities. Limited intelligence makes subject easy to control. Objective—Ground-based pacification of violent extremists.

“Subject—Ooze—abilities include the power to control water. High intelligence is essential for this subject. Objective—Reconnaissance via waterways. It may be used as a water-based source to pacify violent extremists.

“Subject—Sandstorm—abilities include the power to control sand and perhaps larger Earth-based objects. High intelligence is also essential for this subject. Objective—Reconnaissance via the land. It may be used a land-based source to hinder the vision of violent extremists while the other task force members complete their duties.”

Once he’d finished, Angela’s head whipped around, meekness now gone. Instead, anger mixed with confusion resounded in every word she spoke. “This is all wrong! I’m supposed to protect the city. This is what I do. That’s what I was doing last night.”

A number of adjectives ran through Paul’s mind about her performance last night and all of them fit. Spectacular, amazing…no, she had been beyond totally awesome. Beautiful when in motion, fast and fluid, hot and terrifying at the same time, she’d taken down the scum as if they were children’s blocks to be kicked around.

Yet…the file told a different story. According to the information, though, she’d been initially created to do something else.

Created… How could anyone do that? Paul kept going through the file, but after the initial explanation, all he saw was more formulas detailing various chemical combinations, telomeres and cell division. Talk about cutting edge stuff! He’d training in basic chemistry, but all of this went way over his head.

It also didn’t answer the question of how the scientist managed to build the chambers without anyone noticing. He didn’t expect Angela to offer an explanation and she didn’t. All she did was wait patiently with her hands folded in her lap, but after twenty minutes she got up and said, “If you can figure it out, fine. I’m no expert.”

“I thought you had downloaded information.”

Angela waved her hand, as if dismissing the question. “Just the basics,” she said. “I know who I am. I’m self-aware like you. Right now, I’m tired. I’m going to pass out upstairs.”

Paul looked up and rubbed his eyes. Even though it was early in the morning, he still felt dragged out from the events of last night and looking at all the figures had made his head hurt. “How, um, do you sleep?”

Immediately he felt foolish for asking such a dumb question, but she didn’t seem to mind. “In a bed,” she replied in an even tone. “Just because I’m different doesn’t mean I don’t sleep. My room is next to yours, by the way. I’ll talk to you later on.”

With a sharp move, she pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room. Paul stared after her retreating back, cursed softly under his breath for acting like a mental midget and went through the file until his head spun. He found no mention of the maker’s name, but found another name scribbled at the bottom of the last page—R-Allan. Maybe that was the old guy’s name.

Grabbing a pad and pencil from an adjacent table, he noted the name down then stuffed the paper in his pocket. On the subject of creation, the scientist had used stem cells from an unknown donor and somehow had infused them with these abilities. Another notation in the file spoke of multiple failures until he’d hit upon the right combination.

Someone knocked on the door. Spinning around to see who it was, he saw Ooze leaning against the aperture. “Angela said she was talking to you about our maker,” he said as he moved laboriously over to where Paul sat. “I’m going to take another look at the computer. I think the hard drive is damaged but not gone. I might be able to repair it. If I can fix it, I can pull some information out.”

“I thought this was part of your download.” There it was again, the catch-all ‘part-of-your-download’ explanation. Paul felt idiotic for asking, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Ooze chuckled. “When I said before that I got my maker’s knowledge, I didn’t mean I got everything. There’s a lot I still don’t know. I know I’m synthetic. I have information about this area, same as my buddies do. I know something about the science behind all of this, and I can process information faster than most people, but that’s about it. What I don’t know is what she doesn’t know, and that’s our maker’s name. I just woke up a short time ago, remember?” He pointed toward the chambers then inclined his body toward the stool.

Hint received, Paul got up and as he did so, a yawn escaped his lips. You couldn’t fake tired.

Whistling a tune, which sounded like someone singing underwater, Ooze parked himself at the computer and waved his hand at the door. “Yeah, I’d say you’re pretty out of it. Better get some rest.”

It seemed like a plan. “Maybe I’ll crash for a bit,” Paul mumbled.

Making his way upstairs to the kitchen, a rumble in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours plus. Opening the fridge, he found nothing but a half-eaten jar of blueberry jam. The freezer held a loaf of bread and he put in inside the fridge to thaw out.

While doing so, he saw a multitude of plastic packets all neatly lined up on the shelves, filling up most of the space. Taking one out, he read the contents and a little bile came up in his mouth. “Synthetic brains…fifty percent sugar…fifty percent protein…and he eats…?”

Immediately, any thoughts of having food disappeared from his mind. “That’s just…gross,” he said, and shut the door.

A sudden lassitude filled him, and his injured ribs started to hurt. Later—he’d think about what to do later. Wearily he wended his way up to his room and passed out in bed.

 

* * * *

 

A sudden cramp in his leg woke him. Sitting up to massage the knot away, he glanced at the clock on the night table. It read six a.m. Had he been out the whole day and night? Apparently so, but his internal body clock said things were moving into a more regular rhythm.

His breath came out in faintly whitish puffs, and he huddled under the covers. A few seconds later, though, he got out of bed. The floor was icy and he hopped around on it until he got used to the cold. Moving was better than staying in bed, anyway. When he passed by his companion’s rooms, Paul saw that Ooze and Sandstorm were going through their usual acrobatics routines while CF sat on his bed, staring into space. What was he thinking? Did he ever sleep or did he just sit and contemplate his navel?

The board under his feet made a creaking sound as he took a step, and the zombie turned his head. “Good morning,” he grated. “I’m hungry, but Ooze didn’t get me food.” Something fell from his face and hit the floor with a soft splat. He bent over to pick it up.

Paul stood dumbstruck for a moment and CF’s lower jaw sagged. After watching CF put it back into place, Paul said, “Hang on. I’ll get you something.”

Downstairs, he grabbed two packets from the fridge, hesitated, then took another package. Returning to CF’s room, he handed over the food. The giant carefully tore open the packets with his thumb and forefinger and started to munch on the brain-burgers. “These are good,” he grated, while giving a number of satisfied grunts as he worked his way through the edibles.

For him, saying anything over one syllable for the most part didn’t figure in his mental makeup. “Uh, do you need help or something?” Obvious question, but right now subtlety had gone into left field.

“I’m fine here,” replied CF, his mouth full. “These help me to think.” Once again, his skin began to knit and a light of understanding shone in his eyes.

Paul recalled the cell decay from the files and reasoned that maybe the synthetic brains helped replace the cell loss in the big guy’s mind. He also remembered reading in school that the brain ran on sugar, so this had to be the ultimate fix. As he turned to leave, CF asked, “What will you do today?”

“Oh, uh, I thought I’d look around and check out the area,” replied Paul, thinking fast. It was a bit surprising to hear the question come from the zombie, but maybe he’d just had his first individual thought.

CF nodded, a slow, heavy movement, and resumed staring out into space. Apparently, conversation wasn’t his forte. Paul did wonder about the question, though, but didn’t think it was a good idea to go out and meet the neighbors, just in case they’d seen his picture on television. The last thing he needed was for the authorities to show up on the doorstep. Still, if he stayed inside too much longer, say hello to cabin fever. At this early hour of the day, he doubted anyone would be out.

There wasn’t too much in the way of furniture outside of the basics, but he came upon a small chest at the back of the living room. It held some clothes, probably those of the late scientist. They were the same size as the old clothes he had on now, so quickly changing, he balled up the dirty clothes and put them next to the dresser. After rummaging around in the bottom drawer, he found a light jacket and donned that as well.

Stepping outside, he closed the door and inhaled, but not too deeply, as his ribs still ached. The weather was crisp and clear and a light sifting of snow lay on the ground. A slight breeze lifted his spirits and he went down a neatly laid out front walk to the street.

Turning around to get a better look at the house, he noted its white color along with the peeling paint, the quaint Georgian-style appearance like something out of the old South, and the somewhat dilapidated garage with a sagging roof. All in all, the place looked old, yet somehow held a certain charm. And it was home, at least for now.

When he lifted up the door, he saw that a large blue van sat alone and unloved. There was nothing else inside the garage with the exception of a dirty carpet covering most of the floor and a few crates. A coating of dust sat on everything, and Paul shivered in the chilly air.

Since there was nothing else to see, he left, but as he did, his foot kicked against something on the floor. Lifting the carpet up, he found a door with a lock on it. A slow smile spread across his face. It was probably another entrance to the secret lab downstairs. He replaced the carpet, walked outside then shut the door.

Checking his bearings, he noted that the house lay at the end of a quiet street a good distance away from the same style houses. A number of empty lots sat between his new residence—Thirty East Main—and the other houses. If this scientist had wanted privacy, he couldn’t have chosen a better location.

After filing the address away, Paul began to walk down the road. A few stray stones crunched under his heels and a light sifting of snow covered the ground. Turning a corner onto the main street, he saw a number of restaurants, souvenir stores and antique shops.

His muscles yelped as he moved, but he ignored the pain and focused on the positives. He had a place to stay, food to eat—not much, but he’d figure something out—and his new acquaintances? Well, they were…different.

Angela was pretty hot, though, and he wondered if she knew more than she was saying. Downloaded knowledge…super powers…this was like a myth come to life. Better than myth—this was reality! Staying in a house inhabited by fantasy figures got him stoked. No one would believe him, but all the same, this was pretty off the chain.

Stately trees lined the road and led into a forest area on both sides of the road. He kept walking, and eventually he arrived at a crossroad. A sign told a creek lay to the left. If he walked to his right, he’d eventually end up on the highway.

“Let’s try the creek,” he said to the air, and walked down the road. No traffic came his way, and he eventually got to the bottom of the path. Another sign on a pole told him this was Angelica Creek, a tributary of the Genesee River.

The creek wasn’t overly large and was bracketed by a steep river bank with patches of ice on it. Stepping carefully down to the bottom to survey the area, it was quiet here, and the cold nipped at his face and hands. He wondered what kind of place this was, how many people lived here, what they did, if they had families…

Families…he would have to think of that and shut the concept down. It didn’t work, though, and his mood turned sour. He trudged on, his idea of having a decent morning shot to hell.

Turning his eyes on the creek, Paul realized that someone had decided to use it as their own personal dumping ground. A bicycle and what looked to be a small fridge stuck their noses out of the water, and the sight repelled him. He’d seen enough garbage in the Bronx. This kind of place, though, didn’t deserve all this trash and in spite of the cold air, a distinctly foul smell came from the water.

“Well, that’s that for now,” he said, tired from his sightseeing sojourn, and walked back.

Once he’d reached the house, he was about to go in when a voice stopped him. “Excuse me, young man.”

Surprised, he turned around. Who else would be up at this time of day? An old woman wearing a threadbare coat, a woolen cap and galoshes stood in front of him. A small Corgi stood at the end of the leash and tugged on it, whining. “Be still,” she scolded the dog and peered through myopic eyes. “My name’s Mrs. Porter. Are you related to Mr. Bolson?”

Bolson…the old guy’s name was Bolson. Thinking quickly, Paul nodded. “Yes ma’am, I’m his nephew. I’m just visiting for a few days.”

The dog panted and whined. It pulled again on the leash and scrabbled to get away. She sighed, apparently embarrassed at her dog’s lack of manners and when she spoke, it sounded like someone who was used to endlessly disciplining her pet. “Yes, Peter, we’re going soon.”

Instead of leaving, though, Mrs. Porter continued to stare at him, seemingly filing away every detail. He felt the power of her gaze but didn’t move. Her dog kept whining and she yanked sharply on the leash, which caused the dog to yelp. It stopped and crouched down, growling softly.

“I thought you were new here,” she said, and nodded with satisfaction as if she’d solved the case of the century. “I know the people in this town. I’ve lived here all my life. I haven’t seen Mr. Bolson around lately. He bought this place about two years ago and always kept to himself.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“It most certainly is.” She nodded. “He bought the place and had some workmen come in to fix it up. Not from around here, no, he brought them in from other towns and cities. He couldn’t give the locals a chance to get some pay in.”

She continued to ramble on about how the noise kept some of the “honest folk” as she put it, awake at night. Bolson had trucks deliver parts—“plastic things and wiring and cables,” she said—and usually kept to himself.

Paul desperately wished he could come up with an excuse to dash back inside the house, but knew he couldn’t. He’d seen looks like this in the orphanage and in the foster homes. The looks meant the people were sizing him up, weighing what kind of character he was and what they could get away with. The looks were ones of suspicion, dislike and indifference all rolled into one.

No, he couldn’t leave, not yet, for she’d get suspicious and might tell someone. That could lead to trouble. With a massive mental effort, he forced himself to put on a cheery smile. “My uncle and I, er, haven’t seen each other for a long time. He likes to sit and chat.”

“He’s not under the weather, is he? I notice the shades in his house were drawn.”

Wow, this lady was nosy! In fact, Paul wanted to say Dr. Bolson was a little more than under the weather, but in a burst of inspiration he came out with, “Yes ma’am, actually, he’s had, er, a bad cold and he needs his rest. I’m helping him around the house. Like I said, we talk a lot.”

“I see.”

If she did, then her eyes betrayed her, as something sparked in them. It looked like suspicion. “Well, I’ll be going now…” he said and started to turn away.

In a surprisingly quick move, her hand shot out to snag his sleeve and she squinted at him. “Your face is all bruised up. What happened?”

How about I got my butt kicked a couple of days ago by a group of homicidal maniacs? A second later, he checked his thoughts. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the response. “Slipped on the carpet, fell down the stairs.”

Dumb answer, but it seemed to satisfy her as she lifted her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Well, you’re young. You’ll get over it. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Then she was gone, yanking on her poor dog’s leash as she went. Paul walked inside and locked the door, breathing heavily. That had been close. He was not only a fugitive, but if anyone saw him with…

“Did you go out?”

The voice startled him. Angela stood at the staircase, dressed in a pair of dark blue pajamas. Arms folded across her chest, the expression on her face resembled a volcano about to erupt. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re supposed to keep a low profile here.”

Embarrassed at being called out, Paul felt the heat rush to his face. He’d screwed up and he had to own it. “Sorry,” he began, “I was just trying to figure out where everything was, and…”

Angela waved off his response. “And someone saw you. I have pretty decent hearing and I heard you talking to some old lady. Remember, we go out at night. At least, I do.” She uncrossed her arms and the severe expression faded. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “There’s just some bread in the fridge. That, and some jam. I, uh, don’t have any money for food, and—”

She interrupted, “You need to eat.”

Pivoting on her heel, she walked away and into the kitchen. While she was gone, he thought about what Mrs. Porter had said. Workmen coming in, delivering parts, secrecy…this had to be kept a secret…

“Food’s ready,” Angela said as she reemerged from the kitchen carrying a plate with a slice of bread covered in jam. She proffered the plate. “Here you are.”

Paul took it and bit into the bread. It was stale and the jam had no taste, but like the lady said, he needed to eat. A clump of bread lodged in his throat and made him gag. With an effort, he forced it down.

“It tastes good?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” he lied, but put the plate down. He’d eat later on.

Angela nodded and went over to the large cabinet in the living room. Opening a drawer and reaching inside, she pulled out a large wad of bills. “I guess this is enough,” she said as she returned to his position and handed over the money.

When counted, it came to over five thousand dollars. “It’s, uh… Yeah, it’ll do,” Paul said, impressed at the amount of money he held. She’d mentioned having enough money to pay the bills, but this? Totally ridiculous. He’d never seen this much cash before, much less held it. He was used to getting a few dollars here and there from the Brothers at the orphanage to buy books and they were always used books.

“Our maker wanted us to have this,” continued Angela as she pulled open the bottom drawer.

The sight of the sea of greenbacks almost made Paul’s heart stop. The doctor had taken a lot more than equipment from his company. Continuing to gaze at the drawer, Paul saw it had been packed with new bills, all hundreds, and he gave up counting after five seconds. “I think that’s more than enough.”

Angela shut the drawer, took a seat on the couch, and waved him over. He sat next to her, feeling uncomfortable. This was an awkward moment in time. He’d never spoken to any girl as long as this and didn’t know what to say. “Um, I guess I could get some food from a supermarket later on.”

“You’re not going to buy it here,” she stated with an air of certainty. As if to underscore her statement, she pointed to the front door. “Too many people might see you. Secrecy, remember?”

So, if he had to remain cooped up, what would he do? As if reading his mind, Angela said, “Listen, I’m going to go on patrol tonight. We can go together, if you want.”

It sounded good, but with no superpowers, he thought that he’d just get in the way. Crisis management in terms of gang control wasn’t his forte. “I don’t know what I can do to help.”

A tiny grin crossed her face. “I have an idea.”

 

* * * *

 

Midnight, back in the Bronx, and this was most definitely a déjà vu moment. This spot was only a couple of blocks from where he’d almost met eternity the first time. During the day, he’d gone over the notes while Ooze worked. The water-bag man shuttled back and forth between working on the computer and mixing chemicals. He worked with a quiet diligence, and rarely spoke except to ask for help holding some vials and adding in some chemicals. Paul tried to stifle his feelings of frustration at not being able to understand things entirely, and finally Ooze let out a grunt. “Hey,” he said.

Paul looked up from his file. “What is it?”

“These things take time, and I’m not a technician. Have a little patience, will ya?”

Patience was the one thing needed, but this stuff went way beyond anything traditionally taught in chemistry class or perhaps anywhere else. The only thing Paul did understand was Bolson—Dr. Bolson—had managed to infuse a single stem cell with the necessary powers to allow these people to do what they did. It didn’t explain why CF was decomposing nor did it explain why Angela could do what she could do. He just had to accept it as fact.

Finally, after his brain shut down, he excused himself and went back to his room. Lying in bed, he started to nod off, spiraled down into a world of black.

Minutes—or perhaps hours—later, he felt a hand shake him gently. When he opened his eyes, he saw Angela. “Hey, if you’re ready, let’s get going,” she said. “It’s almost eleven.” She held some fresh clothes in her hands. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”

After dressing warmly in a pair of pants and a couple of shirts under his jacket, Paul opened his bedroom door and met her outside. “Um…what do we do now?” he asked.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him downstairs. “I’ve got this. C’mon.”

In the backyard, the sounds of the night, mainly quiet punctuated by the hoots of an owl and the flutter of a bat’s wings, came through. The neighborhood was quiet and still and she looked up at the sky. “It’s clear tonight. The stars… They’re pretty.”

Following her lead, he turned his gaze to the night sky and the stars shone out, a brilliant white that seemed to beckon him. “Hang on,” Angela said. After looping her arm around his waist, she took off.

A second later they were well over two hundred feet above the ground. Paul thought he should be terrified, but he felt her arm, iron-hard yet gentle, supporting his weight and went with it. “Pretty cool,” he said and his voice shook, but only for a moment.

“Yeah, flying is pretty decent,” she replied. “It’s…like freedom from what I am.”

She sounded somewhat subdued, almost sad, but he decided not to ask her about it, not yet. She’d mentioned something about other peoples’ reactions—negative ones.

Instead, he turned his attention to the night sky, felt the wind whip by his face, smelled the cleanness of the air and thought, yeah, flying… I’m actually flying!

They were moving fast, and soon the concrete jungle known as New York appeared. Angela dove for the ground and landed in an alleyway. Paul let out a breath and actually felt stoked about being here. “That was a rush—the flying, I mean.”

“Good, get ready for more thrills,” she replied as she took a step back. “Hang around here for a bit. I’ll be watching.”

Before he could get a word out, she leapt up into the air as straight as an arrow. Paul stared at her quickly vanishing figure and scuffed his toe in the dirt, pissed off that she’d ditched him.

“Hang around for a bit,” he muttered then inhaled sharply as the truth hit home. Oh crap, she was using him for bait! “Thanks a lot.”

Bait—he’d been set up and dangled like a worm on a hook over shark-infested water. All he needed now was for the killers from the deep to smell the blood and it didn’t take long for trouble to arrive. Three Bangers men dressed in their usual garb strolled by the alley.

A second later—after looking around to see if the coast was clear—they entered and mean smiles crossed their faces. Immediately, the leader—he stood a good six inches taller than the other two men and was built like a pro wrestler—waved to the entrance and his compadres formed a wall, blocking off any chance of escape. Paul looked behind him. A concrete wall around twenty feet high lay at the other end. He was trapped.

“What’ve we got here?” the leader asked.

“Looks like a punk who should be at home,” another member chimed in and began to chortle. “It’s a school night. Do you know where your children are?”

His voice trailed off, and the third member of the group—a squat, fat slob with a tattoo of a cross on his cheek—nudged him. “What’s up?” he asked. “You know this kid or something?”

Scumbag number two stared at Paul and began to nod. “Yeah, I do! I heard about it from Louis.”

The leader cut him off with a smack to his face. “Louis is bugged out. You know what I’m saying? I’m runnin’ things now.”

“But I saw his face on the news…”

He didn’t get another word out as Angela silently dropped down behind scumbags two and three and clanged their heads together. Bone smashed against bone with a resounding crack and they sagged to the pavement. The leader backed up against the wall, shaking his head at the sight of a fanged woman coming at him. In spite of his overwhelming size, right now he resembled a frightened child trying to hide from the boogeyman—or woman, in this case.

“No, no, keep away!” he yelled.

“Too late,” she replied and decked him with a swift right hook. Once he crashed to the ground, Angela turned around with an ear-to-ear grin. “Hey, that went well. I’d chalk this up to a successful mission. Glad you stuck around.”

Paul didn’t see any reason to be overly joyful. In fact, he was downright pissed off and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of moral outrage. “Thanks for setting me up. I’ve already gotten my ass kicked once.”

“Did you think I’d let them hurt you?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand in hers. He didn’t shy away, simply stayed there, surprised at her warmth—and strength. “I told you,” she said in her soft voice, “I’m here to protect the city. And that means you too, okay?”

Her tone sounded sincere enough, but Paul didn’t feel comfortable being a potential target. Recalling the first time he’d been rescued, he asked, “Why did you pick me?”

Angela released his hand and regarded him with a slight smile. “If you mean when you were jumped the first time, I was flying overhead doing reconnaissance. I saw you. You needed help. I gave it. And,” she hesitated, “I think you’re cute.”

Tapping the side of her head, she added, “Downloaded knowledge, remember? I know what people are supposed to look like. I’ve got my own conception of cute and you’re it.”

“Oh…”

Her answer got him all flustered, and in spite of the cold, he felt the blood rush to his face. Averting his gaze, he scuffed the ground with his toe, wondering how to provide a suitable answer. His stomach then did the talking by rumbling loudly, which made him feel even more embarrassed. “Um, well, thanks. I guess I need to eat.”

Flipping her hair back, she scanned the immediate area and pointed to a convenience store across the street. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait and watch for trouble.”

It was bright inside the store. Paul kept his head down in order to avoid being recognized by the security cameras and avoided making eye contact with the few other late-night shoppers. He’d taken two hundred dollars with him in order to buy food. Grabbing a basket, he loaded it up with some eggs, bread, pasta, and other essentials, and after paying for it, walked outside. A donut shop a few steps down the street caught his attention and he headed in its direction.

A millisecond later, Angela joined him. “What are you doing?”

“I need a donut,” he said, thinking of the ensuing sugar rush. He hadn’t eaten a donut or anything sweet since…he couldn’t remember. Store cameras or no, it was worth the risk. “C’mon.”

Doubt reigned on her face, but she shrugged. “Okay, but after that, we go back to work.”

“I guess I have to get used to being cannon fodder,” he quipped, which elicited a giggle from her.

The Donut Hole was a small place, and only a few people sat in the booths, nursing coffee and chowing down on donuts. The booths were leather-lined set-ups, curved for maximum customer potential, and each booth had an old mini jukebox on it with earphones for some privacy.

Paul gazed at the music machines and smiled at the retro idea, wondering if anyone actually used them. He ordered a chocolate donut and hot chocolate, and carried his tray back to the booth where Angela sat.

As he sat down, the patrons began to do the stop-and-nudge-each-other-and-stare routine. Not all of them, but he heard the whispers of “Weird”, “Strange”, “Freaky” and more.

Angela also heard them and began to fidget. Paul noticed her discomfiture and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“They’re staring,” she muttered and turned her head away.

Craning his neck around, he observed the stare crowd doing the goggle-eye act. “Well, first of all, you’re not wearing a coat and it is the middle of winter.”

“I don’t get cold,” she answered.

That figured. “Second,” he continued, “they’re being jerks. Just pretend it’s a Goth look you’ve got on.”

“What’s Goth?” she asked, blinking her eyes as if suddenly confused by the term.

Apparently her download didn’t account for modern trends. “Uh, it’s a fashion choice,” he said. “You wear black leather or ripped up black clothes, white makeup and have piercings—that kind of thing.”

In voice full of doubt, she said, “It doesn’t sound very fun. This is comfortable. I like it.”

Yeah, well, you had to wear what made you feel good, Paul reasoned. He was grateful he had warm clothes, even if they were about thirty years out of date. As for his treat, the donut was stale and the hot chocolate tasted like lukewarm mud, but it was a lot better than the garbage at the orphanage. Little things like this meant a lot. Angela stared at the cracked Formica and said nothing.

Racking his brain for something clever or pithy or cool to say, nothing surfaced. Chalk this up to being dullsville time. He then recalled what she’d said on the flight over. “What did you mean before when you said freedom from what you are?”

Angela bit her lip, and her usual cool and in-charge demeanor seemed to evaporate. “I’m not human,” she said in a low voice. “Not entirely.”

Her eyes flicked back and forth, locking onto each customer, but they’d had their fun and were too engrossed in their own lives to bother looking around.

“I was created,” she continued. “I don’t know what else to do with my life. This”—she swept her hand at the window, which meant going on patrol—“is all I do, I guess. I get to do that and spend time with my housemates.”

An air of pathos permeated each word. Paul didn’t have any set answer. “Uh, well, I don’t have parents, either.” He stole a look at the streets. A young couple walked by hand in hand and an idea occurred to him. She’d said he was cute, so…“But, um, if you want to know more about what people do, we could go on a date.”

“A date,” she repeated and a series of fine lines furrowed her brow. “You mean, with other people?”

She really didn’t have any experience, he realized. Then again, he’d also never been on a date in his life. “Well, not with a group or anything like that. It just means, um-m,” he stammered out, “being around other people. But we’d be with each other.”

Angela sat back in her seat, a thoughtful expression on her face. “That means…you like me?”

It sounded really innocent, like a little girl being told she could have double helpings of ice cream. In a way, Paul could relate. He’d never had a double helping of anything. “Yeah, I do.”

She suddenly smiled, revealing her white, even teeth…and no fangs. “Okay, let’s go out.”

A look of curiosity settled over her face as she caught sight of the jukebox. “What is this for?” she asked.

“You put money in. It plays music.”

Wonder shone in her eyes and she whispered, “I’ve never listened to it before. I mean I’ve heard it, and I know what the word means, but I’ve never really listened.”

“Now’s your chance,” he said and dug three quarters out of his pocket. “Put these in the slot and press any button you want. Then you put the earphones in your ears and listen.”

Hesitantly, she put the money in the slot, but after pushing one of the buttons, a spark leapt out and she quickly jerked her hand back. “Ouch, that hurt!” she exclaimed and shook her finger.

“Are you okay?” Paul leaned over for a closer look. The flesh had turned a slight brown, he noticed, and it had been only a tiny spark…

“It jolted me,” said Angela, shaking her finger.

A waitress, middle-aged with a mop of dyed-red hair, immediately hustled over. Manner all sympathetic, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss. Are you okay?”

Angela nodded, but kept her gaze averted. The waitress, flustered by this turn of events, shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “The machine’s broken. A few other people told us they got a shock from it, so we stuck a sign there, but someone must have taken it off.”

Not wishing to draw attention to their position, he kept his hand covering the side of his face. “She’ll be fine, ma’am.”

After the waitress left, he murmured, “I guess that means no sticking your finger in an electrical socket.”

His comment earned him a rueful chuckle. As he looked on, the damaged flesh on her finger quickly reverted to its normal white color. “Can we leave now?” she asked.

“Yeah, okay,” Paul said, and they went to the cashier to pay up.

At the counter, flicking his gaze off to the left, two men sat in a booth in the far corner of the shop. They wore black suits, sunglasses and laced up shiny dress shoes. Talk about obvious! They had to be some kind of government agents. In their thirties, they both had short black hair, but that was where the resemblance ended.

One of them was massive, almost as wide as he was tall, but not fat. Under the suit there had to be a lot of muscle. A large mug of coffee sat in front of him.

In contrast, his partner was a tall, extremely lean man with a pale hatchet face and tiny, roving eyes. He picked up a donut from a mound that practically spilled from his plate and chewed it with a look of delight on his face. “That’s gross,” the larger man said.

“It’s not,” answered his partner. “I’m hungry. I need the sugar.”

As they spoke, it all sounded most casual, but both men shifted their heads every so often in a watchful, observant manner. They didn’t move very much, but from the way they scanned everything, it seemed as though they were categorizing and filing away every single detail of this place.

Like something out of a movie—a very bad one—it seemed staged and yet creepy at the same time. If they wanted to stand out and have others look at them, they were doing a very good job of it. For some reason, Paul had the feeling they were looking at him.

Why, though? He could understand the police searching or someone from the orphanage or Social Services, but those guys looked like government agents.

Still, they hadn’t made any threatening moves. In fact, the taller man chose that moment to deliberately look out of the window as if the inhabitants of the donut shop were of no interest to him.

The bad feeling persisted, though. “We should hurry,” Paul suggested, but a second later, his bowels twisted and he clenched up downstairs. “I, uh, I gotta go. Be right back. Wait for me outside.”

Angela didn’t say anything. After a quick nod, she took the bags of groceries from him and strode out of the restaurant. He ran inside the bathroom and entered a stall. While going, he heard the clicking sound of dress shoes. It was one of them—one of the agents!

He had to get away, but how? He waited, heart beginning to pound then the sound of the door opening and closing made him breathe out a quiet sigh of relief. After finishing his business, he flushed the toilet and cautiously poked his head out of the door. The room was empty, and he spotted a window on the wall large enough for him to squeeze out of. A radiator sat beneath it, hissing out steam.

After he’d carefully climbed on top of the radiator, Paul opened the window then slipped out of it and fell into a trash-filled alley. No one was around, and after getting up and brushing himself off, he ran across the street then ducked into another alley to take up a spot behind a huge dumpster.

Three seconds later, the two men emerged from the donut shop and looked up and down the block. Once again, they didn’t talk to each other. They simply scanned the area. Then they crossed the street and walked unconcernedly over to the alley where Paul was standing.

Now, paranoia really took hold. The men in black… They’re here. He took in a series of shallow breaths. Lesson one in the secret agent’s manual—how not to be seen. Breathing quietly, he cautiously peered out from behind the dumpster.

“You always have to go there, don’t you?” the massive man said in a tone that indicated he thought the shop and its denizens beneath him. “You’ve been there every single night for the last two weeks. That place is a dump.”

Skinny dude offered a tiny shrug from his narrow shoulders. “I like the donuts. They’re good, and I get hungry…”

A black van pulled up the curb near them. A shadow flew overhead—Angela moving out of harm’s way. The door opened and someone got out. Paul stole a look at the new arrival. An enormously fat man maybe six feet in height and around three hundred pounds stood in front of the two agents. The fat man held an equally enormous sandwich, dripping sauce and other edibles. Also clad in black, he chewed on his meal, ripping out chunks of bread and meat and chomping on them with gusto.

Taking in a deep breath, Paul flattened his back against the wall and did his best to listen in on their conversation. His heart pounded and the cold speared him, but he ignored both. This was important.

“Mr. Finger, Mr. Hand, have either of you spotted anyone we should know about?” the fat man asked between bites.

Finger…Hand…Paul thought about the old joke he heard at the orphanage. ‘John broke his finger today, but on the other hand, he was fine.’ Thinking about it, it was a dumb joke and why did he have to remember it now?

A loud throat-clearing noise by the fat man startled him back to alertness. He squinted and noticed the fat guy had a perfectly round head like a basketball. What got his attention, though, were the man’s eyes. They lit up the darkness, a cold green. “Well,” he prompted, “do you have any information?”

The thickset man bobbed his head. “Yes, sir, but we…lost the target.”

“You lost the target,” the fat man replied in a most withering tone after chewing and swallowing. “You lost it.”

Silence hung in the air until finally the agent or whoever he was said, “Yes, sir, we lost it.” He hung his head. “We’re sorry, sir.”

“Wonderful, is there any more good news?”

The hatchet-faced man spoke up. “There’s another problem.”

“And that would be…what?” The brick said nothing, so the fat man shifted his gaze to the thin man, ingested the rest of his meal in a single bite, and let out a loud belch. “Mr. Hand, would you mind telling me what the problem is?”

Mr. Hand obediently piped up, “They want more money.”

Who are they? Paul listened, breathing very shallowly now, and he strained to catch the information.

“I should have known they’d get greedy,” said the fat man. He sighed as if he’d been expecting this all along and brushed the crumbs from his suit. “How much more do they want?”

“Double,” said Mr. Finger.

“Double,” the fat dude echoed and offered a brief shrug. “Then pay them double. I want a little terror on these streets and the Bangers are the ones to do it.”

“Yes Mr. Simpson, sir,” said the two men in unison.

His name was Simpson. Mr. Simpson gave a curt nod, and in a move that contrasted sharply with his bulk, he swiveled gracefully on the ball of one foot and entered the van. It drove off in a whirl of dust and the two men melted into the shadows.

After waiting a few seconds just to be on the safe side, Paul cautiously edged out from the alley. A group of late night party people walked by in an unconcerned manner, laughing and talking, and he wondered what to do next.

Turning to his left, he stopped short when he found Angela lounging against the wall, arms folded across her chest, and the grocery bags dangling from one finger. She’d landed without a sound, but he was pretty sure she’d been listening in the whole time. “Did you get what those guys said?” he asked.

“Yeah, I was up on the roof. My hearing’s pretty decent. Who’s this Simpson guy?”

“I don’t know.”

Angela took his hand in hers and pulled him into the shadows of the alleyway. A growl from one of the denizens greeted them. It was a dog, mangy and skinny. Its hackles rose and it bared its fangs. “What’s going on?” Paul whispered, wondering if the dog would attack.

“I told you, dogs don’t like me,” she said.

Her fangs came out and she hissed at the animal. It immediately backed away, whimpering then took off with its tail between its legs. “I guess you’re not going to be a veterinarian,” he commented.

Angela chuckled and after retracting her fangs, offered a wintry smile. “I’ll have to find another line of work. C’mon, patrol’s over.”

After scanning the area, she put her arm around his waist after watching him pick up the bags. “Hang on,” she whispered, and a second later they were aloft. The ride back to the house didn’t take overly long, but Paul’s mind wasn’t on the flight. It was on the two men he’d seen and the guy who was probably their leader, Simpson. And this Simpson guy was connected to the Bangers.

While putting away the groceries, Paul mulled over what he’d observed only a short time ago. He knew that Finger, Hand and the fat man, along with the gang-bangers, weren’t into being good Samaritans. Now he had something to work on. Who said that doing homework was boring?