Returning Blaze

By Fredrick S. dela Cruz

The whole sky is glistening light green and everyone just accepts it.

Including me.

But what’s their excuse? Mine is that five years ago my wife and little boy died in a car accident. Everything changed after that. Since then, I only cared about drinking my days and nights away.

Seven weeks ago, the first of the five murders begin. The victims are all bled dry, and they all have a strange symbol tattooed on their wrists: a circle within a circle.

Soon after, my world is tossed up again. This mysterious guy forces me to play his "epic" game - to play his game of killing. Otherwise, he’ll take the lives of even more people.

I wanna escape, but I have no choice – I can’t just let them die.

What’s my name? Drogan. But I don't know if that's right anymore. Because something is burning a symbol on my wrist – a circle within a circle. The same one that’s on the victims. Strangely, something tells me it’s my new name.

I don’t know how it’s happening. But I gotta do something fast.
Because the body count just keeps rising.
And my girlfriend is next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fredrick S. dela Cruz
• Release date: Nov 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310896217

Fredrick S. dela Cruz

Of Filipino and Norwegian descent, Fredrick S. dela Cruz has lived in Southern California since his childhood. He and his wife have two energetic and playful boxer dogs as part of their family that they adopted through a rescue.He has a remarkable heritage from Norway that took root in America, when his ancestors' family - resilient and faithful - immigrated to the U.S. in 1884. As their ship set sail for the U.S., they had four dollars to their name. When they arrived, they only had three cents left. Nevertheless, they survived, and they prospered.His works include the novels Jaden Fire and Returning Blaze.

Book preview

Through Flesh and Bone

by

Fredrick S. dela Cruz

Copyright 2016 Fredrick S. dela Cruz

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my Lord Jesus

He is my God, my everything

To my wife Joy

She makes me more than I am

And is a blessing more than I deserve

Table of Contents

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 25

Chapter 75

Chapter 100

Chapter 125

The End

About The Author

Chapter 1

PRESENT DAY

The sky shimmers beautifully light green, completely enveloping the earth in an unnatural hue.

At the very top of the north suspension tower of the Golden Gate Bridge, upon the center of the highest crossbeam, a stolid dark figure stands facing the ocean.

The autumn the wind whips cold over his black thick hooded coat, and the setting sun paints his husky silhouette.

Gazing overhead, he sees a silver metallic destroyer. Calmly he waits as it burrows down through the upper atmosphere and burns the icy sky with furious speed and energy.

With his face under a curtain of shadow, the man slowly focuses his eyes back over the ocean. He ponders whether he should continue the designs he long ago set in motion. He constructed his epic game of far-reaching scale, in which the powerful pieces believe they control him. However, the control is a façade, because he alone manipulates and directs them all.

Now caught in a crossroads, he quietly and solemnly says, With what I’ve set forth, there’ll be much pain and turmoil, sorrow and destruction. The one who long ago stood with me will remember me and know me as treacherous. If there’s some other way, please let me know.

Attempting to hear a response from something there but unseen, he waits.

With a long moment passing without an answer, he begins to question the honesty of his motives. Is my heart pure, or is it once again deceitful? I can no longer say. I’ve been what I am for far too long and for time unknown.

Again, he waits.

Closing his eyes, he makes his quiet and earnest request, Please help me, since my mind may no longer know what is right and just, because it is my heart that leads, and it lives for the moment.

However, the wind carries no answer but silence.

Painfully, he realizes that there will be no return to his plea.

Then almost dreading and unwilling to say his next words, but desiring to feel the suspense and exhilaration of their consequences, the man concludes in the whisper of his thoughts, Then, this I must do.

With a slow and measured turn of his head, he gazes over his shoulder. His eyes follow a line of sight directly into a hotel in the distance, to a room on its seventh floor.

Inside the room is another man, a man whom the dark figure expected to appear, a man whose actions the dark figure carefully maneuvers and strategically orchestrates.

Through the room’s two large windows, the back of this man back is seen. Drogan’s fists are firmly clenched. Near him, he sees Paige lying unconscious on the floor.

Strands of Paige’s short blonde hair fall across her face, and Drogan sees a small gash on the side of her forehead. His blood begins to surge hot with anger. Protecting her, he steps in between her and the only other person in the room.

Solidly positioning himself, Drogan feels the heart of his slim body pump with rage. Even though Sik’s young, muscular body is ready to pounce and crush him, Drogan affirms with a growl, I’m gonna kick your sorry little ass.

Eye to eye, the two men stand.

With fiery resolve, Drogan says to himself, I’m not gonna let him hurt Paige like he did the other women. I stop him here. I stop him now. He continues in his anger and confidence, proclaiming to Sik, "No tricks from me, big boy. This is mano a mano."

Below his cropped dusty-blond hair, Sik’s eyes glare with a cold burn from his strongly structured face. Self-assured and ready to take him on, he thinks, I hurt him bad before. I can hurt him again. Sik taunts, Tricks or no tricks, I’ll still throw you out that window.

Just as Sik finishes his statement, Drogan launches the force of his whole body through the air and pounds his shoulder into Sik’s gut.

Sik is emphatically flung against the wall. The mirror hanging from it rattles from its rest, and the sun it reflects dances a jittery green-hued trail upon the furniture and sides of the room.

The two men glance off the wall and drop to the floor, with Sik landing on his own back.

The rumbling and shaking stirs Paige back to consciousness. As her weakened arms move, they reveal a circular-like tattoo on the inside of each wrist. Slowly regaining her senses, she tries to figure out what’s happening. Realizing she was drugged, she struggles to remember her last moments before passing out. He grabbed me, she thinks, referring to Sik. He grabbed me from behind just when I came in the room. In her daze, she blinks and sees the two men striking each other. Within moments, her mind begins to feel the pain from the cut on her forehead. Groggy, she closes her blue eyes and sees darkness once again.

Paige can hear the men grapple and tussle with each other. Seconds later, she hears a crunch and a snap, as one man delivers a devastating blow to the other.

Sik stands, triumphant and confident. His heavy fist dealt a serious strike. His tense arms flare out, and his angered eyes stare at his dazed opponent on the floor. With a small bead of sweat dripping down from the side of his forehead, he thinks with contempt, If this is all he’s got, then he’s more pathetic than I thought he was.

Finally, there’s movement from Drogan’s fallen body. His heart begins a stronger beat, and his lungs start to gulp in air. With his hair covering his face, he slowly lifts his head from the floor. Determined not to succumb, he declares to himself, I’m putting a lot of lives on the line by being here. So, there’s no way this punk is gonna beat me! As his will ignites his heart, his lungs drive courage and fury once again throughout his body. With the face of a fiery warrior, he grits his teeth, resolved to fight to the death to defeat his foe. Growling, he lunges into the air with outstretched arms, ready to grapple with his enemy once more.

Preparing for the impact, Sik clenches his teeth, positions a leg forward, and spreads out his arms. Confidently, he leans his solid body into the oncoming human projectile, ready to catch it.

The two men collide, pounding chest to chest.

Sik momentarily sways backward, but immediately regains his balance, and leans forward again. His arms lift his opponent up by the waist and squeeze him in tighter against his chest.

Drogan feels his feet rise up high.

In one fluid and powerful motion, Sik arches his back, and then whips his body forward. The momentum sends the two bodies for a split second into the air on their way to the floor.

With Sik’s full weight diving down on him, Drogan hears the sound of his crunching bones as his back crashes on the floor. His head whips down, jarring his brain on impact.

Paige hears a tremendous thud.

The floors below feel the thunderous shock wave as it shakes and rattles wall-mounted fixtures and loose objects in its wake. Below on the fifth floor, those searching for Sik are jolted and immediately take notice.

Remembering more, Paige says to herself in almost disconnected thoughts, After he grabbed me, we fought. I hurt him. But then, he put something over my nose and mouth … something with chemicals, making me pass out.

As soon as the shock wave passes, the rattling stops. Then there’s silence.

Slowly, Sik raises himself and stands back to glare at his fallen enemy. The triumphant sound of his rapidly expanding and collapsing lungs begins to fill the air. In disdain, he snarls at Drogan, If I had my way, you’d be dead already.

Stirred and perplexed voices begin to come through the ceiling from down the floors and from the hallway. Frenzied movement follows.

People from the fifth floor begin to converge on the source of the tremendous thud.

Groaning himself back to consciousness, Drogan slowly lifts a hand to feel the back of his head. He moans. He moans again as he raises his head from the floor, and gingerly leans his body to prop himself up.

Sik takes a step toward Paige, ready to take her away.

Close to defeat, Drogan stretches out his left hand. It reveals a symbol on the inside of his wrist, having a form like a circle within a circle, and similar to those on Paige. Meekly, he calls out, Ok … ok … you win. He pauses briefly. With anguish in his spirit and great reluctance in his voice, he states, I suck … ok. Hold on … wait.

Paige opens her eyes. Her vision is blurred, but she recognizes the familiar face of the longhaired goateed man on the floor. I know him. I know him. Drogan. I think he’s trying to help me … trying to save me. She’s relieved that he’s there, but the chemicals in her body prevent her from showing any reaction.

The movement outside the room takes Drogan’s attention. With his head partly tilted toward the door, he focuses on the sounds and thinks, It’s gotta be them heading here. They’re looking for Sik, but I can’t let them find me here.

One team of people comes up the elevator, and another rushes up the stairs. Others are already on the seventh floor, beginning their door-to-door search.

From within the elevator, FBI Special Agent Katrina Etelson glances up to see the count of approaching floors. In earnest, she radios her partner running up the stairs along with a handful of men from the SWAT team, Rye, men, let’s do this smart. We don’t want a victim five. Let’s not have this guy somehow disappear on us again.

In between his rhythmic deep breaths, Special Agent Riley Stevens relays the message to the men bounding with him up the concrete flights of stairs, You heard that, boys!

Within the seventh-floor room, Sik burns his eyes into Drogan’s face.

Drogan turns his attention completely on Sik. After taking one last deep breath, he stretches out his left arm, extending the fingers of his hand. With his voice turning calm and stern, he warns Sik, Ok … so, now I gotta cheat.

At that moment, Paige opens her eyes, but her vision is still blurred. She sees Sik’s prominent figure standing a few steps at her side, and at the other side is Drogan on the ground. As she tries to focus her weary eyes back on Sik, Paige witnesses Sik’s body shudder in its stance, and shudder again.

Slowly, Sik pulls his hands up to his eyes. His face turns from its steely, unshaken look to a look of surprise and utter horror. His mouth opens agape, his eyes widen, and his face screams in silence.

In dull consciousness, Paige isn’t quite sure what she’s seeing, but what’s certain is Sik’s horror. With her vision focusing in and out, the images of Sik’s hands seem to distort and change shape. Suddenly, Sik appears to quickly sink down to the floor without bending his knees.

Drogan seizes the opportunity. He leaps up from the floor, quickly lunges at Sik, and knocks him down on his back to straddle over his chest.

Still in shock and terror, Sik can’t react.

Drogan raises his fist into the air, and fiercely pounds it down on Sik's jaw. He growls, "That’s for hurting the nice young lady!"

His other fist cocks back, then lands on the other side of Sik’s jaw. With another growl, he exclaims, "That’s for making me chase you all over the country!"

Sik’s brain convulses in his skull, and his eyes roll up as he begins to lose consciousness.

Drogan rocks back his left fist, and swings it with all his weight to pound down his last blow. With the crack of a solid fist-to-jaw connection, he growls one last time, "And that’s for making me admit I suck!"

Sik is completely knocked out.

For a long while, nothing moves.

Drogan starts to breathe in deep gulps of air in order to release his anger and tension. After a moment, he staggers to his feet, and with his back hunched forward and head bent down, he glares at his foe. Remembering Paige, he turns and rushes towards her. Reaching her, he bends to his knees, slowly cradles her head in his hands, and rests it over his lap. Paige, he says and watches for a response from her thinly shaped lips.

Paige begins to feel the ache in her forehead, as blood pulses out of the gash once again. Drowsy, she struggles to speak and asks in sighing breaths, How did you know? How did you find me? Abruptly, she closes her eyes and loses consciousness once again.

Drogan hears excitement in the hallway outside the room. There are sounds of loud knocking, doors opening, then people hurriedly speaking. Doors quickly close shut. Almost accepting the inevitable, he says, They’re about to reach the other side of the door.

Outside, Agent Etelson rushes to the door of Paige’s room. Allowing the SWAT team to position tightly in front, she stands at an angle from the door and thinks in apprehension, He better be in here. He’s gotta be in here.

Agent Stevens readies himself behind them.

With the master key in hand, Agent Etelson raises it just before inserting it into the door’s card reader. She sees the men shift and ready their weapons against their shoulders, as thin red laser beams trace jittery random shapes upon the white solid door.

For a brief moment, the only sound Drogan hears is Paige’s soft and slow breathing.

Etelson cautiously slides the key down.

The LED light of the reader flashes green.

Immediately, the door flings open and crashes onto the adjacent wall, revealing Drogan holding Paige in his arms. His hair blusters back to unveil his face.

The SWAT team floods in, but before they can shout a command, an ear-shattering sound, like a fast low-flying jet, slices through the air.

Drogan raises his head to look at the mirror from across the room that reflects the world outside. Terror grips his heart.

A metallic flash blazes from ocean to land, cutting over the center of the Golden Gate Bridge. There’s a dark figure in the distance at the very top of the north suspension tower of the bridge, but it’s too far away for Drogan to notice. For an instant, the figure is there but then immediately, it mysteriously vanishes, escaping what’s soon to occur.

In horror, Drogan whispers, … no, no, but his words have little time to complete.

The missile’s exposed warhead bores a precise tunnel through the air with a deafening sound. An instant later, the nuclear warhead ignites just above the earth, allowing maximum destructive effect.

The explosion's intense energy splits billions of atoms at ground zero, triggering a chain reaction that cascades into an uncontrollable atomic destruction.

With a blinding flash of light, a tremendous fireball bursts and begins to consume the entire city, vaporizing the buildings in its wake.

In an instant, the hotel room, those within it, and those outside vanish, as a blazing, fiery wall of plasma engulfs them. The blast-wave expands to tear through all of the San Francisco Bay Area and leaves it in utter devastation.

Away from its epicenter, what the powerful explosion doesn’t disintegrate, it crumbles, melts, and disfigures beyond recognition.

Chapter 2

SEVEN WEEKS AGO

In no way did Drogan know that there were forces beginning to direct his life, and that his world would soon be abruptly changed and drastically shaken. He had trapped himself in a world of solitude, surrounded by a self-made cage of indifference that kept him in and pushed others away.

The cascade started years ago, and this night marked the fifth year since the beginning, the fifth anniversary of the passing of his wife and son.

It was a painful night he spent in drunken solitude.

While the hours passed uncounted, the gusting winds made the rain incessantly lash at the one and only window of his apartment, and the sounds of thunder rattled its glass.

No lights were on. Only the distant flash of lightning and the faint sprinkles of colors that emanated from the pixels of his tiny television screen gave light to the living room of his less-than-modest apartment.

In between the two cushions of a couch, his figure sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his head cupped in his hands. In front of him, sitting on top of a small, dark, wooden coffee table were two empty bottles of cheap wine, both fallen over on their sides. There was no glass, because he had drunk straight from them.

As his nearly shoulder-length hair draped down to shroud the rest of his face, his mind played over and over the memory of an accident that occurred on a drive over a narrow mountain road, taking the lives of his wife and little boy. The tragic end had incessantly haunted him throughout the past five years.

With no comfort for the pain of that memory, he began to silently weep. What added to the ache was that he couldn’t remember how it happened, as if the memory of it had been wiped from his mind. He could only remember the devastating end.

The night of the funeral was the birth of his nightly drinking, and since then, he had never slept sober.

Remembering his life from that time on, he saw himself trying to cope after the accident and struggling to decide whether to sell his family’s three-bedroom home in San Diego. He didn’t want to leave the memories in that house, but it was the memories that started to give him sorrow and pain, instead of the natural feelings of fondness and longing. Exasperated, he sold the house and rented this apartment in the city’s North County.

Afterwards, he believed he could go on and start anew, but his heart didn’t allow it; it held on passionately to the past. At work, he saw that he could no longer focus, and as one day melted into the next, the consoling words from friends started to lose their meaning. Eventually, as he continued to struggle, kind words of support became platitudes and irritations to him that raised his anger. He began to find it difficult to keep from lashing out at people who truly cared. At that time, he had said in frustration, They just need to stop! Even if they’re concerned, I don’t want to hear it anymore! I can’t handle this anymore.

Then no longer wanting to contend with the world, he decided to retreat from it and keep himself in seclusion. He remembered and relived the day when he finally walked into his apartment, somberly and in resignation closed the door to the outside world, and drank his bottles of alcohol until he could escape in dreamless sleep.

After a month of never returning to work and never answering the calls from concerned co-workers, he was fired. He had never held a job since. His wife’s life insurance and the profit from the sale of his house were his only finances. They paid for the tiny apartment and for his minuscule daily needs. He didn’t know how long the money would last and never wanted to know, but he had a feeling it would soon run out.

At the beginning of his withdrawal from the world, he used to say, This is an extended vacation. I can refocus. But he knew it was pathetic, because he could never refocus, and he didn’t wish to change. This path in his life required no planning, no thought, no effort, and more importantly no risk.

For the past five years, he had spent every night in drunken slumber, and either the sofa or the living room floor had functioned as his bed. He would wake up the next day, mid-day, disappointed that his eyes opened yet one more time.

The anniversaries of the passing of his wife and son were the most difficult to live through. Later, however, as the days went on, most of the pain would eventually subside, but the drinking remained.

While the rain continued to drench the night, grief, alcohol, and sleep soon overcame him. His body slowly slumped over and fell, glancing off the couch. On the floor he lay, curled up and motionless.

The next day, he woke at mid-day.

The rain had stopped.

On the floor, he stared at nothing in particular underneath the couch, just rarely blinking. After about fifteen minutes, he finally said, Still alive? Then, he raised his hands up to grasp the couch and drew himself up to his feet, limb by limb.

With movements all mechanical and nothing at all in his thoughts, he put on some clothes, took his keys, made his way out of the apartment, and walked step by step downstairs to his car.

He started his red ’65 Mustang and gazed up at the warm sun shining through the partly cloudy sky. He thought, Another dark day in paradise. Now, here I go in my pathetic daily routine.

At night, he sat on his couch, turned on the small TV at the other side of the coffee table, and put the volume down. After popping open a can of beer, he used the coffee table to eat over it some leftover food. Mulling over his day, he thought, Eat … beach … grocery store.

He had gone to his usual store, where he had walked his familiar path through the aisles, not wanting to look at anyone, not wanting to connect with anyone, and just picked up a pack of beer.

Then beer … and now this.

As he stared blankly at the images on the screen, he acknowledged to himself with momentary regret, This is me. This is me every day.

Later, he lay down on his couch and started to fall asleep with the TV still on. His favorite picture of his family was facedown on his chest, and it rose and fell with the steady, strong rhythm of his lungs. His thoughts were again remembering his wife, remembering his son, and remembering what they had. Quietly, he said, I wish we could have had so much more. He dearly missed them, and his heart struggled desperately, unwilling to let them go.

Before falling asleep, his last thought came to him in a whisper, It’s been five years and a day.

The next morning, his mood improved significantly, and with some energy pumping through his veins, he decided to shower, shave, and cut his hair.

After grazing his electric shaver over his neck and over his well-defined jawline, he lightly trimmed his black goatee, which could never grow thick. Then, his piercing green eyes looked over his work. With his slim well-structured face reflecting from the mirror, he commented, Finally, I look decent. Well, I look like a bum, but I’m a decent-looking bum.

Standing just under six feet tall, he had a slim build. He used to question why he oddly never gained any more weight and didn’t turn soft, due to all the beer and alcohol he drank. But, he really didn’t eat much food, and eventually, he just decided to attribute it to the genes he inherited.

As he glanced at his hair, he couldn’t remember when he last put scissors to it, and he thought, Hmm. How long has it been since I cut my hair? Months? Or months and many months? It reached down almost to his shoulders, and it was mostly black with some brown and rust colored strands. It had an unkempt look.

Teasing himself, he said, Whoa, look at that mop.

He no longer wanted anyone to cut his hair, much less pay someone to do it. There was a time when he cared enough and tried to cut and shape his hair by himself, but it was just too difficult and too complicated.

With certain things in his life, in order to simplify decisions, he made a point to bottom-line his options. When options were reduced to their bare essentials, it helped him un-complicate the complicated.

Unfortunately, when it came to cutting his hair, he had at first devised an overly complicated means to a simple end. It involved two mirrors, the tilting of his head in many unnatural angles, and the requirement of eye-hand-coordination that he certainly didn’t have. Surprisingly, he had performed his hair-cutting procedure for a complete year.

These days and this morning, he did his bottom-line haircut. With one hand, he bound together his hair in his fist, making a ponytail. With his other hand, he then unceremoniously cut the hair just after his fist.

Examining his image in the mirror and admiring the simplicity of his success, he said, Voilà! A hair perfect cut.

A couple of days later, he sat in the driver seat of his red ’65 Mustang, with the convertible top down. It was 4:40 p.m. in the middle of autumn, and the San Diego sun was bright and warm. The sky shimmered light green with rare thin streaks of blue.

In San Diego's North County, he was in a parking lot, as far away as possible from a long and narrow one-story building, from where slightly audible music played. With other cars coming in and people making their way into the building, something was about to start.

Having felt a bit positive that day, he decided to attempt something once again, something over the years he had not been able to accomplish.

I just need to get out and walk. Get out and walk, he thought, trying to coax himself out of the car. Then, he slowly moved his head down to gaze at a book on his lap, and he asked himself, So, why can’t I do that?

Moments went by while he sought an answer. Finally, he said under his breath, How about a drink first? I’m ready for a drink. As he shook his head, his forefinger began to trace the silver letters on the title of the book.

The earbuds from his phone were loosely in his ears, and from it, he began to listen closely to a song. As a music lover, certain songs could immediately change his mood especially when the lyrics meant something to him, like the one he listened to. Soon, its words and tone began to make him a bit pensive.

As he paused to give himself a little more time, he looked up and breathed in the warm air. After a few moments, the sun’s heat on his face prompted his mind to draw from deep within a memory of when he was four years old.

It was the only memory he had from his early childhood.

It was a memory that allowed him – for just a moment – to escape what he had become, because in it he believed he had done something extraordinary.

During that summer afternoon, the sun had already heated the streets. The air seemed too thin to breathe. His head was hot but his body was cold. As his panicked mother carried him in her arms, she ran hurriedly through the streets, sidewalks, and intersections. With his feet and hands hanging almost lifelessly below him, they wagged and swayed in the rhythm of his mother’s strides. Something was very wrong with him; he was weak, pale, and couldn’t stay awake.

His mother quickly looked down at him. Baby, wake up! she nervously blurted. Wake up! Wake up! Look at me! Look at me!

Attempting to make an effort for his mother, and with as much energy as he could muster, he took control of one arm and slowly lifted it up around his mother's neck. Similarly, he raised his other arm, and then locked his hands together. His head still flopped down from his body, but he was able to keep his eyes open, seeing his mother’s panicked face.

Concerned faces of people flashed by.

Now and then, his mother would abruptly slow her stride in order to ask people an urgent question, but they were unable to help her. Then in her mind, she tried to reconstruct what she believed had happened to her child. Blaming herself, she painfully recalled, We were at the park. He was playing only a few feet away from me, on the grass. I turned away for just a second. Just a second! Then out of nowhere, that bright light quickly covered us. As it went away, I turned to find him, but he was already sprawled out and unconscious. She was stunned and couldn’t figure out what had happened to him or from where that briefly appearing light came.

But there was something else. With her mind going to it, she continued, I don’t know if I should call it strange or incredible or what … but I have to force myself to believe that I actually saw it. Something was there standing with him. Someone was there. At the very instant she had turned to look at her son, she had seen a shadowed being standing in the light, as if it were drawing light to itself, and turning the light into black emptiness. Then as the light quickly disappeared, that shadowy form vanished with it.

Nevertheless, she found some relief in being able to bring her son back to consciousness.

At that moment, a mantis, in its circuitous path in the air, collided with his mother’s shoulder and rested itself there. His mother continued her frantic run, not noticing the insect as it slowly began to inch its way from her shoulder, onto his hand, then stopping on his forearm.

The mantis was covered in a glistening light-green hardened shell, and the ends of its legs were speckled with tiny black dots. Slowly, it turned its head a quarter turn and peered its black-dot eyes into his weak and groggy eyes. With four legs gripping into his skin, its two front legs bent up towards its head, touching each other at their ends, and strangely looking as if it prayed for him.

Feeling the pinch on his forearm, he slowly lifted his head to see what was causing the sting. He saw the mantis. Initially, it didn’t bother him; he had no strength to care. However, a few seconds later, it began to annoy him, and he wanted it gone. Feebly, he raised his head and tried to shoo it away with puffs of air from his mouth.

The insect didn’t move.

Weakened, he dropped his head. But moments later, not willing to give up, he lifted his head and concentrated. He furrowed his brow, wrinkled his forehead, and stared intently at his mother’s face, attempting to draw strength from her. Then, he intently focused on the mantis. With all his might, he wished the insect gone. His head stiffened and quivered, as his neck muscles tensed and tightened with energy. The temperature in his head began to rise.

Strangely, something began to occur.

Before he lost all consciousness, before he saw the last images of his mother’s tearful eyes darting to and fro, and before the intense heat he felt in his head increased to the point at which he could no longer bear, he felt the mantis begin to lift its legs from his forearm and release itself. It had barely disengaged its pinch when he thought he saw its form change into very fine, green, swirling dust and black, misty air.

He was losing consciousness, and his mind may have been imagining it. But he saw green and black dust swirl away across his weakened eyes as the mantis, piece by piece, disappeared.

Suddenly, his head dropped, and his arms lost their grip from his mother. He faded away.

Looking down, his mother lifted his head to see his face. Nervously and desperately she cried, Baby, baby! Drogan?!

As Drogan lifted his head and opened his eyes to look through the car’s windshield, the memory quickly vanished. Breathing in deeply and slowly, he thought about it for quite a while.

He wasn’t sure why that particular memory stayed with him all these years. Maybe because even though the event was seen through the eyes of a weak and almost lifeless child, in the back of his mind, he had some belief that he had made the unimaginable happen: he had made the mantis disappear.

Now and again, just as he did this day, he used the memory as an escape, an escape from a five-year prison of his own making. It allowed him to believe that there was a time in his life when he was more than what a human being could be and more than what he had made himself to be.

Is it possible that I’m something else? he asked himself in the solitude of his thoughts. Could I be someone else – not what I am today? Can this memory give me just a bit of hope to change what I am?

But then, afterwards, he always retreated back into the walls of his mental cell, and he discarded the only possible hope he could hold on to. As he did, he grasped the book from his lap. It was a Bible. Gently, he set it on the passenger’s seat. Leaning back, he started the engine of the Mustang. A moment later, he began to make his way out of the church parking lot.

He had failed once again. There was no way he would go in sober.

As he steered away, he sighed in resignation, I need a drink.

Chapter 3

Later that night, the sun had just set behind a grocery store in the small town of Jerusalem, Indiana. Since then, a young man in his early twenties, with strong chiseled facial features, stood behind a tree across the street.

Reaching up, he rubbed the cropped hair on his head, which if he had grown out longer, it would have shown its dusty-blond color. With his tight gray t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans, it revealed his muscular almost six-feet tall frame.

His name was Sik.

This is where I need to be, he said quietly to himself. This is where they told me to be. And I already saw her get in. Now, I just need to wait until she gets out.

The particular young woman he waited for had earlier driven up alone in a sedan and parked immediately at a space closer toward the street. The sparsely staggered street lampposts shined minimal light that strained to reach her blue vehicle.

After parking, the woman exited her car. As she closed the door and clicked the remote to lock it, the earbud in one ear slid out of place and flopped down, becoming suspended in the air by the one inside the opposite ear. After pushing her keys into the small clutch in her hand, she lifted the earbud and put it back in place. Then she strode forward, slightly nodding her head to the beat of a song.

Sik patiently waited in darkness. She’ll be coming out soon, he thought, as he tried to keep himself calm. I just need to relax and wait. Everything’s already prepared.

Moments later, the woman appeared across the distance, exiting the store with a plastic bag of groceries hanging from one hand and her clutch in the other.

Pushing away from the tree, Sik said, coaxing himself, Let’s go. I need to do this. He began to stride across the street, measuring and timing their encounter.

Casually, he hopped up onto the concrete sidewalk. A few strides later, he reached the parking lot. The sound of his black boots grinding scattered dirt and dust into the warm asphalt surface reached his ears.

With a pleasant smile upon his face, he walked closer to the young woman's sedan. As he reached its trunk, he extended his hand and brushed his fingertips over its dusty, cool blue metal. Lifting his fingers from the steel, he then slid his hand into his pocket to reach for an object.

The woman, now three steps away, and with music still playing in her ears, glanced away from her idle stare and directed her eyes to the young man approaching. Noticing his well-built frame, handsome face, and friendly smile, she returned to him her own neighborly smile.

Good evenin', he greeted pleasantly.

Even though his words were unintelligible to her busied ears, she nodded her response. When she reached her car door, she stood for a moment to retrieve the keys from her clutch.

The sound of the black boots pacing over the dust of the asphalt stopped.

She opened the door, and leaned forward over the driver's side to place the grocery bag on the passenger's seat.

The music streaming into the woman's ears overcame the sound of the swiftly approaching black boots. In an instant, a muscular body collided into her, shoving her into the sedan.

Her hand instinctively dropped her clutch and grasped the steering wheel, preventing her face from smashing onto the car's center island. She felt a strong arm wrap around her and pull her in tightly. A cupped hand came from behind her head and secured over her mouth and nose a dampened folded piece of cloth.

She gasped in terror.

Immediately, she smelled the chemicals from the cloth, as its compounds rushed through her nostrils and into her lungs.

The earbud fell from the woman's ear and landed on Sik's forearm. From it, he could hear the pinging of a song’s rhythmic beat.

With all her strength, she kicked her legs and wriggled her body. Her panicked hands pounded into the car's ceiling. Her feet struck the brake pedal in rapid succession. Outside, the sedan's red taillights strobed her frantic yet silent plea for help in the cool dimly lit darkness.

Sik pulled her in more vigorously. Placing his lips next to her ear, he whispered, I’m sorry.

She gasped and heaved for air, while her heart pounded. The chemicals from the cloth freely flowed into her lungs, and quickly spread throughout her body. Within moments, her senses dulled. Feebly, she struggled one last time.

Again, his arms squeezed her in tightly.

I’m sorry, he repeated in a regretful whisper.

Later, Sik drove the blue sedan of his female captive.

His journey began in Indiana, and from there, he drove down south on the 75 Interstate. Then he traveled west on the 40 Highway toward South Carolina. The moon had long passed its apex by the time he approached his destination. Even though he had been behind the wheel for many hours, he was alert and steadfastly focused on what he was soon to do.

He reasoned, Since this is only the first, I better get used to it and not get nervous. Just focus.

The woman was alive but unconscious in the trunk of the car.

The next exit on the interstate ran through Israel, South Carolina. He took it. After a few quick turns, he reached the Stedham Motel. It was a small one-floor motel oriented parallel to the road. A single lamppost stood at the center of the parking lot in front of the lobby. Old tall thick trees overshadowed the perimeter of the motel.

Sik drove to one end of the motel and parked in front of the very last room. The light was dimmest at that end, and he took a few moments to peer through his windows and windshield to see if anyone was around. Satisfied, he opened the door of the car and walked with a moderate pace to the door of the room.

He tested the doorknob. Good. Unlocked. Just like we planned, he said to himself, in a whisper. He opened it, walked inside, and kept the lights of the room off. After a few seconds his eyes grew accustomed to the sparse light, and he investigated the area. Typical motel room, he thought, A bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a TV, and a bathroom. Nothing else and no one else was inside.

Next, he stepped out of the room, walked to the trunk of the car, and unlocked and opened it. For a long moment, he stared at the woman lying inside, thinking whether he should turn and bring her back or continue to take himself further into the shadows.

Resolved, he raised his head and thought, Just do this smooth and quiet, and don’t even think about stumbling. After looking around once more, he leaned down, drew her out, and said to himself, Time to start pumping that ice-cold blood you have. Quickly, he carried her in his arms, into the room.

He laid her down on the floor at the foot of the bed, closed the door, and turned on the lamp. Afterwards, he knelt down and straightened her legs and arms.

With his ice-cold blood now pumping, he was patient, deliberate, and quiet.

The cuffs of each of her shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up. As he turned her palms up, he saw the circular markings that he had tattooed on the inside of both her wrists.

Standing up and folding his arms across his chest, he lowered his head and stared at her once more.

The air in the room was still and dry. As he stood motionless for a long time, he heard no sound except the slow pace of his breathing lungs and the moderate beat of his pumping heart.

Even though his mind and body were calm, it was his soul that struggled with what he was about to do that night.

In his heart, he knew that what he was doing was wrong and against the steadfast upbringing and teaching of his parents. But there was something in his stirred emotions that permitted him to act this way: it was vengeance cloaked as a desire for justice. Moreover, there was something in the darkness that urged him to accomplish this and others, telling him to continue, and promising to give him what he ultimately desired. It vowed to him that in return for these deeds, the day would come when the justice he sought would be conclusively dispensed.

Chapter 4

A few days later, Drogan stepped out of his apartment, then closed and locked the door.

Hearing a crow cawing a close distance behind him, he turned around. He saw the crow in the air, dodging left and right, chased by a tiny brown bird one-fifth its own size. With the tiny bird pecking at it, the crow tried to flee, swerving here and there, trying to determine the position of the little bird, and then clumsily flying the opposite direction.

Following the chase for a few moments, he quietly commented to himself, Crows get a bad rap.

Finally, the tiny brown bird halted its pursuit and turned away.

His eyes followed the frightened crow wobbling in the air, until it became a small dot in the sky. Pointing his eyes down the stairs, he thought, Well … they do eat road kill.

As he trotted down the concrete stairs, he couldn't stop commenting, But other birds eat live bugs and worms. Is that any better?

His Mustang was parked with its top up just in front of his apartment, in a numbered stall. He entered it, started the engine, connected his phone to the stereo, and began to make his way out of the apartment complex.

The '65 Mustang was his baby. After buying the car many years ago, the first thing he did was to repaint it candy-apple red. He kept the white-walled tires, but being a music lover and not a vintage car collector, he replaced the old original AM/FM radio with a multi-format music combo and the best speakers he could find.

After getting into his Mustang, he inched the car backward and turned his head to search behind him.

Suddenly, a car zoomed by with a high rev of its engine. The bright sun reflected from the car’s windows and momentarily blinded him. Immediately, he stepped on his brake pedal. Irritated, he turned his head to follow the vehicle. He could hear the loud music resounding from it, as it trailed further away.

The driver was a high school boy named Allen. He was short for his age and his red hair was unmistakable. He was the erratic, high-octane teenager of the apartment complex. The car he was driving was a new sports car. Inside, Allen was bobbing his head up and down, singing, and waving his hands in the air

Drogan wasn’t sure if the car was his parents’ or if Allen got it as a special arrangement from his school.

He kept himself from mumbling his usual complaint, and thought, If the school gave it to him, it’s probably somethin’ about him being a race car driver or whatever when he gets out. Hell, the stuff they give for free these days …

Neighbors frequently saw Allen speed through the apartment complex and out into the street, always sporting a wild smile on his face. Nevertheless, Allen could be any kid’s friend. Drogan saw that he was generous with his money, buying the younger kids in the neighborhood candy and little toys.

The Mustang inched once again in reverse, and Drogan made his way out.

Listening to his music, he drove a few miles east from his apartment on the 56 Freeway to have lunch at a restaurant called Trace, named after its owner Tracy. The sit-down restaurant was one among a chain in San Diego, with a bar and a microbrewery. Since he visited Trace almost every week, the employees recognized his face.

He walked in, like he walked into any place, not caring where he was, not caring who was there, and just there to eat and drink.

Standing behind a podium with a stack of menus, Paige watched him come in and thought, Ah, here he comes, one of our faithful patrons. Silent … but faithful. When he reached her, she greeted him with an honest and pleasant smile. She was his waitress at times, and this day was one of them. She stood a few inches shorter than he, and her long blonde hair was tied in a thick braid that hung down below her shoulders. With a natural friendliness that was unmistakably genuine and uncontrived, she greeted him with it and asked, Hi, how are ya? Got a preference for where you wanna to sit today?

For a moment, he realized he had never taken the time to notice the color of her eyes, and today was no different. He turned to gaze not at her eyes, but at the direction of the booths in front of large windows that opened to the street outside. How about one of those booths? he asked, tilting his head at that direction.

As he began to walk there, she followed. Then he thought, What’s her name? I saw it on the tab once. Paige … I think. With a slight turn of his head, he glanced back at her and added, I doubt people here even know my name. It’s been years since I’ve really talked to anyone. I don’t think anyone knows it. As he reached the booth, he said quietly, under his breath, I might as well not have one.

Once he sat, Paige handed him a menu and said, You’ve probably seen this hundreds of times already, but here it is, if you need it. After pausing, she added, So, care for a drink before you order?

Even though he kept his words brief, he tried to be polite and give half-smiles from the corners of his mouth whenever asking for something or saying a word to people. How about a Mule and a glass of water, please? he answered softly, in his usual manner. The Mule was short for the name of a beer Trace brewed: the Stubborn Mule. It was a dark stout beer, and it gave him a decent kick in the head after the first glass.

Paige smiled then made her way to the bar, where she asked the bartender to pour his drink.

Glancing up, he briefly set his eyes on one of the televisions above. With a lull in sporting events, the channel was on the news, and the news anchor read a prompt from the day’s latest, ... coming up, a high-speed chase results in tragedy. But first, the successful long-standing Middle East and Caliphate Peace Agreement leads the President to fast track remaining troop withdrawals across the globe.

The words merely droned in his ears. Then slowly, he turned and stared out the window.

Later, after quickly finishing his meal and drinking one and a half Mules, he soon left Trace with a good buzz. Not having anywhere else to go, he hopped into his car and drove it with the top down towards the Pacific Ocean, reaching Powerhouse Park beach.

Once there, he parked his car on the side of the street. Keeping the stereo on with the volume turned down, he asked himself as he searched for a song, How about listening to some older stuff? He enjoyed the music of his generation, but he preferred old-school music. It was mainly because when growing up, instead of hanging around kids his own age, he liked to be around adults; and so, he acquired their taste. As a song he liked started to play, its thoughtful melancholy tone and lyrics began to set his mood.

Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes. Soon his mind took him to a time when he was in his early teens, to where sometimes his idle mind seemed to want to take him in order to subconsciously point out a message he needed to hear.

On that Sunday morning, he rambled curiously into the high school gymnasium, after finishing a game of touch football on the school’s football field. Inside the gym, there were maybe a hundred chairs arranged in rows, and a podium stood in front. He found himself sitting alone in the back corner seat of the last row.

It was a makeshift church. The small group had scheduled its services inside the high school gym every Sunday. The pastor was a young man, maybe in his early thirties, standing at the side of the podium, with his hand leaning on top of it. He seemed genuine and spoke as if he were in front of friends, just sitting in his home living room. For some reason, he was talking about the new professional football season’s talented rookies, incorporating it somehow into his message: the very message to which Drogan’s mind seemed to keep drawing him.

Remembering the pastor’s words, a sentence echoed clearly in his memory, Just by living our average daily lives, we easily slide into the role the world makes for us …

It was a foreign idea to him, and he thought, The world doesn’t make roles for people. I decide what to do every day, and I make the world what I want it to be – or at least try to make it what I want it to be. And what I do in my daily life is my decision only. Disagreeing with the young preacher, he thought, Ridiculous.

After the silence of a brief pause, the pastor finished his sentence, … not the role God has purposed us to have.

Shaking his head, he quickly brushed aside the memory. It distracted him from what he really wanted to remember, and he asked, Who was the Chargers' quarterback back then? He mulled it over, but couldn’t figure it out. The football season was about to begin. He loved the sport, and even though San Diego’s football team, the Chargers, was a perennially struggling team, he believed this year, like every year, This year is gonna be different. You’ll see. He was excited and ready for the gridiron games to begin.

After staring out over the ocean for a long while, the sea breeze carried the high-pitched laughter of a small child from some distance. Shifting his attention, he quickly thought about his own son and the laugh the small boy used to blurt in enjoyment.

Reaching into his jeans’ pocket, he drew out a quarter that he used to use to perform a simple, common magic trick for his son. As he stared at the coin, his fingers flipped it from one side over to the other, and he remembered how his little son thoroughly enjoyed the trick and never became tired of it.

The magic trick was the closest he could get to make something disappear, allowing him to seem more than human; and for his son, it made him more than other fathers.

Escaping for a moment, he closed his eyes, imagined his son’s face in front of him, and began to perform the magic trick. With his left hand he motioned the quarter, as if it were in front of his son’s smiling eyes. Look, he whispered. See the quarter? He waved the coin slowly to the right then to the left. Now watch. With his eyes still closed, he moved the coin as though moving it behind his son’s ear. Then when he drew his hand back in front of his son’s eyes, the quarter was no longer in his hand. Revealing his empty palm to his son, he said, It disappeared!

His son giggled and laughed, Where is it? Where is it?

He motioned his hand behind his son’s ear once again, and pulled it forward. Here it is! It was behind your ear! His son cheered with glee, and hearing the boy’s laughter gave him peace and contentment. He paused. He smiled. The world stopped for a few moments. With eyes still closed, they began to moisten with emotion, and he waited for them to dry.

Then he heard, Do it again!

Again he motioned, brought the coin behind his son’s ear, and moved his hand forward. He whispered, It disappeared!

Strangely, his closed eyes sensed a flash of light. Then his fingers no longer felt the quarter; instead, there was a sensation of warmth. Quickly, he opened his eyes to peer at his hand.

The quarter was gone.

He searched for the coin to see if it dropped on his lap. Then he looked down at his seat and at his feet.

Nothing there.

Where in the world did that drop to? Leaning his head over the edge of his car door, he peered onto the street below. Again, nothing.

What the …? he whispered.

Perplexed, he leaned back on his seat and said word-per-word, Son. Of. A. Beach.

Unwittingly, he had made the quarter vanish, and consequently, the memory of what he had done when he was a very sick child who had made the mantis disappear, was indeed true. Yet unknown to him, he had begun to undergo a change, and his life was about to be defined in terms unimaginable. Yet unknown to him, he was more than human.

He was puzzled, but a few moments later, he began not to care.

Suddenly, a breeze picked up and pelted tiny sand on his face. Casually and slowly, he brushed the sand from himself and blinked them away from his eyelashes. Looking up, he took a couple slow deep breaths, and realized it was time to go.

After starting the engine, he looked over his shoulder, patiently moved into the street, and drove away. He hadn’t noticed, but at his right, a little boy and his father stood close by on the sidewalk, hand in hand, waiting for him to move past them in order to cross the street. The son could barely reach his father’s hand. As the Mustang glided past them, the little boy noticed a bright-green insect trying to position itself on one end of the Mustang’s smooth chrome rear bumper.

The boy quickly pointed at the green mantis and jerked his head up. With a surprised smile, he told his father about the curious looking bug he had just seen.

Chapter 5

Just before five o'clock p.m., the door at the front entrance of the Lexington County Coroner’s Office, in South Carolina, opened.

Cold air inside rushed out to the open air.

As the door slowly closed, the steady clicking of a woman’s black high-heeled shoes could be heard echoing against the marble floor and the office walls. The sound caught the attention of the coroner’s assistant, who was in a room away from sight. The assistant, a young male in his mid-twenties stood up from his chair and walked to the front desk. When he gazed upon the woman approaching him, he smiled a very friendly smile. Good evening, ma’am, he warmly welcomed her.

She too looked like she was in her twenties. She had long, softly waving, dark hair, and she wore a long snug black skirt that reached her knees. With a hand, she pulled straight her black jacket that fit her closely over the white-laced blouse she wore. She was outright beautiful. In a sweet southern accent, she spoke to him, Good evening, sir, I’m a reporter from the County Daily Chronicle. And I was wondering if I could speak to the coroner about that poor woman found this week in the Stedham Motel.

Well, ma’am, the coroner’s already gone for the day, he answered smiling. In fact, he just finished filing a report on that lady.

Oh, my, she said in a disappointed tone. And I had so many questions to ask him. I have an online column due for tomorrow morning, and I was running so late today I swear I must have broken a hundred traffic laws just to get here.

She laughed to make light of her situation, and the young man was more than willing to laugh with her. He said, Maybe I can help answer some of them for you. I’d be more than happy to.

You’d be such a sweetheart if you did. Would you? She started to dig through her purse for a pen and a pad of paper. Soon, she was ready. I’m Crystal, by the way, she said in a belated introduction, with her hand briskly extended.