Caped (Book 1): The Burdens of Fate
Read Caped (Book 1): The Burdens of Fate Online
Authors: Kerron Streater
Tags: #Science Fiction/Superheroes
CAPED
THE BURDENS OF FATE
KERRON
STREATER
Copyright
© 2013 by Kerron Streater
All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in cases of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for
review purposes) please contact the author at [email protected].
Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
This is a work of fiction. All of
the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity
to real persons, living or
dead,
is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
To My Mother
For not merely encouraging my imagination,
but refusing to send me into the world without one.
I love you.
Chapter One
The Burdens
of Fate
–
Friday March 12
th
–
Edward Otep
-
Journal Entry #1
There was blood, lots of it; brown and dried,
thick and jelled, and even wet, thin, blood that ran onto my dirty brown carpet
like miniature waterfalls. So much blood that I could hardly believe it all
came from the same man.
"Take this," he groaned, weeping
tears of sorrow and pain through the dirt and blood smeared onto his face.
"Save them."
He pushed a thin black tablet with a cracked
screen along the carpet towards me and started muttering a barely audible
"Must keep going, must keep going" to himself. And so he did, wincing
in pain as a blue whirling energy surrounded him, growing larger and more
furious until it ended with the same thunderous roar that signaled his arrival.
I doubt it was the fear of death that kept him
alive, still, I admire his ability to persevere past every visible, physical,
and mental sign that his body was ready to retire. And if he felt I was worthy
in such a dire time of need, who am I to say otherwise?
Nobody,
not yet anyway.
But he sure did leave me in an awkward
situation. Just after four o'clock in the morning with bright flashes lighting
up my entire house, thumps loud enough to wake the neighbors, blood all over my
carpet, and my living room looking like a typhoon just passed through. Thanks a
lot.
I sat at the base of the stairs just staring at
it, an alert mind scrambling to find answers, with each possibility yielding an
exponential amount of questions, until it unwillingly grind to halt.
The adrenaline wearing off, half asleep and half awake, soaking in
the reality that this had actually happened.
It took about two hours
before I conceded the fact that I wasn't dreaming, I've never had a dream as
boring as watching blood dry on a dirty carpet in a messy living room. Oh well,
there's always next time.
Plus, the carpet can be replaced, and a messy
room is par for the course in my life, it was only the thin little
blood-covered tablet that ruined the return of any degree of normalcy.
Turning it on was like Eve biting into the
apple, there was no going back.
The screams, the faces, the
video...and the prediction.
I felt just as naked and as exposed as Eve.
It's weird how secrets can do that, almost as if our minds reject the idea of
being alone with such knowledge.
And with the privilege of knowledge comes the
responsibility to act, creating a domino effect of monumentally random
occurrences which have brought me to this unforeseeable moment in life.
Yesterday I met Laurie Stahl for the first
time. I wish I could say it was a mutual agreement or that he'd even known of
my existence, but the truth is far stranger. In actuality I found my way to
him, in New York City,
playing the local Draw Four lotteries state-by-state until I amassed enough
extra money to pay for a nice room in the same fancy hotel as Laurie. Sure, I
could have gone for the big game, one hundred million dollars has a way of my
existence, but the truth is far stranger. In actuality I found my way to him,
in New York City,
playing the local Draw Four lotteries state-by-state until I amassed enough
extra money to pay for a nice room in the same fancy hotel as Laurie. Sure, I
could have gone for the big game, one hundred million dollars has a way of
solving one's problems, unfortunately, not this one. And along with the money
taking too long to land in my pockets, such grandiose behavior would only
hinder my progress by bringing unwanted attention. But I digress.
So there I was, waiting on a cold sunny day at
the lower west corner of Central Park across from Trump International Hotel and
Tower, occupying my time with some light reading and a cigarette while the
morning torrent of tourists, businessmen, and joggers flooded by, routinely
checking my watch and gazing up at the top of the building, pretending to
marvel at it like some annoying tourist, which wasn't too far from the truth
considering I was still trying to wrap my head around what I was about to
witness.
Nobody could guess such an event this building
was about to play host to, even I was half expecting an anti-climactic finale.
The other half was waiting for the guards, and like clockwork they ran out the
front of the building, hastily clearing people from the area and glancing
skyward. I ran across the street never taking my eyes off the roof. Laurie was
in there, struggling to evade the guards, a picture of his dead wife tucked
securely under his arm and pushing his tired old frame harder than he'd pushed
it in years.
They tackled him once, and after a quick
struggle he managed to forcefully knock them down a flight of stairs while he
climbed one after another until hitting a dead-end with a thick black door. He
thrust his mass upon it time and again, while the drum of footsteps grew
closer, until the entire door ripped from its hinges, with him stumbling onto
the gravel coated roof, and towards the edge of the building where we'd finally
spot him; five hundred and eighty two feet above where I stood.
Until that moment I had only predicted numbers.
To finally see him, flesh and blood, peering over the edge, gave a sense of
fulfillment that words fail to describe, and one equally as fleeting.
Laurie Stahl stepped out on faith that day,
faith that his loneliness and suffering would end, and that he'd be reunited
with the greatest love of his life. He stepped into the blue expanse before him
and towards the greenery of Central Park.
Gravity played its role perfectly and without fault; pulling him, smiling and
grinning, at greater and greater speeds. The security guards gave a final loud
warning to clear the immediate area, causing dozens to look skyward, screaming
as Laurie plummeted all sixty plus stories towards the concrete below. Crashing
through the square-gridded steel canopy that hangs over the main entrance and
slamming into the concrete.
To say he made an impact would be an
understatement. A permanent indentation would be a better description; a small
crater or, perhaps, “destruction of public property” to any lawyers reading
this.
I forced my way through the crowd of people
that had gathered to see the aftermath. "Let me through!" I
exclaimed, "He's my uncle!" A fallacy, I might add. Placing my hands
on his shoulders I began to tug as hard as I could, encouraging any form of
movement from him. His faith had failed him, partially, and I knew time was
running out. The ambulance, police, or both, wouldn't be too far away.
I could hear the gasps and wild remarks from
people once they realized that he wasn't dead, and the breathy exhausted
"Shit" from Laurie himself once he concluded the same. He gave a
harsh grunt and inquired as to who "the fuck" I was. I told him I
wasn't the cops but that he could meet them if he wanted. Still facing down he
gave a quick outburst that could pass for either coughs or laughter, but he
understood the urgency; luckily the only thing bruised on him was his ego, and
he was more than capable of running. The crowd was bustling with gasps and
looks of profound wonder, splitting just enough for us to squeeze out. Laurie
moved with a stiff athletic pace that I'm not even sure he was aware of, while
I did my best to not fall behind. I told him my name once we rounded the
building, and reasserted the need to put as much distance between us and the sirens
as possible.
We entered the subway just as the police were
rounding the corner, handing him a metro card I'd bought earlier for this exact
reason. He carried a bewildered look on his face that very much reminded me of
my night on the stairs, however, these aren't situations I'm used to dealing
with, and I found myself just as overwhelmed as him.
The train came almost immediately, while both
our hearts were still racing. I sat down to calm myself, Laurie had a fixed
demanding stare almost barking at me to proceed in answering questions he never
vocalized but which I knew to answers to all the same.
Much like those who meet on the docks at
midnight we spoke of what just happened openly, yet with caution; blending
amidst the countless shifting faces moving on, off, and between the subway
cars. Moving deep into the Bronx where the repetitive bland and haggard designs
of the concrete jungle receded just enough for the original glory of Mother
Nature to settle in, where a slight breeze carries the faint musk of the caged
fauna along with the sweet scents of countless transplanted vegetation trying
to get an early jump on spring.
I felt very much like both a counselor and a
salesman, neither one roles I've ever played comfortably. On the one hand I was
very much dealing with a depressed individual who'd just attempted to end his
own life. If he walked away he may have never spoken to me again, and on the
other I needed to capture his attention. He was heartbroken by his failure but
intrigued by the manner in which he failed. This left me dancing on a thin line
with no room for error, engaged in carefully worded conversations separated by
long moments of awkward silence, taking us from the zoo and back into the
bowels of this mega-city, through its heart, and down to the lowest points of Brooklyn. Eating at Nathan's Famous Frankfurters and
exchanged stories of our childhood as we walked along the rides and attractions
accented with the cheerful screams of youth.
I spoke of the others that I hope for him to
meet in the coming days, all equally as special as him. But the more I spoke
the more I could feel him drifting away. Laurie was a man desperate for an ear,
and if he'd possessed the patience I'm sure he'd have penned an autobiography.
I listened earnestly, offering input where I
could and condolences the same. He is only the first of many I plan to contact,
albeit a rare one I'll introduce myself to in person.
We talked deep into the night, a crescent moon
hanging neatly overhead, yet all the while I had one objective: To prove to
this man, this stranger, that he could and should trust me. And that if he
didn't many people would die.
Dennis Shaeffer
-
Journal Entry
#3,981
They're too ephemeral, dreams are I mean.
They've always been. They come and go, night after night, only to fade from
memory. But this was different. What do I do when a dream doesn't feel like a
dream, when it feels as if I'm spying on a segment of someone's life? Do I
write it down?
Haha! Hell yes I'm going to, no doubt about it.
Yet it feels so perverted and wrong, as if I'm reading the pages of someone
else's diary. Oh well, here goes:
A middle aged man walks into a dark bar. A man
I recognize, I call him Joe. It's the middle of the week and the night is very
young, a mix of random songs, none too current, flow from the speakers at the
perfect volume for both conversation and entertainment. The bar is nearly empty
save for a few friends lounging on a grouping of couches in a corner by the
jukebox. Small low wattage lights covered by green stained-glass shades hang
from the ceiling above the worn billiard tables. Joe sits on the center stool,
the soft red neon light mounted behind the rows of alcohol casts a soft glow
over the man’s face, which carries a somber look of depression and futility.
"What can I get for ya?" asks the
bartender, a kind older gentlemen himself, currently a little more interested
in the football game playing on the screen nearby than his job.
"Can ya pour me a double long
island?"
"Comin' right up!" the man shouts, in
a loud boisterous voice that fizzles just as quickly as it erupted. "So,
what's gotcha down? You don't look like your woman left ya, or like you've been
laid off, I can normally spot those right off the bat."
Joe takes off his jacket, in silence, wearily
trying to figure the proper way to form his sentence. He doesn't speak until
after he's placed it on the stool to his left.
"Monotony and Nostalgia, my friend,"
says Joe. "You know, you give anyone long enough and life becomes
monotonous. You start to loathe the rhythmic cycle of waking, eating, and
sleeping, curse the stars for littering the perfection of nothingness, curse
the sun and moon for rising and falling. So you doing anything random just to
get your shits and giggles and even that, given long enough, and believe me,
I've had long enough, even that loses its touch."
The bartender, growing intrigued by his
conviction, plants the large drink in front of him. Joe takes a big gulp before
continuing, relishing the taste like cold water on a hot day, "You can't
laugh, can't cry, can't love. You're just numb." He pauses momentarily
before chugging his way through the rest of the glass, "Fucking
numb."
Joe motions for another one, to which the
bartender responds, "Well, if you keep drinkin' like that you'll be
dead." He just laughs, as if he'd caught the punch line to some obscure
joke.
Minutes pass in silence, the echoes of laughter
from the young group in the corner spreading throughout the bar. Others enter
as the night carries on, bringing an upheaval of cheers and joyous energy with
each new body. Some sort of reunion is all I can gather, childhood friends
perhaps.