Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (15 page)

Christopher Bartolucci, the real manager, walked into the bank with his head down and a cell phone to his ear. He stepped to the left and stood in front of the loan officer’s desk, continuing to whisper into the device. Prado’s head snapped back toward the tellers as Merv passed behind them, trying to nonchalantly carry a bulging briefcase that clearly weighed too much for effortless transport. However, no one paid attention as he crossed the secured area to the door that led to the lobby.

Prado gripped the counter in front of him and struggled to figure out what to do. He could try to distract the real Bartolucci so that Merv could get out of the bank. But if it didn’t work, Prado would implicate himself as an accomplice. Deciding he had no choice, he moved to the side of the counter, just as the bank manager ended his call and looked up to see the door to the back of the bank open.

Merv stepped out.

Both men froze, their widened eyes locked on each other in shock, their gaping mouths appearing to mock each other. Neither moved.

It reminded Prado of a dog, seeing its reflection in a window for the first time and not knowing what to do, so it simply stared. After a few long moments, Merv’s gaze slid to his left and locked on Prado, who almost imperceptibly shook his head
no
.

That broke the trance for the bank manager, who glanced down at the bulging briefcase hanging at the end of Merv’s arm. He yelled for the guard who stood next to the door Merv had passed through.

“Grab him!” Bartolucci said, pointing at Merv.

The guard launched forward, put his arms up to restrain Merv when he realized who he was about to grab. “Mr. Bartolucci?” He looked back at the bank manager for a second, and Merv swung the briefcase, hitting the guard in the chest and sending him careening into the bank manager. Both men tumbled over the loan officer’s desk, sending office supplies flying in all directions.

Staggering and off balance, thanks to the momentum and weight of his cargo, Merv dashed for the door.

Despite the plan for Prado to exit the bank first, there was no way for him to get to the door before Merv, so he decided to stay put. He certainly didn’t want to be seen running from the bank with the man carrying a bag full of money. Instead, he watched the scene, simply another bystander.

The clattering of the bank manager and the guard rolling over the loan officer’s desk drew the attention of customers and employees alike, but, judging from their reactions, it appeared everyone thought an accident had occurred, not an altercation related to a robbery. Customers in line glanced over their shoulders, then went back to their business. The tellers seemed none the wiser.

By the time the bank manager and the guard had recovered, and both had stood up, Merv had arrived at the door and pushed it opened. A light gust of air blew inside, carrying with it, from Prado’s vantage point, what looked like a little black speck riding the breeze into the bank, alighting on Merv’s collar.

In response, Merv stiffened, dropped the briefcase and slapped a hand to his neck. “Oh, no!” he yelled, turning to gaze across the lobby at Prado.

Prado tilted his head in confusion but said nothing.

“A fly!” Merv’s voice quivered as he held out his hand, smeared with the remains of the insect. “A fly landed on me!”

At first it appeared Merv’s skin turned into a dark mottled gray, but, after a few seconds, he sprouted wiry, coarse hairs. He craned his head back, looked to the ceiling and released a loud wail as his eyes bulged from their sockets, pushed to the sides of his skull, growing orange and filling the width and depth of his skull. Viscera dripped down his neck, and bristly black pincers erupted from his jawline, extending and clicking in front of his face. The sides of his shirt bulged and then ripped open as a set of spindly, bristle-covered appendages unfolded from his torso, pushing outward, discarding ribs that fell wetly to the carpet.

The loan officer screamed and pointed. Customers turned to see what was left of Merv hunch forward onto his arms while remaining on his feet. His new midtorso appendages scraped at his forearms and upper body, peeling away clothing and flesh, revealing a grisly segmented body topped by a reedy, articulated neck that held his head, now composed of two bulbous honeycombed eyes mounted in a nest of steel wool. Two antennae sprouted from its crown. They rubbed together, synchronized with the pincers extending from below the eyes.

Prado grimaced and pressed back against the wall, placing the counter—where only a few minutes ago he had pretended to fill out a deposit slip—between him and whatever it was his accomplice was becoming. He was disgusted, not only with Merv but with himself for thinking he could pull off something like this with such a creature. Even with all his best laid plans, there was a good possibility he could end up being fly food. Motion in the lobby pulled Prado out of his reverie.

Merv crawled away from the door, moving to the center of the lobby. He now had two sets of multijointed insectoid arms, which he extended to his back and legs to continuing peeling away what was left of the human facade. Once his back was devoid of flesh, he shuddered, shaking loose his shoulder blades, which extended slowly to the length of his body, becoming thin and transparent. They spread apart and flapped, catching the air and sending a meaty smell across the lobby.

Wings.

* * *

Across the lobby, Bartolucci had his cell phone to his ear. “Yes, there was an attempted robbery here at the bank, Rivercore Northwest over at the mall,” he said. “Yes, he’s still here, but there’s something going on with him here in the lobby. He was convulsing, and it looks like he’s turning into something, I think.”

The 9-1-1 operator said, “Pardon me? Did you say he was turning into something?”

“Yes! He’s turning into some kind of giant bug! Before that he looked like my twin!”

“Sir, is there someone else there I can talk to?” the operator asked.

“Please send the police and make sure they are well armed,” Bartolucci said and hung up.

Next to him, the guard shakily held his sidearm in front of him, pointing it at Merv. “They coming?”

“I’m sure they’ll send someone, if for no other reason than to arrest me for being a complete nutcase. They won’t be ready for this.”

“I’m not sure they can be ready for this.”

The bank manager cocked his head. “I hear sirens. They are on their way.” He glanced at the customers and employees cowering behind the tellers’ counter. He lifted his phone and tapped a name in his address book. After a moment, he said, “Mildred, why don’t you get everyone to stand in the vault until the police can secure the building. That will reduce the likelihood that anyone will get hurt accidently.”

“What about that man in the lobby?” she said.

“He’ll have to take his chances. That thing is between us and him, and I don’t want any of you coming out here. Get to the vault, and everyone will be okay in a little while.”

As the sirens grew louder, Merv, or what was left of him, appeared to get agitated and turned in place, smearing a wet bloody circle into the carpet. When the creature faced the loan officer’s desk where Bartolucci and the guard stood, it stopped and stared, rubbing its antennae and midsection arms before it, like it was anticipating a good meal.

“Sir!” the guard yelled, pointed with the gun. “He’s moving this way!”

“Just calm—”

The guard’s eyes widened as the creature sloughed toward them, making a rapid clicking sound, rubbing its appendages together more rapidly. Making a loud mewling sound, the guard raised his gun, fired and kept firing until his weapon was empty.

It seemed like it had been a year since Mara had last entered Ping’s empty warehouse off Hawthorne Boulevard in southeast Portland’s warehouse district. It had once been filled with inventory from his former ceramics business, but, these days, it sat empty waiting for the lease to run its course. The door echoed in the darkness as Ping slammed it shut behind them. Mara waited next to the large rolling loading-dock door until he found the huge industrial light switch and pushed it upward with the ball of his hand.

A bank of fluorescent tubes clattered on, illuminating the center of the warehouse floor where a whiteboard stood with three mats arranged in front of it. A scraped-up metal cabinet with a noticeable dent in its side listed at a slight angle to the right of the whiteboard.

“Look, you set up the classroom again. When did you have time to do that? It’s only been a few hours since we decided to come out here,” Mara said.

“Sam took the bus over this afternoon and put things together before he went to play basketball. Considering the beating everything took during your battle with that odd yellow sand that Special Agent Suter conjured up, it looks pretty good.” He held out a hand, inviting Mara to proceed to the classroom.

As she sat, she said, “I’m assuming since there’s a third mat here on the floor that Sam will be by later.”

“He didn’t say that he would stop by, but he may have taken it for granted and assumed we would too.” Ping sat on the mat across from Mara.

“I’m glad he turned on the heat. It’s starting to get a little nippy outside.” She rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms over her sweater, trying to generate a little warmth.

“We ready to get started?” Ping smiled.

“Yes, I’m ready to figure out how to not fix gadgets with my mind.”

Ping held up a finger. “Oh, that reminds me!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink egg-shaped object with a small metal loop on top.

“What’s that, a key ring?”

“No, it’s a Tamagotchi, see?” He held it up and swiveled his wrist, showing Mara the tiny gray-green screen imbedded in the side of the pink egg. “Have you ever had one of these before?”

“Are you kidding? I have the one I got in second grade. It is still alive, by the way.”

She reached toward the egg, but Ping pulled it away. “Of course it is. Didn’t that ever strike you as odd that your Tamagotchi has lived all these years?”

“Well, I took great care of it when I was a kid. I toilet trained it and everything. What? Are you saying I’ve metaphysically sustained my Tamagotchi all these years without knowing it?” Mara raised her right eyebrow.

“Considering your propensity for repairing mechanical devices inadvertently, it’s a distinct possibility, wouldn’t you say?”

Mara shrugged. “Maybe. Possibly. So what’s with the Tamagotchi?”

Ping held it up but making a point of keeping it out of Mara’s reach. He slid a thumb over one of the three tiny buttons below the screen, and it emitted a
be-be-beep, be-be-beep
sound.

Mara could see a tiny pixilated egg graphic shaking on the screen. It was about to hatch.

“You see that it’s working, correct?”

“Yes, you just turned it on.”

Ping slowly stood up next to his mat, held up the little device as if doing a formal demonstration, then bent over and sat it on the cement floor. He then straightened, winked and smiled at Mara.

“Yeah, so?” Mara said.

Ping lifted his foot and stomped on the pink egg, sending an echoing crack throughout the darkened warehouse.

“What are you doing?” Mara said, on her feet now.

Ping picked up the Tamagotchi and sat back on his mat. “Breaking it,” he said, handing it to Mara. “Now, I want you to put that in your pocket and I want you to focus on not fixing it while we talk.”

“I think the psychopath in you enjoyed killing that little guy.” Mara took the cracked egg and examined it. She ran her thumb across the broken casing and pressed on the scuffed blank screen that now sat unevenly in the shell. “So focus on
not
fixing it. All righty then.” She tucked it into her right pocket and patted the little bulge it made in her jeans. She sat once more, looked at Ping. “Okay, what are we talking about?”

“Are you taking this seriously? Are you focusing?”

Mara made a face of mock seriousness. “I’m very serious, very focused.”

Ping glowered.

“Yes. Look, I want to do this. I’m not going to fix this little guy.”

“Excellent. Now tell me about your impressions of the reading we had with Melanie Proctor. Was there anything in that experience that you found enlightening or helpful?”

“Enlightening or helpful? No, it was downright creepy. And that voice at the end, it was exactly like the voice coming out of the radio, except without the static. Most of the rest of it was nonsensical, don’t you think?”

“I think it might merit some examination to see if that can help you better understand your abilities and the implications of this voice which seems to be calling to you.”

“I’m more interested in examining what she had to say about you, during your reading. Why don’t we talk about that?”

Ping sighed. “You’re trying to change the subject. There’s no need to be embarrassed or uncomfortable.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problems
examining
the meaning of your reading, should you?”

“Very well. What would you like to discuss with regard to my reading with Melanie?”

“Well, she said something about you always knowing that you would come here. Is that true?”

“I believe so. I spent my entire life studying and teaching the concepts of metaphysics, but I always had a sense that I was preparing for something more tangible, more meaningful than simply pondering theories. A part of me knew there was something more I had to do.”

“To come here.”

“To be with you, to help you do what needed to be done.”

“To be a mentor.”

“Yes, I suppose, in a way.”

“But she said you feared not knowing enough.”

“That is my greatest concern.”

“But you’ve taught me everything I know. I don’t think I could have survived the last couple months without you. I know I couldn’t have.”

“Perhaps, but my knowledge and advice have not been perfect. I did not anticipate that Sam’s mother could have crossed over the way she did and possessed her counterpart in this realm.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Ping. You said yourself that creation is a process of trial and error, that every possibility is being tested in order to define how existence will eventually come about.”