Aberrant Trilogy 1: Super Charged (2 page)

As the guards force me away down the hallway towards the staircase one of the kids in the group yells out, “Were you going to jump? Were you trying fly like a superhero - like Super Guy?”

My breath is gone, but I still manage to come up with a reply, even if that reply is just in my head.

Don’t be stupid,
I want to say.
There’s no such thing as superheroes. Or super villains, either.

2

Flagrant

Bill Flagrant squinted his eyes as the door opened. It was the first time he’d seen actual daylight in years. He couldn’t remember what it felt like. The sight made his eyes ache.

He shuffled his bare feet along the hallway, reaching out a hand to the wall to guide himself.

The prison guard in front of him let out a single, forced chuckle.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” he muttered. “It’s always a shock to the senses for someone like you.”

Bill grunted.

“Someone like me…” he said under his breath.

He had been in solitary confinement for nearly twenty years. In that time he had forgotten what it was like to have a real conversation with anyone, let alone what the outside world looked and felt like.

His room was a padded cell with a single bed, which was more like a rectangular slab of mattress with a thin pillow and blanket on top, a latrine for when he needed to go, and a desk and chair - all padded.

They were afraid that he was going to kill himself. Most solitary prisoners did, but not Bill. He had no intentions of ending his life. No, sir.

In fact, he had planned on this doorway opening for him for a long time.

It was all part of the master plan.

The hallway led out to a reception area and Bill waited for the iron barred barriers to be unlocked with a buzzing sound and then slid open. The guard led him through and then the barriers were put back in place.

The reception area looked like a palace compared to the areas where Bill had spent the last few years.

The place had comfortable couches for people who were waiting for their loved ones. There were potted plants. Even the counters were nice.

But, there was nobody waiting for Bill.

Even as a murderer, he wasn’t so good as to be remembered by anyone. He was a failure even in his worst deeds.

“The guy behind the glass will give you your things,” the guard who had assisted him said, and then he walked away.

Bill noted only two other people in the waiting area. One was an older woman, old enough to be a grandmother, with thick glasses. The other was a young man, probably waiting for his relation to be set free. It was a sight that tugged at Bill’s heart.

Nobody would be waiting for you,
he thought.
Who would care if you were released early or not?

Bill walked over to the counter where a worker sat behind a sheet of bulletproof and shatterproof glass. There was a circular speaker built into the top part of the sheet, and then at the bottom was a tiny opening where items could be slid through.

The man, wearing official police attire, chewed on his cheek as Bill stepped up.

“They’re finally cutting you loose, huh?” he said. His voice sounded tinny through the speaker.

Bill nodded.

“I suppose so,” he said. He wasn’t sure what else to say. There wasn’t any emotion in him. No joy. No sorrow. He was just neutral. In his mind he registered the release as a victory, but he barely felt it. Time had numbed him. It would take time to build back up to anything resembling real emotions.

The man behind the glass reached down into a drawer and pulled out a small see-through bag and slid it through the opening to Bill.

“Your personal effects,” he said.

Bill opened the ziplock and emptied the contents onto the counter in front of him.

There wasn’t much. A few sticks of gum that were now as brittle as glass. A few scraps of paper that he had written on. One was a list of things he needed to do for classes the next day. He crumpled that up and shoved into into his pocket. Then there was the only thing of substance in the entire bag.

“I can’t believe you had a Walkman,” said the man behind the glass.

Bill picked up the music player and examined it. He couldn’t believe how well preserved the thing was. Even the headphones were in near mint condition. He hit the eject button and a cassette tape popped out.

“Nirvana,” said the worker. “I bet you can get a lot of money for that on eBay.”

Bill nodded.

“Maybe,” he said.

Next the guard slid a tiny pamphlet through the opening in the glass and Bill picked it up.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“That’s a little bit of condensed information to make your transition into the real world a little less painful. You’re on your own once you’re out those doors, so don’t lose this. It also has contact numbers for different places that you might need. The hospital, local authorities, and a few homeless shelters if you can’t find a place to sleep. You might be spending the nights there until you get settled with a job.”

Bill had to laugh.

A job?
What was this guy thinking? Nobody would hire a previous murderer. Not even a good samaritan would go near him.

Unless he was able to keep his past crimes a secret. But, Bill was pretty sure that keeping those things a secret would be next to impossible.

He simply nodded at the worker.

“Thanks,” he said. He tucked the pamphlet into his pocket.

“The guy at the door will have your clothes and shoes. If they don’t fit, let him know. He can find you replacements. We don’t want you walking around naked and heading back here.” He gave Bill a grin, but Bill didn’t feel like smiling.

He tried on his clothes. For the most part they still fit. The t-shirt was a little snug, but it went on fine. What he was really pleased with was that his trench coat still fit like perfect. It was exactly as he remembered it. The weight of it compared to the paper-thin clothes that he had to wear in solitary felt comforting.

His jeans were fine as well. He’d lost some weight over twenty years, so he had to hitch his belt to keep them up.

Then there were his shoes.

They were Airwalks. It made him laugh because they, too, were the same as he had left them. The soles were modified with little punctures in the bottom. Sure, it ruined the comfort a bit, but they were more useful to him that way than the alternative.

He shook his head at the memories.

There were so many things flooding his mind right now. He felt dizzy.

“Alright,” said the guard at the door, a man with a chiseled face, but kind features. “Looks like you’re all set.” He lowered his voice and handed Bill a rolled up piece of paper. When Bill looked down at it, he saw that it was a twenty dollar bill. “For your cab, since you don’t have anyone waiting for you. Don’t say anything.”

Bill gave the guard a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. It was the nicest thing that anyone had done for him in the course of his time here.

“Now, go get ‘em,” said the guard, and he opened the door to the outside.

If Bill thought that the light in the hallway was bright, he was nearly barreled over by the sight he saw on the steps of the prison. The sun beamed down on him, hot and strong in the mid-afternoon. He had to squint for a few minutes before his eyes adjusted.

Then there was the wind. It caressed his face and ruffled his black hair. It smelled so fresh. He breathed in as much as his lungs would allow and held it there, relishing the freedom.

“Go get ‘em…”

That was exactly what he intended to do.

However, it wasn’t exactly a
them
he was going to get. It was a
who
.

He walked down the pathway to the opening in the tall fence and stepped out onto the street.

The prison was in Massachusetts, in a wooded area. Large signs were posted warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers because they could be escaped convicts.

Never fear,
he thought with a smile. He wasn’t a convict any more. He was a free man. And he had big plans for his freedom.

Originally he was supposed to serve forty years, but due to good behavior and a little ass-kissing, Bill was released early. It wasn’t uncommon, but it was definitely not something that happened every day - and he remembered every single day of his solitary confinement.

He was only allowed to exercise alone. The only faces he saw were the guards. He learned who they were, though he barely knew their names. Only their titles.

A few cars drove by, but none of them slowed.

“Smart people,” Bill said.

He went over to a bench and took a seat. A few minutes later he saw a taxi drive up.

The car parked in front of him and Bill went over to the passenger door, opening it.

“Are you Flagrant?” the driver, a man with a thick Boston accent, asked.

“That’s me,” said Bill.

“Hop in,” said the driver, and Bill obeyed.

He couldn’t believe how long he had been out of society. A taxi cab felt luxurious.

“Where to, bub?” the driver asked.

Bill thought. He really wasn’t sure. He was so far from home, and the five bucks wouldn’t get him very far.

“I’ve only got twenty bucks,” he said. “Just drive until we reach the city.”

The drive was relaxing. Bill settled in and rested his head against the seat.

It was only a few minutes before the trees started thinning out and houses appeared, becoming denser and denser until he was in a suburb.

Up ahead he could see the towering buildings of Boston.

The driver struck up conversation as Bill watched the numbers tick up on the electronic calculator attached to the dash.

“Nobody would come to pick you up?” he asked.

“Nope,” said Bill. “I doubt any of them even know I’m out, to be honest.”

“Ah,” said the driver. “That’s a real shame. It’s no small thing to step out into the real world again. How long were you in for?”

“Twenty years,” said Bill.

“Shit,” said the man. “That’s quite a hike. And nobody would remember you?”

Bill went quiet, looking out his window.

“One might,” he said. “Jeff Boding.”

The name had been in his head every day since he was put in that horrible prison. He couldn’t shake it, no matter how many self-help tapes he listened to from the prison’s lending library.

“Jeff Boding?” said the driver. “Man, you know some high-class folks if you know that guy.”

Bill glanced at the driver in the rear-view mirror.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Well,” the driver said with an amused look in his eyes, “Boding is pretty much a household name. I guess you really have been in the clinker for a while. He writes the
Super Guy
books.” The man paused for a moment, blinking. “Well,
wrote
, I should say.”

Bill was genuinely shocked. His heart-rate sped up at the information that he was hearing.

He did it. He actually did it. It wasn’t just talk.

Jeff had always gone on and on about becoming published. Bill thought it was never going to happen, especially not with something as crazy as Super Guy. But, here he was, hearing it from a complete stranger.

Jeff had made it.

That made Bill’s blood begin to boil.

“What do you mean, he used to?” he asked the driver. “Did he stop or something?”

“It wasn’t by choice,” the driver chuckled flatly. “He’s been dead for about a year.”

That news felt like a punch in the gut to Bill. He pressed back in the seat. Goose bumps ran up his arms and down his legs and his shirt felt a little tighter.

“Dead…”

Jeff was the one person that he was going to seek out. At the mention of fame, Bill thought that it was going to be easy to find him, which would be a nice surprise. Now that he knew that Jeff was dead, his plans were all messed up.

“He’s the one you were going to see?” said the driver, raising an eyebrow.

Bill’s mouth hung open. He was still reeling with the information. Then he pressed his lips together and straightened his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

The driver continued to drive. The numbers on the dash were getting pretty close to the twenty that Bill had in his hand.

“I can drop you off at the cemetery if you want to pay your respects?” said the driver.

Bill shook his head.

“No,” he said. That would be no use to him. If Jeff was dead, he didn’t have what Bill was looking for. He would have to find it somewhere else. “Drop me off at a library, if you can.”

“Sure thing,” said the driver.

A few moments later they were stopped in front of a brick library and Bill handed the man the twenty.

“Here you go,” said the driver, dropping a dollar and some change into Bill’s hand. “You sure have some strange direction, Flagrant. Most guys who get released want me to take them to a burger joint, or some other seedy place. You? You go looking for a dead guy and then get dropped off at a library. Gonna get caught up on the times?”

Bill nodded.

“Something like that,” he said.

“Well, good luck,” said the driver. Then he put the car in gear and drove off.

The sounds of the bustling city in the distance was carried by the wind to Bill’s ears. He stood on the steps of the library for a few moments, drinking it in.
Commotion. Activity. People.

For the first time he could be anonymous. Nobody knew who he was. He could do his research in obscurity and formulate a new plan on his own time.

He pushed the library door open and approached the woman at the desk. The place was quiet except for the occasional cough and the sound of typing on keyboards.

The librarian looked up at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” said Flagrant. “I need to do some research.”

The librarian raised a penciled eyebrow.

“You want to sign on to one of the computers?” she asked.

“Please.”

She handed him the sign-up clipboard and Bill hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to put his own name down, so he made one up. With the fake name scribbled down and the time of day, the librarian pointed him to an empty computer against the wall.