I have Death's sickle pressed against my throat. I can sense the end of my being. It isn't true what they say, about your life flashing before your eyes. Rather, a feeling rises in you, like a scream stuck in the back of your throat. You wish you could focus on one thought or image, but you are overwhelmed. A very complex sensation that encompasses everything you've ever lived glows like a coal spreading warm understanding throughout your body: enlightenment through acceptance. So much information released all at once, all you can do is bask in it and wait.
Bright lights, noises, and muffled voices. Max couldn't move. He had trouble keeping his eyes open. There was a dull ringing in his ears accompanied by persistent voices that sounded diluted, like they were speaking underwater. His blue irises struggled to focus. Max didn't understand. He felt warm all over, but he couldn't lift his head to see what was causing the sensation. A face came into view: a woman concentrating. Their eyes met. Concern replaced her concentration. She moved her mouth. Max could make out bits of what she said, something about hearing and blinking. Her hand moved into his vision; it was gloved. She dragged a white forefinger across his face, Max's eyes followed. Another face came into his constricted view, a man's. His mouth moved similar to the woman's earlier but with more intensity.
"IF YOU CAN HEAR ME BLINK TWICE!" The medic shouted just as the ambulance ran over a large pothole. The E.M.T.s jerked backward and Max's legs wobbled.
No. Max didn't want to blink at all. Blinking twice would confirm that this was real. It would mean that the head-on collision did occur. It meant his world would be forever changed for the worse. Blinking twice would kill his family.
Instead, Max cried. The salty tears stung the glass carved abrasions on his face then disappeared into his black hair. There was nothing he could do except weep knowing that his world had perished in a gruesome instant.
The white hands returned, holding a syringe and a plastic tube. The woman depressed the plunger injecting a clear liquid into the line and he drifted into sleepy darkness, temporarily free of the world and its truths.
“He looks pretty rough. Poor kid.”
“Well, somehow he survived. He has a deep laceration on his chest that will take awhile to heal. Another inch or so and his heart would have been pierced. The rest is just contusions."
“To be honest, it isn’t the physical healing I’m worried about. How old is he?”
“Let’s see,” shuffling papers, “19.”
“Jesus, that’s barely an adult nowadays. Was he living with his family?”
“No, the nurse found a student I.D. in his wallet, some college in San Antonio.”
“Must have been visiting for the holiday weekend.”
“Yea probably. How’s the case going?”
“We got the VIN number off the perps vehicle but it was a dead end. Didn’t even try and help the family. He just ran. People these days; I swear it’s getting worse.”
“I hear ya. I see it every day, too.”
“Is he going to wake up soon or should I come back tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure, let me check, Officer.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Max heard the doctor’s footsteps approach his bed. He didn’t bother closing his eyes. There was no use in feigning sleep any longer.
"Hello Max. How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. Max could sense his professional demeanor like cold metal touching skin. He let his eyes wander over the man, his tag said Davidson. Max didn't respond.
"This is Christus Spohn Hospital. You were in a serious accident. Do you remember?" He paused. "You suffered a deep laceration in your left pectoral muscle. The sutures will need to be removed in eight days and..."
"What about my family." The words escaped from his mouth all at once. Each syllable, every phoneme, clawed up his throat on their way out to pronunciation. Doctor Davidson sighed.
"Max, I'm sorry but they didn't make it. They were pronounced dead on arrival. I'm so sorry." The Doctor placed his hand on Max's unbandaged right shoulder. Max took a moment to keep his composure. He asked the question already knowing the answer. The last thing he saw before going unconscious was his little sister, sitting next to him in the backseat, her small legs and arms suspended briefly in the air, like a ballerina in zero-gravity. The image brought hot tears to his eyes; he couldn't contain them.
"Do you have any relatives or friends we can notify for you?"
"I don't know right now," he managed to respond.
"That's okay. You've been through a lot, you shouldn't exert yourself in any way."
"How did this happen?"
"Well, let me direct your question to Officer Dryer. He was first on the scene and he has a few questions of his own." Doctor Davidson gave a nod toward the entrance of the room.
Officer Dryer, an older policeman with thick glasses, a white mustache, and a head so bald it reflected the florescent lighting, approached his bed.
"Hello, son." Dryer had a warm voice, the type that rang of modest confidence and ancient wisdom. "Glad to see you are awake." Dryer placed his steaming coffee on the stand next to the bed and eased himself into a padded chair.
"Can you explain what happened?" Max didn't like hearing his own voice. It sounded broken.
"You were in a head-on collision with a large truck, a Ford 350," he began. His voice reminded him of an old cowboy's, like the ones he used to watch on T.V. with his Dad when he was younger.
"Both vehicles were going about sixty miles per hour. We still aren't sure about all the details, we were hoping you could help, but we do know that the driver of the truck was at fault and that he fled on foot." Dryer paused. "A nice lady named Mrs. Conners was the first person on the scene. She is the one who put the call into emergency services, but by then, the other driver was gone. No one saw him. She found you..." he paused again, "outside of the car lying on your back, unconscious. By the time I got there, another pedestrian was trying to bandage your chest. Max, it's a miracle that you were thrown from the car, it saved your life." He took another swig of his coffee while his eyes remained on the boy.
Max let the information steep into his consciousness. Part of him wanted to yell at the officer, scream how unfair it was that the guy responsible was still out there: alive and free. The other part was burdened with more sadness, so much so that he felt nauseous. His stomach was hollow and his throat tightened, making speech a great effort. Then confusion arose. Hadn't he been wearing his seatbelt? Max tried to recall, but his memory was foggy.
"What happens now?" Max said.
"Now, you rest easy. You need to let your body fix itself. We will check back with you tomorrow before you are released from the hospital."
Let his body fix itself? Max knew he was injured in a way that would never be fixed. By losing his parents and his sister he had forever lost a big piece of himself: it was a wound that was impossible to heal. Max felt a crushing weight of selfishness; his family perished but he had survived. Somehow, he had been spared while his family was taken from this world. It wasn't right. He would have gladly given up his life so that they could have lived instead. Max bit his lip in a failed attempt to control his emotions.
Officer Dryer rose from his seat and adjusted his belt. Max could tell he wanted to say more; say something to comfort him. Instead, his mouth hung open a little and he sighed. Maybe he was searching for some sort of hope to impart on him, something to keep his chin up. The old man remained silent.
Doctor Davidson walked the officer out of the room. The two men conversed in the hallway just out of Max's hearing range. When the doctor returned he was consulting his clipboard.
"Christus Spohn has a counselor, her name is Mrs. Lear. The sessions are voluntary, but I recommend you do a least one. It will help answer some of your questions. She works during the day so it's too late right now," he glanced at his sport watch. "Is there anyone you want to see until then? Is there a sibling or relative we can contact for you?" He flipped through his clipboard again. "It says here," he paused, "Mia Masterson is your sister. What about her?"
Max was taken aback. Was this guy completely ignorant or was that just an honest mistake? A doctor should know better than to confuse details like that.
"Mia was in the car." Max corrected.
Doctor Davidson frowned.
"Max, it was just you and your parents. No one else was in the car."
"Mia was right next to me! They didn't find her?" Max began to shout, hurting his throat.
"Max! Calm down, your sister wasn't there! The paramedics, Officer Dryer, everybody on the scene only saw you and your parents. They would have found her body."
"What if she was thrown from the car like me!"
"Still, they would have found her. The emergency crew was there and then the police were searching the area for the driver that fled. Max, relax! Your sister is safe somewhere."
"NO! You're WRONG!" Max yelled, his voice choked by panic. He wanted to get out of there. He had to go find Mia. Max struggled to sit upright. The doctor dropped his clipboard and pushed Max back down. Max fought against his hold, twisting and turning as much as he could. Then, he felt an explosion of pain in his chest. His stitches had torn. Crimson blood seeped through the white hospital gown. Max slipped back into unconsciousness.
Something was chasing him. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was big, very big. The ground shook and he felt the vibrations in his teeth. Max tried to run faster, tried to scream but could do neither. The monster was catching up to him. All he could do was panic and be helpless. He could hear it opening its large mouth, feel its warm breath on his neck, feel its claws digging into his chest. . .
Max awoke. He took in a deep breath and clutched his chest. The pain was real; his heart was racing. He winced and removed his hand. A new white bandage wrapped his breast. He eased the muscles in his neck, letting his head sink into the pillow and listened to his heart slow. The room was dark, except for the L.E.D. lights on all the electrical equipment. There must have been over 50 of the small busy dots. His thoughts returned to Mia and his heart raced once again. He wondered what had happened and why they hadn't found her yet. She had been there, he knew, right next to him. Explanations filled his head. Max reasoned that anything could have happened in the chaotic aftermath of the crash but whatever the case, Mia was still alive. Max knew it to be true. He would look for her at friends' houses and the park they sometimes played at on Sundays, the one right on the bayfront. He hoped she was somewhere safe, wherever she was, and not wandering alone. She was only nine years old; he had to find her.
Max threw off the blanket and began to remove the monitoring wires from his body.
“I wouldn't do that,” a man's voice said from somewhere to the right of the bed, “the nurse will be here in a heartbeat, no pun intended.”
Max scanned the area. It was too dark to see anything beyond the empty chair next to his bed. The voice didn't belong to anyone he knew. The confidence in the tone unsettled Max. Why, he thought, would someone be watching him in the dark?
“Who's there?”
A chuckle and a pause.
“Your uncle.”
The words sent shivers up his spine—he didn't have an uncle.
“What do you mean?”
“We've never met. Allow me to introduce myself.”
Just then, a portion of the small L.E.D. lights moved. Max could hear heavy boots coming towards him. The man claiming to be his uncle sat down in the chair barely three feet away. Max held his breath.
“I'm Santiago, your dad's half-brother.”
He lit a match exposing a gloved hand. The match moved upward revealing his face. He was old. Gray stubble covered his square jaw, lines curved up and down his liver-spotted face, and long unkempt salt and pepper hair dragged against his broad shoulders. There was a cigar in Santiago's mouth that met the match. He puffed twice, igniting the tip, and shook the match out leaving behind a sulfurous swirl.
“I'd turn the light on,” he began, exhaling a plume of smoke, “but that would attract unwanted attention.”
From the cigar and the other dim light sources available to him, Max was able to make out certain odd features of this stranger. He was wearing what appeared to be a trenchcoat. Underneath the brown coat was the source of the moving lights, some sort of complex metal suit that covered everything except his hands and face. He was brawny and tall for his age or the suit made it seem that way. And there was something else; Santiago stunk. It wasn't just the tobacco burning it was something mildewy clinging to his clothes.
“I'm sorry for your loss, Max.”
He could see Santiago's eyes, gray like the rest of him and serious. Max wanted to respond, he wanted to ask so many questions, but bewilderment stayed his tongue.
“I know about Mia too. She is still alive.”
Hearing her name on a stranger's lips hooked his attention. Alive? How did he know?
“We are doing everything we can to find her, but right now we need to ensure your safety. Under normal circumstances, this would be the safest place. . .”
“Who are you really? How do you know about Mia and my family?”
“Max, I'd love to chit-chat and bring out the old photo albums, but there is no time. They know you survived. They will be here soon.”
“Forget it. I don't believe you.”
“Okay. I understand. You just survived a traumatic event, you're very confused, you're angry: I get it. Now, here's what I'm going to do,” he pulled an object out from his pocket, “this is a flash beacon, something I made myself.” Santiago held up what looked like a jumbo gumball.
“I don't. . .”
“Listen, when they come for you, all you have to do is press this little button, here, and I'll do the rest. Got it?” He slapped the device into Max's palm.
“Who is they?”
“The Tekagi.”
Santiago lifted himself out of the chair and walked back into the darkness; the lights on his suit fitting back into the sequence of dots like a puzzle piece. Max could see the red glow of his cigar as Santiago took one final deep drag.
There was a brilliant flash of white light and a low mechanical hum, then Santiago's mysterious presence, and fowl smell, was gone.
The next morning, Max woke to the nurse entering his room. She glanced at his chart, checked the machines, then pulled back the curtains letting the light in. He closed his eyes instinctively and remembered Santiago’s white flash earlier. How did he do that?
“Good morning. How is your chest feeling?”
“Not bad, I guess.”
“Does the wrap feel too tight?”
“No, It’s fine thanks. Any word on my sister?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just started my shift a few hours ago. No one mentioned anything to me. Would you like me to contact her for you?”
Max paused. Maybe Mia had made it back home somehow. Maybe she was trying to find him.
“Yea, call my home number please.”
“Of course. I’m surprised no one offered earlier. I can’t believe you’ve been here all alone since last night.”
He checked the side of his bed for the device Santiago had left him. The small black orb was there, confirming the mysterious episode. It was identical to a ping pong ball except it weighed about half a pound. He let his finger drift across the indented button. Did he really know the truth about Mia?
The nurse went about her routine. She helped him out of bed so he could use the restroom, shocking his inert muscles. He didn’t realize how weak he was until trying to stand still in front of the toilet. Good thing he didn’t attempt to leave last night because he wouldn’t have gotten far. When he returned to his bed, the nurse informed him that he would be getting his breakfast in a few minutes followed by a meeting with the counselor.
It took all of his effort to remain in the bed and finish his food. It tasted like cooked cardboard but that didn’t slow him down. Max shoveled it all into his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to be free to find his sister. Free to find answers. He waited anxiously for the nurse to return.
“Ummm. . . Mr. Masterson?” the nurse said, poking her head into the room.
“Was she there at home?!” Max blurted.
“No, she wasn’t. But your friend, Jacob Geist, answered the phone. He is really worried about you and said he’d be visiting as soon as possible.”
Max had never heard of a Jacob Geist, was this who Santiago warned him about?
“What else did he say?”
“He asked if you needed fresh clothes and what room you were in.”
Max felt exposed. Santiago had called them the Tekagi. Max had never heard of that either. Why were these strangers pretending to know him? Whatever the reason, they now knew exactly where to find him, and that made Max feel uneasy.
The nurse was saying something about the counselor, he wasn’t really listening, when an urgent announcement played over the intercom in the hallway. The nurse stopped mid-sentence and quickly exited the room. Max could see other nurses running past the window through the glass door, all were heading the same direction. Someone was probably coming in off an ambulance, Max reasoned. He looked down at his chest and wondered how long it would take to heal. The pain only made itself known when he extended his left arm too far, stretching the skin around the cut, besides that he felt fit to do any other activity. He let out a long sigh and noticed how quiet it was all of a sudden.
Just then, the door to Max’s room opened and three large men entered. Right away, Max knew they didn’t belong in the hospital. They wore stark white masks that completely covered their faces and black suits. The masks were of a plain, almost featureless face like a marble statue. Their dark eyes showed through the holes and focused on him. They moved with clear purpose and without any acknowledgement. Max remained frozen as the one nearest reached up and, with a gloved hand, slowly removed his mask.
He was pale, covered in tattoos, and had no hair whatsoever. Slowly, his lips curled into a smile.
"Hi, Max. I'm Jacob Geist and these two are my associates. We are here to transfer you to a safe place." Max didn't dare reply, even if he thought he could move his jaw he wouldn't know what to say. The man's hawk-like eyes were bright red. They seemed strangely hypnotic.
"Unfortunately, your questions will have to wait until later. We have a schedule to keep. Now, I need you to take these pills," he said, reaching into his coat pocket.
Likewise, the two men in the back began withdrawing some sort of metallic tube from their pockets. Max didn't wait to see what it was.
He pushed the button on the device Santiago had given him.
Like before, there was brilliant white flash except this time, instead of a low hum, there was a high-pitched ringing in the air. The noise was so shrill that it briefly overwhelmed all other sounds. The device in Max’s hand grew hot, too hot to hold; he dropped it to the floor.
Max smelled him before he saw him -- Santiago was standing at his side, just in front of the three intruders. Smoke curled off his trechcoat.
“Howdy.” Santiago said just as he kicked Geist square in the chest, launching him off the ground.
Max watched dumbstruck as the man sailed through the air and crashed into the door fifteen feet away; Santiago’s strength was incredible. The other two men reacted. There was a snap sound then the metallic tubes in their hands extended into baton-like swords.
“Max, put this on!” Santiago ordered as he threw what looked like a wrist-watch to him. Max didn’t hesitate.
The masked men charged, raising their swords for an attack. Santiago picked up a nearby machine and hurled it at them with a grunt. The machine must've weighed over 200 pounds but he threw it like it was a basketball. Despite the speed, the men deftly maneuvered around the missile and continued forward unphased. Santiago checked Max's wrist, seeing the device secured he pressed a button on his neck below his right ear. The suit made a whirring noise, and with his enormous strength he pulled Max close to his chest in an awkward hug.
“Sayonara.” Santiago said while making a gesture with his middle finger. There was the familiar low mechanical hum. The two men lunged with their swords, stabbing the empty space where Max and Santiago had just been.g the empty space where Max had just been.
Max felt a tingling sensation all over his body like he was covered in static. Similar to having his leg fall asleep, the experience couldn’t quite be described as painful, more so uncomfortable. The high-pitched ring he had heard earlier was now fully absorbed into his head like a screaming alarm. He realized they were in the cab of a tow-truck. Max was gripping Santiago, both of them had thin wisps of smoke trailing off their bodies.
“You can let go,” Santiago said.
“What just happened?”
“We flashed.”
“What do you mean, flashed?”
“Max, I can’t answer all of your questions right now. Just keep an eye out behind us for any followers and put that vest on.” He gestured to a thick kevlar vest lying on the passenger floor.
“Why are they trying to kill me?”
“Just put the vest on.”
Max moved over and strapped the heavy body armor on while Santiago cranked up the engine. The enormous motor came to life and they sped down the road, away from the hospital, leaving a trail of black exhaust in their wake. Max did as Santiago ordered, watching their back.
“At least tell me where we are going.”
“To Tourmaline,” Santiago barked.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Few have.”
Santiago shifted up to a higher gear and the engine grunted. Keeping his eyes dead ahead, he clenched his scruffy jaw as if he were chewing on his anxiety. Max knew they had to be driving over the speed limit. He watched the road behind them hoping no policemen were nearby.
“If we can just make it over Harbor Bridge we’ll be safe,” Santiago explained.
Max could feel the road gradually incline. He took a moment to observe Santiago and reflect on what had happened the past twenty-four hours. Seeing him in daylight was very revealing, he looked much older than Max had originally perceived, and his coat was pockmarked with holes, stains, and tears. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought Santiago was just an eccentric bum, not some superhero. As Max scrutinized his lined face he recalled what Santiago had said the night before, “Your uncle.” Max tried to imagine what the old man might have looked like when he was younger. Maybe, under all that gray, dirty hair, there were some physical similarities between them.
His thoughts were interrupted when a large vehicle caught his attention. A black armored truck was gaining on them --- fast.
“Uhh. . .Sant---”
A bullet punched through the back window and zipped out the front windshield, sending bits of glass flying in every direction.
“Hang on!” Santiago shouted, slamming his heavy boot on the gas pedal. He weaved in-between cars barely missing a small Honda Accord. The tow truck lurched upward, climbing the steep grade of the bridge.
The armored truck was quickly closing the distance. Max watched as it slammed into the back of the Honda they had just passed, causing it to spin into the other lane.
They were nearly to the top of the bridge, confined to its narrow lanes by two cement barricades on either side: there was no way they were going to out-run the Tekagi. More bullets tore through the cab as the black truck pulled up right behind them.
“We are going to have to take a shortcut. Get ready, Max.”
Just as the armored truck pulled up along their left side, giving the gunman in the passenger seat a clean shot, Santiago spun the wheel sharply to the right, sending the tow-truck slamming over the barricade and off the crest of the Harbor Bridge.
To the people lounging on the beach, they would have seen what would look like the most extreme accident in the city’s history. A large tow-truck somehow drove over the bridge’s barricade and was free-falling toward the bay. The distance of the drop had to be over a hundred feet. Just before the truck disappeared into the water, there was a bright flash from inside the cab. By the time the local news channel arrived, everyone had a different explanation: some said they saw a small explosion just before it hit, others said it was the airbags deploying, then a few rationalized it as a failed terrorist attempt; regardless, all the witnesses were shocked. The real shock wouldn’t come till later though. When, after two full days of searching, no bodies were recovered.
