Chapter 14—Friendly Fight
Mark was up far earlier than he liked. The sun wasn’t even peeking through his window yet. He glared first at his alarm clock, thinking it had gone off prematurely. Five thirty-seven. He heard rapid knocking at his front door.
“What?” He climbed out of bed and ran to the door. He knew his father would be upset if his morning shower was disturbed. Mark opened it, his only thought being to shut up whoever was out there.
As soon as he swung the door open, the person rushed in and slammed the door behind him. His heart pounding, Mark jumped back. The intruder checked one of the windows, peering outside as if searching for something.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes, his jet-black hair tousled. A dark mask dangled around his neck. He appeared to be about a decade older than Mark. “I think I was being followed.”
“Get out of here!” Mark yelled. The phone! I’ve got to get to Dad and call 911!
“I will, but first things first.” The man rounded on him. “Have they been here yet?”
“Who?” Mark asked. “And who are you?”
“Name’s Kirk,” he said, offering a broad smile and his hand. Mark didn’t shake it. “Has Rooke been here yet?”
“Why?” Mark was backing up now. Was this man going to claim he was with the
government? The same charlatans he’d been warned about? The ones who had taken Lydia? Mark searched for a place to run. He thought he could make it back to his bedroom and lock the door before Kirk could catch him. On the other hand, Kirk looked like he’d be faster than him and might be able to break down the door. I have to get to the phone!
“Whatever they’ve told you, it isn’t true,” Kirk said. He was walking closer to Mark now, like one approaching a cornered animal. “Listen, I’m one of the good guys.”
Mark was on the verge of fleeing. Before he could bolt down the hall, the outer door swung open. Finster’s huge form filled the doorway. He stood, smiling darkly, aiming a pistol at Kirk. He stepped inside and closed the door. Finster peered down at the two shorter males. Mark could tell the medication was already running through Finster’s body. His arms had lengthened considerably. “Don’t you know you should always lock the door?” Finster said. “You never know what kind of strangers might come in.”
Kirk stood firm across from the taller man. What Mark found odd was that instead of abject terror at Finster’s massive height advantage, Kirk was grinning like he’d bumped into an old friend. “Stranger? Nah, you’re like a brother. Long time, no see,” he said. “Planning to end it all that easily?”
“Oh, come now,” Finster said. “You think I would do that and deprive myself of the fun? No.” He shook his pistol at Kirk. “Drops yours and kick it over here.” Slowly, Kirk produced a pistol hidden behind his back and underneath his jacket. He dropped the weapon and kicked it over. Finster picked up the gun and tossed both pistols out the door. “I’ll give you a fighting chance this time.”
“I take it Heather was following me?” Kirk asked.
“Maybe,” Finster said, opening his hands. His smile was still plastered on his face. “If I was you, I’d worry about me right now.” He cracked his knuckles, the audible pops akin to branches snapping from a tree. “I owe you for Albany, after all. Haven’t been able to wear a T-shirt since.”
“Oh, did you want a matching pair of third-degree burns?” Kirk said, mock- smacking his forehead. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pencil you in right now for a quick beating.” He tore off his wig, revealing his blazing red hair.
“It’s going to be a shame taking you out,” Finster said, cracking his neck. Several audible pops! and snaps! made Mark cringe. “I always did enjoy our fights.”
“Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Finster,” Kirk said, pulling what looked like a hood up from underneath his clothes and fitting it snugly over his head. He covered his face with the mask, tightening the straps on it. He crouched and dashed toward the giant. Finster stood ready, arms held low to grab him.
At the last second, Kirk rose up, bringing his fist under Finster’s jaw. One to the right cheek. One to the left. A kick to the gut. Then Kirk jumped, aiming for the chest.
Finster snatched him by the foot. He swung Kirk against the front door, and then into the dining room. Kirk crashed into the table, slid across it, and dropped onto the other side. He hopped back onto his feet and flung himself over the table. Kirk hit Finster square in the torso with both feet and then fell to the ground.
The larger man staggered back but steadied himself. He pounded the ground with his fists, trying to hit Kirk. He missed several times, cracking the wooden floor, as Kirk rolled back and forth. Then Finster got lucky. He connected with Kirk’s stomach, stopping his opponent momentarily. Finster lifted and flung his mighty fists at Kirk’s head.
Kirk rolled to the side, dodging the blow. Finster’s hands crashed through the floor. Kirk stood up and took the opportunity to attack. He delivered hooks left and right to Finster’s face, each punch more devastating than the last. When he tired of that, Kirk grabbed him by the hair and kneed his face. Blood flew from Finster’s nose, and his face welled up with dark purple spots.
Finster pushed him away, wiping his nose and smearing red across his mouth. Kirk stood a few feet away and beckoned him to attack. Finster swung at Kirk, hitting the air. Both men traded punches and kicks, circling the room in a deadly dance and blocking attacks. Kirk aimed high or low and Finster used his gargantuan arms to hold him at bay. When Finster went in, Kirk ducked and weaved, sometimes catching Finster’s fists in his hands. Whenever the giant man tried to kick, it was so slow and awkward that Kirk easily pushed Finster’s foot aside with his own feet.
Upstairs, Mark heard the radio shut off and his father shouting for him from the shower, asking what was going on. But Mark, rooted to the spot, continued to watch the fight.
Kirk kicked, but Finster grabbed his foot. He lifted Kirk over his head and toward the ceiling. Over and over Kirk stomped onto Finster’s face with his free foot. Finster dropped Kirk and fell to one knee. Kirk jammed his heel into the side of Finster’s other leg.
Mark stood behind the stairs, watching the fight, hardly breathing. Kirk pounced onto Finster, pinning him to the ground. The massive man rose and punched Kirk in the ribs. Without warning, Kirk burst into a human-sized fireball. The heat coming off of him was intense, and flames flung themselves in all directions. The wooden floor caught on fire and the flames quickly snaked their way into the dining room.
Mark heard Gene’s bare feet thumping down the hall, roaring, “What’s going on, Mark? What do you think you’re—”
Mark’s head whipped around at the sound of his father’s voice. He stood at the top of the stairs, a towel held around his waist and his hairy chest dripping with water.
“Dad—” Mark began. But Gene stood still, speechless, his eyes puffed up to the size of ping-pong balls at what was happening in his house.
Finster howled as the fire burned his skin. Kirk jumped away from him and a cloud of pure white smoke doused the sea of flames, engulfing him and the floor and walls close to him. His clothes had burned to tiny, tattered remains, leaving him in a one-piece black suit, with a device strapped to his back.
Kirk turned to Mark, taking his hand. He tugged the boy along to the outer door. Mark didn’t make a fuss. Kirk was terrifying, his eyes barely visible through the mask’s small eyeholes, and he was hot to the touch. Mark thought he was like some malevolent creature that had escaped from someone’s nightmare. They pushed past Finster, who was stumbling about and trying to pat down any fire and embers left on his clothes.
Kirk opened the door. Heather stood there. Her neck bulged underneath her scarf. It was even fatter today, Mark noticed, swelled up beneath the black fabric, making her look like a frog. Without warning, she exhaled thick odorous black smog from her mouth and swiftly shoved Mark aside. As the dark cloud left her mouth, the bulge defla
ted until her neck was flaccid. She quickly tightened her scarf.
Kirk spun around, choking and fumbling in the foyer. His eyes watered and he was hacking terribly. He couldn’t escape from the smoke. It hung in the air around him, trapping him in the room. He reached for his mask, lifting it up to block out the smog.
Finster, his clothes singed and partly crumbling into ashes, stomped over to his opponent. Covering his mouth and nose, he stayed outside the area of the smoke. He socked Kirk in the jaw, grinning as Kirk flew into the wall with a sickening crack.
Finster grabbed Kirk by his head and yanked him out of the dark cloud, choking him. Over and over Finster slammed his face into the wall. Chips from Kirk’s mask fell away until there was a sizeable hole where his right eye was. Finster hefted Kirk up and over his head. His bones rearranged, adding greater height to his legs. He pounded Kirk’s whole body into the ceiling repeatedly. Kirk coughed hard but barely reacted to the beating.
Mark backed away as the ceiling beams loosened and snapped from the impact. They crashed through and fell with a massive whump! onto the floor. The fire spread, and soon a small circle of flame surrounded the two combatants. With a sickening crack, the ceiling gave way, opening to the second floor. The fire had long snuffed out the thick smog Heather had expelled, but Mark scooted back to the doorway to the kitchen for safety. The hint of a flare soon sparked from Kirk’s suit. “Oh, no you don’t,” Finster said, catching sight of it. He smashed the extinguisher on Kirk’s back with several heavy punches. It broke in half as the flare erupted into another billowing set of flames from Kirk. Finster yelped and dropped Kirk onto the floor.
This time, instead of rushing anyone, Kirk shook, his body wracked with fitful coughs. He fought through it, groping the floor for the pieces of his extinguisher and desperately trying to piece them together, but in vain.
Heather’s eyes blazed in anger and she shrieked, “Put him out!” She hit Finster’s back and ran to the curtains. She frantically jerked them off the rings. Finster rushed into the living room.
Meanwhile, Kirk had given up. He dropped the broken device and screamed. Not a loud, bloodcurdling scream like Mark had expected. It was somewhere between a gasp and a high-pitched shriek. A choking cry that made Mark’s skin crawl. His most exposed eye was wide and frightened, and he was pleading for help. Mark could only stand there, watching with horrified fascination.
Kirk stretched a shaky arm out to Mark. He knew the man was asking for his help, and he took one step forward. Heather enveloped Kirk in the curtains, trying to smother the fire. His mask was little more than a black cinder. Kirk gasped, the shrill sound barely audible over the crackling flames. He touched Mark’s knee, setting it on fire. Kirk collapsed, convulsing violently, and then lay completely still. Finster had found a tablecloth to cover Kirk’s burning arm, and he helped Heather to quell the fire.
Mark leapt away, surprised by the searing burn on his leg. He swatted the small embers and examined his knee. The fire had burned a spot in his pants and left a large red splotch on his skin.
He touched it carefully. It hurt. But how could it hurt? He was supposed to be invincible.
Heather finished slapping out the flames on the covered body and lifted the curtain. She dipped her head out of sight and then raised it. “He’s dead,” she announced, scowling.
Finster stopped and sat back on his knees.
“Good job!” Heather said, slapping Finster across the chest. “All this racket is going to bring the cops! I thought you had it under control!”
“I did!” Finster shot back as another piece of drywall fell. “You’re the one who lost it! Talk about overkill. He startled you good.”
“No, he didn’t,” she said. “I was about to open the door. He was leaving and I had to stop him.”
“So you figured killing him would be best,” Finster said. “He must have gotten you real good.”
“No, he didn’t,” she repeated.
“Why didn’t you use your gun?”
“Because I’m not going to draw the neighbors’ attention!” she said. “Why didn’t you use yours? Wanted to have a fair fight again?”
He frowned. “He still surprised you.”
“No, he didn’t! I just didn’t expect it. But I had to do something. You were letting him get away.” She lowered her voice to a heated whisper and pulled him aside.
They were too busy bickering to pay attention to Mark’s terrified face. The fingers on Kirk’s right hand, those that had set fire to Mark’s pants, were stretched out. They were raw, red, and repulsive. The skin that was now covered in black ash had once been flesh. What was skin and what was muscle or tissue was indeterminable to Mark. His stomach churned and he concentrated on his knee.
“Mark, what’s up?” Finster asked. Mark glanced over his shoulder. They had stopped arguing. Neither showed any concern for the corpse smoldering in the center of the room.
“The smell,” he said quickly, hiding his knee from view, “it stinks.” He held his hand over his mouth and nose. That stench coming from Kirk was repugnant.
“What’s going on?” Gene had come out of his stupor at last and began to descend the stairs.
“Dad!”
“Mark! How could you let these people in?” Mark opened his mouth to speak but Gene didn’t wait for his answer. “What kind of people are you? Why.. . Why. ..?” He couldn’t form any coherent sentence as he surveyed the wreckage.
Heather gave Gene only a glance. She loosened her scarf to bring it over her own nose. “That smell is rotten. Do something about it, Finster.”
“Me?” he asked.
“It’s your mess. You clean it up.” He pouted, opening his mouth, but she’d already turned to Mark. “Go get some clothes and whatever you absolutely need. You too,” she said to his father.
Gene had reached the bottom step and was moving toward the phone. Heather was at his side in an instant, gripping his arm.
“You don’t want to do that,” she said. “This man impersonated a government agent and tried to take away your son. His friends will have cops on their side.” She traced Gene’s jawline with her finger and he leaned toward her. Mark couldn’t believe how docile his father became. Then he saw stray wisps exiting her mouth. “The cops will want to take us in, this man’s group will lock your son away, and everyone here will be connected to this.” She pointed at the body.
Gene nodded at the last part. When Finster stood beside Heather, Gene stepped away from the phone. “Good,” Finster said as Heather turned to Mark. She wiped her finger on her clothes and hid her grimace. “Don’t worry. Rooke takes care of his own, and you two are under his watch. Now get your clothes and anything else you need.”
“For what?” Mark asked.
“Less talking, more doing,” Heather said, walking around Kirk’s body and heading up the stairs with Gene. “Finster, put out the fires and put the body in the trunk. We should be out of here in ten minutes.”
Finster knelt over Kirk’s body and lowered his head in mourning. “He was a good opponent. Maybe the best I’ve ever had to fight. Rest in peace.”
Mark scampered away to his room and shut the door. He ran to his closet and shut himself inside. He pulled down his pants, crouched, and studied his knee. It was bright red now. It burned and was hot to the touch.
He thought back to the countless knives and other sharp objects that he’d tested on himself. They hadn’t left so much as a slice in his skin, yet the fire had burned him like anyone else. Was that the only exception? Was there anything else he’d be vulnerable to? Was he not as invincible as he believed?
A sudden realization came to him. If he wasn’t invincible, would Rooke still hire him? Mark didn’t think so. If Rooke found out, all of yesterday’s promised benefits, the realization of his potential, any protection from the dangerous people after him—all of that would be gone.
He had to hide this burn. He had to keep it a secret. Mark slipped into some fresh jeans, changed his s
hirt, and gathered clothes and anything else he might need.