Ghost-Ish- Lazarus
GHOST-ISH
LAZARUS
By
Erik Schubach
Copyright © 2018 by Erik Schubach
Self publishing
P.O. Box 523
Nine Mile Falls, WA 99026
Cover Photo © 2018 PaetronStaff / DepositPhotos.com license
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog, or broadcast.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Manufactured in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-9993740-7-8
Contents
Chapter 1 – I Think I Died
Chapter 2 – Beautiful Creature
Chapter 3 – Rin
Chapter 4 – Raven Maids
Chapter 5 – Eliza
Chapter 6 – Shelter
Chapter 7 – Accident
Chapter 8 – Shadow Man
Chapter 9 – Not In My House
Chapter 10 – Lazarus
Chapter 11 – Rescue
Chapter 12 – Planning
Chapter 13 – Staging
Chapter 14 – Crucible
Chapter 15 – From the Ashes
Chapter 1 – I Think I Died
I know my lungs should have been burning, but they weren't. I've never gotten winded since that day last year, no matter how much I exert myself. You'd think that would be like some glamorous superhero shit or something. But when it doesn't come with any other powers, the best thing I can do with it is become a women's distance runner or something, totally not as awesome as those rumors of flying women, mermaids, and the like which are popping up around the world.
I normally would have discounted the rumors like they did on the news since none of the eyewitnesses ever had anything but blurry or grainy photos to corroborate their stories.
But then this happened to me.
And then there was that crazy woman calling herself Leucosia, controlling the weather over by Vancouver, Washington who had somehow created what scientists are calling the storm of the millennium. That storm killed dozens, possibly hundreds, and seven months later, they are still pulling bodies out of the river and the rubble of some of the collapsed buildings.
Now that is some scary shit.
They tried to stop her with jets and missiles and even attempted to drop bunker buster bombs on her, but when you can control the weather itself, man loses to nature every time.
There is always one truth to this world, and that is that everyone has a weakness, no matter how powerful they are. I guess Leucosia learned that the hard way.
After the US military failed to take the... sorceress or whatever she was, down, god, that still sounds impossible doesn't it? She was somehow stopped by a normal woman, Lieutenant Caliban, from the Coast Guard, and her blind friend. Two unassuming heroes. I guess the crazy sea witch or whatever she was, made the mistake of taking the woman's mother as a hostage to get her own daughter, Octavia, to reveal herself. But this Octavia never showed.
Leucosia is still out there somewhere, licking her wounds. And the world is sort of holding its breath and praying she doesn't return.
If I didn't already like women in uniform, that Lieutenant Caliban would have tipped the scales for me, heroic is sexy. The woman goes after some supernatural monster to save her mom, faces her down, and lives to tell the tale. She didn't even want to take any credit.
But now, the world seems to be waking up to the notion that there are people out there with abilities that can't be explained. It isn't like they can hide what Leucosia had done.
I slid into the alley, my sneakers trying to gain purchase as I took the turn at a full sprint. The black SUV with those Lazarus pricks in it tried to make the turn, tires screeching and glass shattering as they slammed into the corner of the building. Shit shit shit. I didn't need them attracting the police. Nobody can know about me.
Ever since the accident, these Lazarus goons have been relentlessly hunting me through New York City. I've been on the streets for the better part of a year now. I had made the mistake of going home once, and they were there, waiting for me. I don't know what the pricks want with me, but they were shooting me with darts. They had been trying to tranquilize me like a dog. Well, about the only positive thing about being static like I am now... I don't tranq. But sadly, I also don't get drunk now either.
I barely got out of there as they swarmed me. But they found that unlike me, they can break. I beat the shit out of the goons with the bat my dad put by my door 'for emergencies' before he was sent upstate for some creative bookkeeping he did for the McKazy brothers. I suppose I shouldn't glamorize it and say it like it is, my old man is a bookie, among other ummm less than legitimate pursuits. The McKazys threw him under the bus to save their own hides, but even then dad didn't narc them out.
I'll see him in five to ten.
I had gone to visit him in prison after this happened to me, but some Lazarus men were there, waiting. They knew I visited him once a month like clockwork. I barely got away, again. So now I can't even visit my own father. I've been relegated to just sending him letters, dropped in random mailboxes across the city. But since I know they read everything going to him, I can't discuss what I'm going through.
The vehicle backed up and then lurched forward, but this... is my city. I grinned as I turned to flip them off as I dashed between the bollards at the far end of the alley that were put there to prevent asshats like them from driving through it.
Ha!
I spun back and kept running across the street. Pain flared as an old Volkswagen beetle slammed into me, sending me spinning up over its hood and tumbling over it and onto the ground.
I rolled to a stop as the driver slammed on her brakes.
Real smooth Cameron.
That would have broken some bones... if they were breakable. As it was, it felt like a garbage truck hit me, not a Volkswagen. I spun back up onto my feet as the redhead in the car was getting out blurting, “Oh, my god. Are you alright? I'm so sorry, I didn't see you.”
I winked at her and called out as I glanced over to the blocked SUV in the alley as the men started to get out, “My bad. Sorry. I'm fine.” Then I started sprinting away, leaving a confused woman and some mighty angry looking men in black behind.
Ok, that was a bit embarrassing. I should have watched where I was going. I'll have to look myself over when I get to a safe place to make sure I didn't lose any more of myself. I really hate these Lazarus asswipes, and I wish I knew what they wanted from me. Did they know what happened to me?
I'd have tried to talk with them to see if they knew what was going on with me, if our first introduction hadn't been their attempt to ambush, tranquilize, and kidnap me. I'm sure it all has to do with all the shipping crates I saw on the train that day.
They had that same bright green logo that read Lazarus, with the Z being a yellow lightning bolt on it, which they also had painted on the doors of their cars. That they had government plates didn't make me feel any safer. If anything, knowing they were government types made it worse.
So, maybe not my most graceful escape, but they have to be thick in the head if they think they know t
he streets here better than me.
I doubled back a few times, making sure I had lost them, before settling between two dumpsters in a back alley to look myself over. I checked under my sweats and hissed out, “Shit!” Where the car's bumper had hit my thigh, there was a four-inch streak of that hazy transparent skin that had virtually no substance to anything physical except to me. And one kneecap was in a similar condition where it had been skinned in my tumble along the ground.
At least it wasn't anyplace visible, and it could be hidden by the sweatpants and hoodie I preferred to hide away in now. I looked over my hands, and they were uninjured, so I grabbed a piece of a shattered mirror tucked behind one of the dumpsters to check out my face.
I didn't want to have to go all phantom of the opera with a mask or anything like that, people already thought I was a freak. I exhaled in relief, all I saw was my face, none of that ectoplasmic shit or whatever it was that replaced the parts of me that have been injured since the accident.
Well, this version of my face that is; the one it is stuck in. The more pronounced, and slightly elegant makeup I wore to my graduation from Chicago State University, under my edgy black pixie cut I decided to sport for the event. I didn't get a chance to change after the ceremony, I had to rush off to the Amtrak station to catch my train to New York just minutes after the ceremony.
So now I am apparently stuck with it, as I can't wash it off now, nor remove my earrings or my nail polish now that I seem to be static to the world, unchanging. I think I died in the accident, but it apparently didn't take. I'm contrary that way, just ask Pops.
So, I still looked like me and was relieved no damage would force me to have to hide myself away even more than I already am.
I dropped the glass shard with a tinkle on the alley floor. Then I closed my eyes for a moment to steel my nerves before lifting my hoodie, and the rainbow-colored 'Unicorns are Horny Horses' tee I wore under it... don't judge, when you live on the street, you can't be picky about the clothing you can scrounge up at some of the shelters.
I took two breaths and looked down and winced. I'll never get used to it. The four-inch circular hole through my chest where my heart should be. I could see the brick wall behind me through the hazy transparent hole. But, at least, besides the other minor injuries that Lazarus has inflicted upon me over the past few months, I didn't see any new bits of me missing.
Was I some sort of zombie, or undead? I didn't really know what had happened to me, and my backgrounds in biochemistry and physics couldn't explain it. If anything, the ectoplasm-like transparent flesh that replaced any damaged tissue made me think I was more... I don't know, ghost-ish? Than anything else.
I exhaled and chuckled when I realized I had. Not that I had to breathe anymore, but it is hard to break twenty-two years of habit. I went one day without breathing once, just so see if I needed to anymore. The answer? Nope. Cameron Tourvell, freak of science and nature, that's me. But when I tried to speak, I realized that I still needed air for some things. Like talking, so I breathe. Besides, the insecure part of my psyche likes to pretend I'm still alive.
I exhaled and then made my way to my... home... my makeshift cardboard and tarp shanty in the homeless group under the elevated tracks in the Bronx.
As I got closer to my stomping grounds, I started to relax more, seeing familiar faces in the shops and on the street, blending in as part of the background hum of the greatest city in the world. I saw all the people I was only peripherally aware of growing up. But I was part of that second, almost invisible culture of unseen people now. The poor and homeless, living on the streets, doing whatever was necessary to survive.
As I passed Mrs. Hu's shop, she brightened and ran out to me with an apple like she always did, ever since I chased off a thief a couple months back. That would be the inch and a half transparent wound in my shoulder.
Imagine the gang banger's shock when I just stared at him when he buried his switchblade hilt deep into me, and I just blinked the pain away and shattered his jaw with a swing of my bat, before pulling out the bloodless knife to throw it on the ground. He got away. I didn't feel like chasing the dumbass down, I don't want the police finding out there was something not quite right about me.
I'm listed as missing and presumed dead after the accident. In six more years, it will be official if I don't show up. After seven years the state will pronounce me dead. A little late, but eh, whatever. Only dad and these black agency assholes know I'm still kicking. Ish.
I know I shouldn't get involved, it increases my chance of exposure, but this is my neighborhood now. Nobody fucks with my neighborhood. That's a lesson Pops taught me.
I smiled at the sweet old Korean woman as she handed me the apple with both hands like it was an offering. “For bocho Cam.” I knew it was futile to argue with the woman, she didn't need to keep giving me things. And I was no bocho... as best I can understand, the word means something like sentry or sentinel.
It was almost laughable. I was no sentry, I was just the daughter of a criminal. I tried to redefine myself by being the first in our family to ever attend college. Pops was so proud. But then this happens, and it all gets thrown away. It's like the universe is laughing at me.
Inclining my head, I accepted the apple and said, “Gomabseubnida.” What? I may not know much Korean, but I know enough to be polite.
She looked at me with that expectant look she got when she fed me. I sighed internally. She really was a sweet lady, and I didn't want to disappoint, so I took a bite of the apple and savored the flavorful juices.
It wasn't like I needed to eat anymore, but I did like the flavors and smells and texture of food. And it made me feel more human, eating and drinking. Though I do wonder where all that food goes since I never have to... well, you know, relieve myself.
I smiled at her and nodded my head. “Mmm.”
Mrs. Hu's own smile bloomed on her face, and she bowed slightly and dashed back to her shop. I smiled as I watched her go then turned back toward home. As I passed Joseph, I held the apple out to him, raising my eyebrows in question. The rail-thin black man smiled and accepted it, and I ignored the almost desperate sound of him biting into it the moment I moved past him.
He called to my back, “You're an angel, Cam.” I waved him off over my shoulder without looking back. Then he called after me, “The thin blue line was knocking again.”
Good to know. They were always sniffing around the area, looking for the 'vigilante' who was making their jobs easier for them. I mean, I kick a few thugs asses and lower the crime rate in the area, and that makes me the bad guy? You just can't win with the police, can you?
I didn't have much to worry about, since most of the thugs describe me as “Some badass motherfucker, six foot four gang banger in a hoodie. He's psycho!” I... am a five foot four woman with a bat. They don't want to admit a girl beat them up. It would destroy their street cred. But the psycho part? Well that remains to be seen.
I pulled the hood up on my hoodie and tucked my hands into the pockets, my eyes scanning for the police as I made my way under the elevated tracks and into a different world. I admit I was just as guilty as everyone else, pretending this area filled with boxes and makeshift lean-to shelters didn't exist. The fact is, there is a place like this in every city. Where the homeless congregate, just for a sense of not being alone.
These people, are my family. They don't care about whatever circumstances landed me here, and they don't ask. They just accept me. We all have each other's backs here.
I nodded at the various, “Hi Cameron.”s or even simpler greetings, “Cam.” And Ferrett even called out to me in her small voice from beside a burn barrel she was warming herself at, “The Man's been poking around.” She says she's eighteen, but we all know that's a lie. The petite girl can't be a day over fourteen. And she is the scavenger of the group, always giving others things she finds that they need.
I don't know how they all know that it is me the po
lice are looking for, but they always warn me and run interference because in true New York style, they “Don't know nuttin.” I figure I'm safe enough, they are, after all, looking for a large man. But I still didn't need them asking me for ID since I'm supposed to be dead.
Not that I'd give it to them anyway. Ninety percent of the homeless in this area don't have any identification. Some prefer it that way, and some... there are reasons for that, not that any of us would ever ask why. If you chose not to share your story, we all respected that.
I came up to my cardboard castle. Just because I'm living on the street, doesn't mean I can't use a little ingenuity in my space. Over the months I have notched and slotted dozens of fruit boxes that Mrs. Hu leaves in the alley behind her shop, instead of recycling them. We all know she does it for us as they aren't always empty.
I fill them with scrap paper and use them as insulated building blocks on top of the wood shipping pallets I stuffed with paper for an insulated floor, which I then covered with a layer of woven strips of cardboard to form a comfortable floor.
A simple layer of shipping pallets, similarly insulated on top, then covered by a cheap tarp makes the whole construct waterproof, and since the pallets hold the floor above the ground, the interior is always dry and warmer than the outside.
I slipped in through the double row of blankets that gave an air gap of insulation against the outside chill. The light coming in from the alternating rows of plastic milk cartons in the southern wall made the space bright enough to see by. I had to grin at the “upper bunk” which had been a wide shelf made of a couple planks I scavenged.
It had been a shelf for storing my crap, at first. Now, the blankets and pillow were made up in a tidy manner. I forgot when I caved, seeing Ferret always sleeping rough by the burn barrels and told her to come sleep in my tiny space.
She is always tidying the place and always makes her little makeshift bed.