A Collection of Stories

THE WRATH OF FIREWOOD

Carlos glanced at his watch and swore. He was supposed to be home by now with Elena and the kids. Movie night was a big deal and never in his unstable career has he missed it. Until now. He cursed his boss under his breath.

The light jumped from red to green and traffic snailed its way ahead like a dying centipede while Carlos forced himself not to honk at the car ahead. Once a path cleared, he touched the throttle and veered onto Highway 85. He swiped his phone screen to check his route again. Right, the warehouse. The place lingered in his memory, and he relaxed his hand on the wheel.

He wondered if Elena got his text. She'd be disappointed, but she'd understand. Despite his boss being an anonymous bastard, he forked out good money. In less than two years, he moved his family from their broke-ass dump of an apartment into a fine villa upstate-with air conditioning and a driveway! And Carlos' work was fairly easy: he was sent names and was required to send back a detailed bio on the individuals. It was good for this line of work that he wasn't overly curious. He did his job; he got paid, no sweat! Elena worried about this 'work' and voiced her concerns frequently, but her husband always assured her everything would be fine. He was a smart man and if anything went wrong, he comforted himself with the fact that he'd secured the family's finances back home.

His '96 Toyota Camry crept past the sagging fence of the abandoned warehouse covered in graffiti. Some youngsters sat about smoking and drinking, watching the car through hooded eyes and dull streetlight. Carlos parked round the back and checked his phone again. Upstairs, Fourth Floor, D5. He turned off the screen, put on his gloves and zipped up his jacket before stepping outside. His breath left white fog in the air, and he shoved his hands into his pockets before jogging across the parking lot. He climbed the stairs two at a time, cautioning himself about how slippery they were.

What the hell was even in D5? he thought as he turned the corner of the second floor and started the third flight of stairs. It wouldn't be more than he could handle, but if things blew to shit, Elena would be pissed. He could imagine her now, sitting near the phone biting her nails in case he called while the kids, oblivious to everything, squabbled over what movie to watch and threw popcorn at each other.

He paused outside D5 and looked around. The conversation of the youngsters below droned on, and distant traffic sprayed the silence of the night. The driveway remained abandoned except for a pair of strays sniffing out some boxes near the dumpster. He pulled a key from his pocket before squinting at the door's nameplate, blackened from mold and glistening from dew to decipher the number. D4, good. The lock turned easily, and he slipped inside and shut the door.

The air smelled of old cigar, and Carlos' trained nose deciphered Padrón 1926 Series #90. The 'Boss' was definitely here. Near the window, a massive high-back leather chair stood behind a rich oak desk where an impressive silver panther reflected the moon's glint. New plush carpet covered half the floor while sleek wood graced the other half. Maps of the city, newspaper clippings and photographs of individuals pasted the dark walls. He recognized some faces. He researched their backgrounds some time ago, but curiosity did not induce him to read anything, so he pulled out his phone and sent a text. In less than two minutes, the screen glowed with an incoming call.

"I'm inside. What am I supposed to do now?"

"That was quicker than I expected?"

Carlos scanned the dark corners of the room.

"Well?"

"Easy, man. You see the black filing cabinet next to the lampstand?"

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna open the lowest drawer and look for Dr. Levitsky."

"Doctor Nikolaj Levitsky?" His fingers expertly ran over file names. "He's a renowned physicist with a PhD in biology, radioactive science, and psychology. He shook the world of science as we knew it when he proved that with the right alteration to the human DNA, an individual can reform their bodies into lethal weapons from regenerating limbs to unnatural animalistic abilities like scaling walls, immunity to poisonous gases, breathing underwater, etc. In 2006, an explosion at his estate in London killed his wife and child-he'd been at a conference in France at the time-and after the funeral, the great man disappeared from the world. No one's heard from him in sixteen years."