Subject 624

  Subject 624

  Scott Ferrell

  MysticPhysh Publishing

  Find out more about MysticPhysh Publishing here.

  www.mysticphysh.com

  Copyright © 2017 Scott Ferrell

  Find out about the author by going to these sites:

  http://www.munboy.com

  https://www.facebook.com/a.munboy

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Matt Akin

  Cover Design: rebekacovers

  Catman By: Amanda Swan

  ISBN: 1976265452

  ISBN-13: 978-1976265457

  Table of Content

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  ACKNOLWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  As always, I have my family to thank for being so supportive of my writing career. Without them, none of this would be possible. Without them, I have no idea what I’d be doing. Most likely going crazy listening to all of these voices in my head. Getting them out and on the page helps quiet them. At least until new voices take over.

  I’d like to dedicate this book to the readers out there, however. I could spend the rest of my life typing out these stories and be happy, but putting them in the hands of readers elevates me above the weirdo with a hard drive full of strange stories. Thank you all. I am truly grateful.

  Chapter 1

  Day 1

  2:11 a.m.

  My name is Conor Ferguson, but you wouldn’t know me by that. How would you know me? Simple. I am Catman.

  Ugh! No and no. I suppressed a groan. Catman? Really? As far as superhero names went, they didn’t get much lamer than that.

  Punk #1 slashed his small pocketknife at me. I leaned back. The blade whistled past my chest, missing by a couple of inches. I could have dodged it by a foot or more, but I wanted him to think he had me on the ropes.

  Catman? What in the world was I thinking? I mean, c’mon, what were my special abilities? Sleeping twenty hours a day and plopping down in front of as many people as possible to clean myself by licking everywhere? And I do mean everywhere!

  I could come up with a better nickname than that. Maybe right in the middle of a fight wasn’t the best time.

  I twisted to the right to avoid a baseball bat. Punk #1 had a partner whom I cleverly dubbed Punk #2. Telling them apart was easy. Punk #2 had a ski mask with a skull face screen-printed on it. Terrifying. Really. No sarcasm there. Really. His Punk twin wore a plain black ski mask. He was apparently less willing to toss the extra cash on one a bit more stylish.

  There was another member of their little group, rounding out the masked triplets, but Punk #3—I have a problem coming up with names, okay?—took off running down the alley at the first sign of trouble. Balls of steel, that one.

  I reached back and caught myself with a hand on the filthy asphalt as Punk #2’s aluminum t-ball bat whirled over my head nearly hitting #1. Yeah, I said t-ball bat. I wondered if he stole it from his little sister. It was such a lovely shade of two-toned purple.

  “Watch it!” #1 yelled. “Stay outta the way! I’m taking this chump down.”

  Wolverine? No, that one was taken. Leave it to a company with a bajillion dollars to sue me for copyright infringement. Ugh! All the cool names were taken.

  I pushed myself back to a standing position just as Punk #1 lashed out with his knife. I twisted at the waist to lean out of range of the slash. Reversing his swing, he brought the blade down diagonally, aiming at my stomach. I slid back but let the blade come closer than ever.

  What other cool cat-like animals were there? Maybe I could think of one not taken. I definitely needed to leave the man part off the end of it. That was so 1900s. Lynx? Not quite on the same level of lameness as Catman but still pretty lame.

  Punk #1 yanked his arm back and drove the tip of the blade forward, no doubt thinking he had a killing strike. I snatched his wrist with my left hand, twisted, and brought my right arm up under his. My bicep hit just below his armpit. I probably used more force than I meant. I heard two pops. His arm bent over my shoulder at an odd angle. He cried out and dropped the knife.

  I drove my elbow into his torso. Air rushed out of his lungs, cutting his scream short. I spun away and turned to face him. Punk #1’s arm hung at odd angles at the shoulder and elbow. He hunched over and whimpered.

  “Oops,” I muttered.

  When people say “I guess I don’t know my own strength,” it’s usually because they broke something on accident. For me, I mean it literally. I don’t know my own strength. At sixteen, I really don’t think I’d found my limit yet. I felt like I was getting stronger all the time.

  To Punk #2’s credit, he stepped in front of his mate with the purple t-ball bat held out in what I assumed was a threatening manner. Two problems. First, it was a purple t-ball bat. Second, he was scared out of his mind. The bat twitched in his hand and the eyes inside the ski mask holes were more whites than pupils.

  “Where’d you get your mask?” I asked him.

  The Skull? Normally something like that was too morbid for my taste, but I might look pretty impressive swooping down on bad guys dressed all in black with nothing but a skull face showing. Wait, where have I seen that before?

  “Huh?” The t-ball bat dropped a little.

  “The mask.” I pointed at my own ski mask. Not quite as awesome as his skull, but still pretty nice with red and silver slashes across it.

  “Oh. Um. The mall,” he answered.

  “Ah,” I say knowingly. “Probably too late in the season for ski gear, though, huh?”

  “Um...”

  “Yeah, we should probably get this over with. I think your buddy’s about to pass out.”

  Punk #1 swayed on his feet. His arm looked incredibly painful. I nearly lost my dinner when I noticed it hung a full two inches lower than his other arm. Some hero that would make—blowing chunks in the middle of a fight because of a couple of dislocated joints.

  I took a step towards Punk #2, intent on finishing him so I could get a few hours of sleep. He raised the t-ball bat defensively, but before I could move in, a loud crack echoed down the dark alley. Something ripped through my shoulder. The force of the impact spun me a full 180 degrees and tossed me to the ground at Punk #2’s feet.

  Was that a gun? That was a gunshot, right?

  Punk #3 hadn’t run very far—just far enough to grab a gun.

  I gasped at the sharp pain that flashed through my shoulder when I moved it. Gritting my tee
th, I pushed myself to my knees, holding myself up with my good arm. I heard a thunk, and a moment later, a new pain streaked across my shoulder. Punk #2 had put the t-ball bat to use. Purple or not, it hurt. I rolled onto my back. He stood over me, the small bat raised for another strike. The fear was gone from his eyes. Amazing what backup with a gun did for a person’s confidence.

  “Wait!” I held up my good arm to delay the next blow.

  He hesitated.

  “What do you think of The Night Shadow?” I asked. “I just came up with that one myself.”

  His eyebrows drew together in confusion.

  I sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Night doesn’t usually make a shadow.” I heard Punk #3 running down the alley, no doubt eager to finish me off. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions, do you?”

  Punk #2’s mouth opened, then closed it. He blinked.

  Sufficiently distracted, I rolled toward him. My left shoulder screamed with pain, but I ignored it and threw a punch at his knee. It crunched as his leg flew back and he pitched forward. I pulled my fist back and landed another blow to his jaw on the way down. He hit the ground and lay still.

  Conveniently enough, his t-ball bat clattered right beside me. I snatched it up and hefted it. No wonder he had chosen it as his weapon of choice to prowl the night. It was light but felt solid, and the flare of pain across my back testified to its ability to do some damage.

  I sat up. Punk #3 stopped about twenty yards away. He apparently intended to end me from a distance. He raised the gun. I flicked my wrist, sending the t-ball bat spinning at him. I flopped back to the ground as another shot rang out, followed by a very satisfying ring of the bat hitting something solid.

  I lifted my head from the grimy alley in time to see Punk #3’s head snapping back, the bat and gun flinging off in separate directions. He hit the pavement with a thud and lay still.

  “Yes!” I pumped my right hand into the air. “How’s that for Batman! Ha! Get it? Batman…” I turned to Punk #1.

  He must not have been impressed. He ran in the opposite direction, his arm flopping at his side.

  “Nobody appreciates a good pun nowadays.”

  Speaking of arms. I looked at my left shoulder. Even in the dim alley, I could see blood seeping out of the wound. A dark red circle spread on my shirt. I sucked in a breath through my teeth and pulled the collar down to examine the damage. Good, a through and through. I’d never been shot before but after the initial pain, it wasn’t so bad. The hole was already starting to close.

  I pushed myself to my feet and walked to where a man sat slumped against the wall. He was the victim of Punks #1 through 3’s mayhem. His head was down, chin against his chest, and his hands limp at his sides. He was unconscious but alive. He’d have some nasty bruises judging by the way his face was puffing up, but it could have been a lot worse. His wallet lay a few feet away, open and its contents strewn about. I knelt and tapped his shoulder.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  He groaned in reply and slid over. Out cold.

  A police siren cut through the quiet night. The piercing whine sounded a few blocks away. I guessed Punk #3’s target practice had gained some attention.

  I didn’t think I’d be able to explain the situation in a way that would keep me out of jail, so I stood and took off running in the same direction as Punk #1. I’d let the police sort out the collection unconscious bodies.

  3:03 a.m.

  I crouched in a neighbor’s bushes a few doors down the street from my house. No lights were on inside any of the houses, including my own. I checked my watch, pleased with myself. Another night of not getting caught. Throw in a few hours of sleep and it would be a perfect night.

  Except for the whole getting shot thing. That kind of put a damper on things.

  The street was just as dark as the houses. The single streetlight on the block worked pretty much only when it wanted to—which wasn’t very often. I was okay with that.

  I hurried to my yard, hopped the white picket fence, and slipped across the lawn to the left side of my house. I stopped at the last window and slid it open with my good arm. It was only chest high, but getting inside with one bad shoulder took some thinking. Normally, I’d boost myself to a sitting position on the window sill and swing my legs through. I didn’t think I’d have the strength to do that with the way my arm felt,.

  After a quick glance around, I gripped the ledge with my right hand and knelt. I bounced on my toes twice and launched myself through, hoping I didn’t crack my head on the bottom of the window.

  I cleared it but managed to kick the alarm clock off the stand by my bed on the way through and crash to the floor on my bad shoulder. I clamped my teeth together to keep from crying out in pain until the stabbing pain subsided.

  Lying on the floor, I strained my ears. The house remained silent. My parents could sleep through an impromptu Fourth of July fireworks celebration.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I slid the window shut and dropped the blinds in front of it. I picked up the clock and returned it to its place. It still worked, happily flashing those two little dots between the numbers.

  I crossed the room and flipped on the small desk lamp, squinting at the sudden light. My room was a little cramped, but it was mine. I didn’t have to share with anyone like the twin annoyances, aka my brothers. At one point, it had been a typical room belonging to a sixteen-year-old. Floor? What floor? You mean those wooden planks beneath the clothes, books, papers, and other assortments of clutter?

  It used to be like that. I kept the area of floor under my window clear ever since I started sneaking out of the house last year. I don’t do it all the time, only a few times a month. I have school in the mornings, after all. Besides, most nights are boring. Salt Lake City wasn’t exactly the crime capital of the world.

  Still, I needed to get in and out of the window unobstructed. I had shoved my desk against the wall next to and wedged the dresser inside the closet. That opened plenty of floor space for me.

  Don’t get me wrong, my room is still messy, but it’s more open than it used to be. More or less. The free space gave me access in and out of the window with minimal noise.

  I pulled off the sweaty ski mask and tossed it to the other side of the bed where the rest of my unclean—and some clean—clothes lived. I looked at my ruined sweatshirt and frowned. I’d bought it specifically for my little forays into the night. It was black and made of loose, light material. Perfect for extracurricular activities. Now I’d have to buy a new one.

  I managed to get it off without moving my left shoulder too much. The pain was starting to go away, but that was replaced with stiffness settling into the muscles. I used the shirt to wipe as much of the drying blood off my arm as I could before tossing it under the bed, hoping I’d remember to get rid of it sooner rather than later.

  A quick examination revealed the bullet hole had completely closed on both sides. I was glad to see it. Before that, a shallow stab was the worst among a whole host of scrapes and bruises I’d managed to acquire. Most of those had healed before I got home, but I wasn’t so sure about a through and through gunshot wound. How long would it take to heal completely?

  I rotated my shoulder but stopped half way through and sucked in a hissing breath. It needed a little more time before I exerted it anymore. I hoped a few hours of sleep would do it wonders. My baseball coach wouldn’t be too pleased if all of the sudden I couldn’t swing a big boy sized, non-purple bat.

  I clicked the lamp off and collapsed on the bed without stripping off the rest of my clothes. I was out within minutes.

  Chapter 2

  7:34 a.m.

  Mom called from somewhere on the other side of my bedroom door. Far, far away. I ignored her and slipped back into sleep. Beautiful, beautiful sleep.

  7:34 a.m.

  She called again from somewhere down the hall. Probably the kitchen. Who needed a snooze button when I have a persistent mother? Then agai
n, I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate me hitting her on the head every nine minutes.

  I didn’t bother to look at the time. That would take way too much energy with all the head lifting and eye opening involved. I had a few more minutes to sleep. Just a few minutes.