CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Boston Harbor, Massachusetts

"Whut are we doing here?"

"I thought you'd enjoy a brief tour of this wonderful nation's founding cities." DarkFlood jested as he kept his eye on the looming alleyway.

"Then why don't we go to some landmarks?" Lazarus suggested.

"You're right," Philip conceded rather quickly. He walked away with his focus remaining on the alleyway, and he looked forward at the street before the pier. There was something off that only Lazarus could see. Just before they got to the street around people, DarkFlood ran a cluster-jump, teleporting each member of his group 1-2-3 in a matter of two seconds.

DarkFlood brought them to a brick chapel with an immaculately white steeple, "One if by land, two if by see." But no one caught that one except us.

Back at the harbor...

Some kid walked out of a seafood restaurant and dumped the black trash bag he was holding in the dumpster. Except he was not a kid, he ws a thirty three year-old dishwasher named Oliver. He kicked his shoe off and propped the door open as he stood outside in the cold smoking a cigarette.

"Ollie get the fuck back in there!" the chef yelled holding the door.

"Alright, take it easy, let me finish my bogie."

The stout chef huffed and puffed and went back inside. In doing so he unknowingly pushed Ollie's shoe and the door closes.

Ollie doesn't even notice until he finished his cigarette, "That dick!" He banged on the door but there was no answer. He had to go around to the front now. Ollie staggered out of the alleyway, trying not to put his foot on the floor or get his sock wet. Halfway to the street he fell, hitting his knees on the cobblestone road. It hurt like hell, not his knees but his whole body, like something was under his skin.

Ollie screamed in the deep Boston downtown oblivion, but nobody heard him. Nobody wanted to hear him, he might as well have been murdered. Oliver grabbed the stone. The pain seemed to be subsiding. His gut felt a little off. But other than that, he felt okay. He got back up and checked his knees, but there was no need to. He already felt fine. In fact, he felt great, better than ever.

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Ollie puked in a flowerbox on a windowsill.

But there was something different about him. He knew it was there. He knew it was the cause of the pain, or perhaps the effect? It was a terrifying notion, but oddly refreshing. It was like he was in a new life, one of infinite potential. Just as long as he fed.

Oliver tried to walk but passed out cold. He woke up seconds later with the back of his head wetting the cobblestone. He got himself up on his elbows and rubbed his scalp. When he brought his hand back over within sight he saw blood, his own blood. Ollie checked his head, there was a sizable gash created by the fainting and cobblestone. A wave of sensation reminiscent of the pain that covered him not moments ago shot from his chest to his head. When the sensation hit his wound his hand was still on it, examining the gash hesitantly with his fingers.

The sensation pulled his wound back together and all that remained was drying blood, even his hair was back. It was perfect length and he had just gotten a haircut not two days ago. He felt drained, his body oozing life. Ollie crawled over to the wall in the alleyway and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. His shaky hands could barely pull one out let alone light it. Just as he finally got the lighter lit, his stomach roared out as if he had never eaten before.

Ollie screamed and clenched his gut in the shadow. The chef turned the corner and found him sitting in the alleyway. "WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING OUT HERE!"

"Not now, Pedro...I'm-"

"You get inside right now, or you're fired!"

"I'm trying to tell you that-"

"You're fired then."

"What?"

"You're dirt, Oliver. You always will be."

Oliver got up and walked over to the chef.

"You fat fucking bastard," Getting in his face, "You got a lot of nerve talking to me like that. I know you've been fucking that bartender, how does your wife and kid feel about that?"

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"No, I'm killing you!"

Oliver grabs the chef's head. His fingers knock off his beanie as Ollie plunges both thumbs into his eyeballs. The chef screams out and Ollie breathes in his life, his pain, and his fear. The fat bastard falls and before he can hit the ground he turns to nothing. Oliver cleans the remaining blood in the street with a hose and burns the chef's clothes in the dumpster never to return again. He leaves the harbor and Boston forever. He doesn't have much money, and he knows he will kill again. It feels too good not to. To be invincible...a reoccurring dream from his childhood come true. So, he decides to go to New York City.

From within the shadows two figures talk amongst themselves, out of Oliver’s earshot. "Why are we here? You said there would only be four of us to start." Lazarus asks Philip.

"Know your enemy."