The Samaritan Cometh
Part 2: Zero Point
By Brian Lewis a.k.a Red Vector
Into this house we’re born, into this world we’re thrown.
The Doors
Naked and more than a little disoriented, I rise unsteadily to my feet. I grip the cast iron
post for support, unmindful of the metal giving way like clay under my fingers. It’s only
then that I stop and take in the marvels wrought by the change; a body that was fragile
and frail is now one of rock hard bone, sheathed in thick corded muscle. Looking at my
hands, I find them twice as large as they were before and artist’s delicate hands no
longer. They are attached to arms that some body builders would kill for. I take my near
sledgehammer sized right fist and slam it into the palm of my left hand. The impact is
unfelt, but inside the loft it sounds like a gunshot.
But most incredible of all were my legs. The effects of the disease that had stolen
Clayton’s mobility, and was slowly and torturously stealing his life were gone. They are
like coiled steel springs that like the rest of my body virtually hums with power and
potential. I smile as I notice another equally important part of my lower anatomy has not
been neglected.
Satisfied that “there’s a place for everything, and everything’s in its place” on my body.
I begin to explore the loft. It’s a place that’s both familiar and somehow alien at the
same time. As I look around, it’s a typical open floor plan encompassing kitchen, living
and bedroom, with a separate bathroom. The term “loft” actually is misleading; it’s a
building on what used to be part of the Charleston SC Naval Base. When the base was
shutdown the support structures were converted to living spaces. The building was
originally owned by his brother Thomas, a Navy seal, killed in action a few years ago. As
active duty military he got a “sweetheart” deal on the property, and to save money he
did most of the renovations himself. They only changes made to the structure were to
make the kitchen and bathroom wheelchair accessible after he inherited the building.
On the far left side of the building I see the stairs to the roof deck, an area Clayton was
denied because of his disability. Almost without realizing it I’m bounding up the stairs
effortlessly and through the door out to the roof deck. A cold, wind driven, November
rain is falling from the night sky. As the rain washes away the blood from the change, I’
m struck by a realization that despite by nakedness, I’m apparently resistant to the cold.
As I turn to go back inside I hear the sound of voices from the rear of the building.
Instinctively, I cloak myself in shadow and the night’s sounds. Crouching down, I move
to the railing and look down. That’s when I see an SUV conversion, outfitted like an
ambulance except its black, and parked away from the streetlights. A man is talking on
a cell phone.
“Fuck,” He says. “Neither Thompson nor Linderman are answering.” Irritated, he snaps
the phone shut and shoves it in his pocket.
My perceptions shift and I can see him clearly despite the rain and darkness. He’s a
large, powerfully built man wearing a black trench coat and dark slacks. From the way
he carries himself, he’s probably heavily armed. Looking at his face, his longish hair is
dark and has a goatee. He turns to the man seated in the truck. I shift my perceptions
again and see that he’s a black man with a shaved head.
“Watkins, you stay with the truck.” He says as he moves to the back door. “Watch the
back give a shout on the radio if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”
“Sure Benson” Is his simple reply. “But, you sure you want to go in by yourself?” .
“Its 1:45 in the morning” Glancing at his watch. “What could happen? He’s alone, a
cripple, and probably asleep.”
As I go back inside to greet my new guest, I think to myself “What fools these mortals
be.”