I

DISCOVERY

It happened when I was walking home. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t such a good idea, given what I knew about this neighborhood. My car broke down again, it was the third time that week and I really should’ve known better. The good old procrastination bug, I always managed to get it going again after a few bangs and kicks. Not this time.

It was half past ten at night and the fog was so thick I couldn’t see past six feet. I remember tugging my coat as tightly around myself as I could while attempting to stave off the shakes. The damned street lamps were flickering again and a distant corner of my mind whined about the city’s lack of appropriate budget management. I lowered my head and pressed on, watching my breath mist before my nose. Again, in retrospect probably not such a good idea.

A shadow appeared in my downcast vision. Bulky shadow, with an intimidating outline. Naturally, my eyes followed the stretching silhouette to their source. He was a big guy, built like a grizzly bear and oozing hostility from every contour. His hand was tucked suspiciously into his jacket. I stopped, staring for a few moments before every neuron responsible for life preservation screamed danger!

He opened his maw and I got a whiff of cheap alcohol.

“Hey, you that reporter guy from the Times?”

There, at just that moment, I felt a chill crawl down my spine. I’d had my share of big stories, but it’s not as if my picture was ever emblazoned on the front page. From my experience, people like Grizzly here don’t exactly have fervor for investigative reporting.

“A lot of guys write for the Times,” I managed through chattering teeth.

It wasn’t just the temperature now. My radar was spinning and I was scanning for an exit. Damn this fog, I thought.

Grizzly wasn’t taking the bait.

“Yeah but you’re that Robert Sharpe guy right? The one who writes about gangs and shit?”

The chill on my spine had become a full body freeze. My mind was in lockdown and my heart was in my throat. He had a name. He had my name. Bad sign.

I started to backpedal. Slowly. Hoping that he wouldn’t notice. All the while I cursed myself for getting into this situation. Foggy night, faulty lamps, no witnesses and no fast exits. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve called a cab. Should’ve waited in the car. Should’ve walked the other-fucking-way!

Grizzly caught on, stepped forward to close the gap. Now I can smell his lice-ridden hair. Again, what part of my mind not occupied by fear and panic wondered where they got guys like him.

“You are, aren’t ya? Boy, you must’ve stepped on some toes…”

That did it. I leapt back, trying as hard as I could to put some distance between us. His hand came out from the moth-eaten jacket and I saw the snub-nose even as I twisted to run. I won’t make it. I knew I wouldn’t make it. I was too close by a mile, not even a drunk could miss that shot. I pumped my legs anyway, desperation more than actual hope. I had to do something as I waited for the shot.

It wasn’t what I expected. Not at all. Sure there was a bang and a flash. In fact, it was loud enough to make my ears ring for good three hours and I was airborne from how hard it slammed into me. Something was just… off. I’d never been shot before, but at the very least, I thought it would hurt.

I hit the asphalt hard, tasted blood in my mouth. I smarted all over. I couldn’t breathe. But I was pretty sure that I wasn’t dying. I rolled over, running my hands over my chest and abdomen as I went, looking for a hole. I didn’t find it. No sticky red liquid. No stabbing pain indicating a mortal wound.

Then my vision refocused. Through the cracked lenses of my glasses I saw something… miraculous.

Smoke drifted across a scorch mark on the asphalt. My stunned nostrils managed to detect the tangy odor of sulfur. A stun grenade. I’d been knocked over by a stun grenade.

What the hell?

I remember my explosion-addled brain trying to deal with the meaning of this concept. Somebody had intervened. Somebody had saved my ass, but how? Cops? I didn’t see any around…

The mist parted just enough for me to see him for the first time. Well, just his silhouette really. A long rain poncho, hood pulled low over the face, its tales hanging still in the heavy mist. Grizzly, easily twice this guy’s size, lay still on the ground. I had a feeling it wasn’t just the stun grenade.

His head moved slightly. The flickering streetlamp illuminated the glossy plastic of his hood. I felt his eyes on me and the hair on my neck stood up.

“Sorry, Mr .Sharpe, but we need you alive for a while.”

That voice. Well, I’ll never forget it. At the same time, I’m not sure if I remember it. The exact pitch or tone escapes me. What I retained was the utter coolness with which he said it. No affection, no expectations, just a plain statement of fact.

I remember managing a single, shaky question,

“Who are you?”

Then the streetlamp tripped and the street was plunged into darkness. I heard nothing but my own breathing for an hour before I was found by a lonely squad car. I didn’t bother repeating the story to the cops. Whether it was out of fear of being labeled a nut or the very reasonable assumption that they wouldn’t have believed me, I don’t know. In any case, I knew they wouldn’t find a trace of Poncho, or his stun grenade.

The case closed in due time. I had no trouble explaining my way out of the deal. Cops don’t like reporters, but they like lawsuits even less. Twenty-four hours later I was disentangled from the whole mess on grounds of self-defense. But I knew it wasn’t over. No… it had just begun.

All along the Watchtower

Princes Kept the View

Outside in the Cold Distance

A Wild Cat did Growl

Two Riders were Approachin’

And the Wind began to Howl

I followed the howling winds from that night. The wind only I could hear. I followed it in search of what I knew to be out there. I was looking for the Watchtower. Even as it watches us.