Hero

It was a cold December night. The moon hung in the sky, bloated and red like a blood-filled burlap sack, barely visible between the oppressive clouds. Down below, the mournful wail of police sirens split the air, muted by the otherwise still silence of winter. Through the mist, red and blue lights flashed to the chorus of lamentation that rose in a crescendo of surprise, fear, and disbelief. A thick blanket of snow covered the streets of Chicago’s South Shore, its pristine white surface marred only by the dark red blood pooling around the mutilated and dismembered corpse of a young man. Stepping out of the warmth of his police cruiser, detective Walter Donnavan surveyed the scene unfolding before him. Already a crowd was beginning to form, each straining to get a better view of the body on the other side of the newly formed police perimeter. Seeing this elicited a grim chuckle from the dour police detective. Funny thing what a murder can do to people. He had known this kid, had seen him many times over the years in the precinct for various petty crimes; had arrested him a few times, too. Nobody cared who he was in life, but his death filled them all with a morbid fascination.

“My God,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “What the hell could have done this?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Walter saw his partner, detective Damien Tour, walking towards the body. His partner was correct in his observation; the body was brutalized almost beyond recognition. The ribcage was cracked open, and most of the internal organs were missing; an arm was severed and strewn several feet from the corpse. Next to the body was a small pink purse, oddly out of place amongst the bloody carnage.

“Shit,” muttered Walter under his breath before turning to his partner. “This looks like the work of an animal, not a man.”

“You think a dog got him?” asked Damien.

“No, not a dog.” replied Walter. “These cuts are clean, as if made by a razor. And no bite marks.”

Grimacing at the scene before him, detective Donnavan straightened himself up and pulled the fringes of his coat tighter around his frame.

“Until evidence points to the contrary,” he said, turning and walking back to the waiting police cruiser, “we are treating this as a homicide, with an armed and dangerous perp still on the loose. Call it in.”

Yes, thought Walter Donnavan. It was a very cold night.

***

Like a darting sparrow, a shadow leapt between two adjacent buildings. Landing nimbly on his feet and deftly transitioning into a roll, Alfred Gordon, the man known as the Scarlet Avenger, sprinted across the rooftop. Arriving at the building’s edge, he paused and looked out into the distance. Chicago skyline lay sprawled before him, the moon in the sky as crimson as the suit he was clothed in. The wind was starting to pick up, sending the lightly falling snowflakes billowing around his still form. On his back, a cape of deep red cloth rippled in the cold breeze. It was a cold night, Alfred though; it was not a night to be outside, yet the crime in this city did not sleep, and so neither would he.

Looking out over the city he was sworn to defend, he listened intently, picking up the slightest sounds with his superhuman sense of hearing.

“All officers use 10-0. We have a 10-35 on 70th street. Potential 10-31. We have a B.O.L.O out for anyone leaving the scene at 22h00."

A serious crime had occurred, he thought. Recently, by the sounds of it. He could hear the sounds of panicked whispers on the air, voices spreading from the source of the crime to disperse their stories throughout the city.

“Did you see what happened to him?”

“...like some kind of animal.”

“...never seen anything like it.”

Leaping down from his rooftop perch, the Scarlet Avenger once more hastened across the city skyline. As he made his swift passage across the rooftops, he spotted something down below. A figure, a large knife in his hand, pointing it at two young women. Without a second thought he vaulted down, landing in front of the would-be mugger. The thug’s eyes grew wide with terror, just as Alfred’s fist connected with his stomach, sending the criminal reeling. A second strike to the head knocked him down into the dirt. Triumphant, Alfred turned to the women.

They were screaming in terror.

***

It was around midnight when Walter Donnavan received the call.

“10-35 in progress at 75th and Crandon. All available officers respond.”

As the nearest on-duty officer to the coordinates, he was the first to respond. When he arrived at the scene, a horrifying sight greeted him. A body lay in the street, mangled and torn to pieces. It was a homeless man, by the looks of it. What remained of his clothes were filthy and threadbare, and a metal tin lay near the body amid scattered coins. He had been disemboweled and his head was missing. Over the body stood a creature that would have been out of place even in the grizzled detective’s darkest, most depraved dreams. It was six feet tall, with pallid and sickly flesh stretched over a skeletal frame. Its hair was long and unkept, and matted with dark dried blood. Extending from its gaunt hands were razor edged talons, which at the present moment were embedded in the chest of its latest victim, tearing out his internal organs, which the creature then shoved into its gaping maw.

Rushing out of his patrol car, Walter drew his service piston and pointed it at the creature. Behind him, he could hear his fellow officers rushing to provide backup.

“Stop,” he shouted at the beast.

***

“Step away from the man, and put your hands above your head,” Alfred heard the gangbanger shout, pointing a pistol at him. A whole mob of them had swarmed in just as he was restraining the criminal on the ground, likely to assist one of their own. Swift as the wind, he stood and leapt at the nearest one, slamming into him even as the gang opened fire. Bullets bounced off the impervious layer provided by his scarlet suit. He punched him in the gut, bringing the criminal to the ground, then moved on to the next.

***

Detective Donnavan watched in horror as the beast tore into his officer. Its razor claws raked across the man’s chest, splitting both bulletproof vest and ribcage alike like they were made of butter. The monster was taking a lot of fire, black blood spurting from multiple bullet wounds. It leapt at him next, but before its claws could strike home he was shoved aside by his partner, Damien. The beast’s talons missed him, but the other man was not so lucky. He screamed as his body was shredded by those filth encrusted razors. Landing on his back, Walter aimed his pistol at the creature and fired into its flank at near point-blank range.

***

Bullets ripped through his side, finally bypassing the protection of his body armour. Crying out in pain, Alfred fell away from the man he had been fighting. He put his hand to his side and pulled it away red and wet with blood. Sensing his moment of weakness, the other gangbangers began firing once more, their bullets tearing into him like red hot pokers. The Scarlet Avenger, once a proud and mighty figure, now slumped to the ground in a quivering, bleeding mass. As his vision blurred, and the cold darkness began to overtake him, tears of sorrow began to well in the eyes of Alfred Gordon. Here, in the snow-covered streets of Chicago’s South Shore neighbourhood, the city had lost its last great hero; the valiant defender of the weak had finally fallen to the bullets of the corrupt.

As he lay on the ground, bleeding from dozens of bullet wounds, Alfred looked one final time at the crimson moon as the cold winter night overtook him.