6It was something one would never find again.
Not the location, by no means. It was, as truck stops go, unavoidable, being supplanted on the dusty side of the long road between Seattle and Fort Worth. No, this pair of gas pumps and the cozy diner, as common as the gender was, could not be lost to the distant back roads of rural America.
Maybe it was the time. Illuminated by a swinging, naked light bulb, innumerable tendrils of fog caressed the cool pre-dawn world, scattering a mix of frost and dew across the wide road. Still as a painting—perhaps more so, as nobody stood to behold it and thusly permeate the dream-like expanse with their imaginations, the firs towered ever higher about the dark visage, the rare night bird flitting from branch to branch.
Regardless, Erik Vachtden felt certain he would never see a moment quite this beautiful again. Gazing out from his dark corner, he sipped some powerful coffee, straight black. Bitter, but effective. He felt his eyelids lose substantial burden as his fingers gripped the cup tighter. He was going to pay for that in a few hours.
Another light flickered off outside, and the glare deserted the window.
Erik found his reflection gazing back at him.
He had once been called handsome, when he had lived in a world that dispensed petty compliments. They had called his eyes radiant, before he kept a pair of mirrored sunglasses over them at all feasible times. They had deemed his hair groomed and luxurious, before he had layered it with so much deceiving dye over the years that he didn't remember his natural color. He'd worn the latest brands, before a gray greatcoat became his monastic robes, worn in his penance.
No.
He forced his mind not to revert to the day, so many years ago. At the same time, he found himself fighting a losing battle.
The roar of a Harley engine ripping his canvas to memory pulled him from his reverie, and he snapped to attention. Three bikes, choppers with furious engines and massive bars, rolled into the parking lot, their riders letting off whoops as they killed the engines, slowing to stops. Erik's eyes narrowed as he doubled down, apparently retying his shoelace. His finger deftly unhitched the button holding the cover of the knife sheath on his right ankle.
He watched through the massive plate-glass window as they dismounted their metal steeds, arrogantly heedless of the lines denoting parking spaces, and began towards the door at a boorish gait.
A massive fellow, evidently the leader of this odious herd, crashed the door open with a single leather boot. The cool night air wafted in through the door, carrying the bittersweet smell of alcohol to assail Erik's senses.
His suspicions were confirmed, as the man stumbled when he landed, inducing a loud belch. He murmured something unintelligible to the lackeys to either side, which drew raucous laughter. Erik straightened up, secure in the knowledge that he had a weapon at hand.
"Darlin'!" shouted the drunk, a heavy drawl about him. Behind the counter, a portly woman looked up. She was about middle-aged, gum in her mouth and a pen in hand. The old apron she wore with distinct familiarity. "Can I get you boys some coffee?" she asked, and by all indications of her tone, she didn't care overmuch about the answer.
The drunk let out a compromise of a snort and a laugh. "Somethin' stronger, girlie, and maybe this one's on the house?" As he spoke, he shoved his hand into his jacket and pulled it out, a revolver in his meaty grip.
The woman let out a noise, spawning a grin on the lout's face. The two other bikers laughed, evidently used to their leader's method of payment. Erik, still seated comfortably in his booth by the window, let out a sigh.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
The drunk turned to regard him, evidently not noticing him until he spoke. The man squinted a moment, then turned his face into a snarl. Erik crossed his arms, letting out a more audible sigh. He noticed, with satisfaction, that the barrel of the revolver had drifted off-target when the thug had turned to look at him.
"What's yer problem?" he asked, irritated. Erik raised his eyebrow.
"Well, in one instance, I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast." he casually indicated the bagel, half eaten, on his plate. "And both the robbery and the smell you dragged in here are making it pretty hard."
It seemed to take the man a moment to comprehend that he had just been insulted. "You son of a bitch..." he snarled, pulling back the hammer as the drew the gun to bear towards Erik.
Erik's next actions passed in the blink of an eye.
Using an iota of concentration and a millisecond of focus, he summoned the telekinetic abilities that he had fostered since birth. He felt the familiar sensation of contact as his mental influence enveloped two objects nearby.
He threw his arms wide, a grand sweeping gesture, and he felt the throwing knife slip from its sheath as the coffee cup leaped off of the table, even as he sprung to his feet and made a dash for the farthest thug.
The razor-tipped knife, honed to thin perfection, as it was rarely wielded by clumsy hands, embedded itself into the gunman's shoulder. The man's pain, rage, and shock escaped his body in a howl as the revolver clattered to the floor. The coffee cup simultaneously streaked towards another's face, stopping just short. The piping-hot liquid, however, continued, splashing into his face. He screamed, clutching his eyes as he fell to his knees.
The third thug, understandably distracted, never saw Eriks fist until it crumpled him to the ground.
Erik turned and beckoned, and the throwing knife slid, bloodless, from its fleshy sheath. Calmly, he lowered his hand, and the knife came to float, orbiting lazily around his head.
The second man, burned eyes red, got onto his hands and knees, a curse forming on his lips. From his waistband he pulled a heavy lead pipe.
"No." Erik said. Without even realizing it, he felt the pipe in his contact, and before he could stop it, the crude weapon was ripped from the man's fingers and flipping upwards. With an audible "crack", it embedded itself securely in the ceiling.
The thug's vehement expression of shock and fear was forced from his gut with a savage kick of Erik's boot. The man wheezed, clutching his belly, before falling on his chest. He didn't move.
A gunshot rang out.
The sound of metal on metal resonated from behind Erik. The man spun, arms up and ready, even as he felt the throwing knife crumple through his contact as it blocked the bullet. The two chunks of metal fell to the ground, intertwined, and Erik found himself facing the leader. The man was substantially less confident as before, and sobered by the reality that he could not win. A visible shaking now replaced his loose grip, a wide-eyed stare in place of the slack, unfocused look. He did his best to form coherent words, then gave up a minute later.
Before he could think up any more stupid ideas, Erik gripped the gun with his mind. A point of his finger opened the chamber, a wave of his hand dropped the bullets, unfired, out of the gun, and a flick of his wrist sent the entire thing flying, handle first, into the would-be robber's forehead. It caught him between the eyes and they both closed, the thug dropping to the floor.
As he hit the floor, Erik turned to regard the woman. She stood behind the counter, eyes wide, babbling noises that vaguely resembled words. His gaze drifted, where he saw a phone, hanging off the hook. Training his ears, he could vaguely hear on the other end: "Ma'am? Ma'am?"
Police. Again.
"You're welcome." he muttered, before turning and making haste for the door. As his hand reached the handle, he heard from behind him the shrill voice of the older woman:
"Freak!"
Erik lost control.
"Shut-"his fists clenched, and he heard slight cracking noises all around him. "-UP!"
Most obvious were the plate-glass windows. The cracks spread like fire along oil, and a tenth of a second later, shards of glass exploded outward violently, raining everywhere. The woman lost all nerve as the pen behind her ear burst, coating her head in ink. Screaming, she ran into the kitchen. Fine by Erik; he had his own problems.
He blinked, for instance, and he felt his grip, monstrous, daemonic, beyond anything he'd ever done before, seize the table in front of him and crush it to the size of a football. The hunk of metal dropped, landing next to Erik's foot. He noticed the floor crack as it landed.
He closed his eyes, struggling to control it, but the power wouldn't have it. He felt a malevolent urge seize at the edge of his consciousness, like a little voice that whispered dark words into his ear.
"GET OUT!" he screamed, as he felt the roof begin to shake. The glass on the ground vibrated, and the groan of metal could be heard all around. He saw the flashing of blue and red outside. Voices were yelling, from within and without...
Crash.
The roof was ripped off in one piece and flipped over, soaring through the predawn air, to flatten one of the great pine trees across the road. The eerie mist scattered, and as darkness stalked the edge of his vision, beyond even the S.W.A.T. officers running towards his now prone form, he saw the faint image of a burning painting.