In the Dumps

by Rod Hunsicker

Kinnison had gone underground. For the last two weeks he had been haunting alleys and lurking behind garbage cans. It had not been as bad as it might have been for a normal person for Kinnison was a child of the inner streets and housing projects. He knew how to survive on the streets.

He had not gone home because some inner voice told him not to.

"Keep on the move. Stay loose," whispered that wordless voice, and though it was annoying and its advice had led to physical discomfort, Kinnison had obeyed. He had never returned to his one room apartment. After spending all the money in his wallet, he had scrounged food wherever he could. Fortunately whatever other changes there were taking place in his body and mind, one of them was a reduced food requirement. Although he was eating less, he was getting stronger.

Now standing outside a department store, Kinnison lifted his shirt collar against the rain and stared in the window at a televison that was playing the local news. His face was dirty and littered with a sparce beard. He was certain he smelled foul, though he had long gotten use to his own odor. His hollow eyes fastened on the TV screen. They centered on the face of the woman in white.

It was a news short on the Guardians, a local superhuman society dedicated to helping mankind. Kinnison had always sneered at such societies, mostly because he knew little about them, but also because he resented and feared any strong authority figures. Police, teachers, bosses and superhumans were all symbols of authority, and as such they were things that Kinnison normally avoided. But there was a haunting beauty in the woman on the television. A beauty that had stopped Kinnison in his tracks.

The rain fell harder. It obscured Kinnison's vision through the streaked window. He rubbed the water off the window and squinted at the video images on the screen.

He remembered her. Few people in Arentown didn't know who Psi Maid was, or for that matter, her brother: the Psi Man. Their common forte was mental abilities such as genius and telepathy. As Kinnison stared at Psi Maid through the window he was not considering her mental abilities; it was her beauty that had captured him.

"Hey, Rico! Is that you, man?"

Kinnison looked over his shoulder toward the familiar face that had called him. It was Boomer, one of the street kids he had played ball with. A tall, black kid with a shaved head and a ring on each ear, Boomer had never possessed the talent to go beyond street ball. Kinnison was more inclined to play stick ball, not basketball, but had enjoyed n occasional pick up game with kids like Boomer.

Boomer was sitting in the passenger side of an old car. Kinnison walked over slowly.

"Yeah, man, its me," Kinnison muttered. "What's up?"

Boomer flashed a smile. "Nothin much. Just cruizing for some weed or pussy. What are you doin' in the rain, man?"

Kinnison shrugged. "Just moving around."

"You ain't hot, is you? Not a straight dude like you," queried Boomer.

"Personal problem. Just laying low for a while. Good seeing you, Boomer," said Kinnison as he started to back away. A quick glance through the department store window revealed that the Guardian story had passed. Kinnison waved at Boomer, who still watched him from the car, and turned a corner into an alley.

Kinnison trotted toward a large abandoned building and got out of the rain. A band of hobos were squatting inside, and they eyed him with bland curiosity. Kinnison made no move toward the warmth of their garbage-can fire and walked up the delapitated stairs to the second story where he took possession of an empty room.

He sat down with his back to a wall. Just what was he doing on the lam? That little voice of warning in the back of his head was growing dimmer, as if the danger was passing. Maybe it was time to head back to his apartment and reclaim his life. It wasn't much of a life, but it was better than living out of garbage cans.

He remembered the hardcases who had nearly caught him back at the antique shop. There was no reason to believe that they had fingered him or were aware of him in any way. Kinnison had acted on impulse. A strong impulse that had propelled him away from danger. One of the thugs had mentioned a person called Slash. If there were superhumans involved then they might have a way of superhumanly locating their targets. That may be true, as the inner voice was indicating to him, but sitting in a broken down East Side building, Kinnison decided that he was sick of running. An aggression was growing within him that was born in a new confidence based on the development of his own new superhuman powers. He picked up a piece of wood that had fallen from a window sill and with a quick squeeze he crushed it in his hand. Possibly, he had no reason to be wary of men with names like Slash.

Kinnison rested. In the morning he would return to his apartment.

*******************************************************

"Are you crazy? I was only gone a couple of weeks," stammered Kinnison. He had returned home to find himself locked out. Evicted!

Jones, his landlord, sneered and pointed to the street. "Some guys in suits came by. Said you were wanted. That was all I needed to know. We don't want any trouble around here."

"Wanted? You mean by the cops?"

"Well, I didn't examine their badges. Those guys looked real serious," replied Jones, "You know what I mean?"

Kinnison stared at the man. The greater impact was the fact that he was truly in danger, not that he had ben evicted. His premonition had not been paranoia. He had been certain that he had escaped cleanly from Lasco's antique shop. How they had gotten on to him was a complete mystery.

"What about my stuff?"

"What stuff?" retorted the landlord. "All you had was junk. That's where it went."

Kinnison siezed Jones by the throat and pushed him against the wall. It happened before Kinnison realized he had done it.

"It wasn't all junk, you fucking idiot. There was a small black box. Where is it?" His fingers closed on the landlord's throat with crushing ease.

"I told you," gasped Jones. "In the garbage. My wife cleaned everything out. The garbage men picked it up a week ago."

"Bastard," growled Kinnison. Enfuriated by the vandalization of his belongings, Kinnison considered closing the hand that was clutching Jones' throat.

"What garbage company, asshole?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Seiger Sanitation," sputtered the landlord, "that's my garbage man."

Kinnison released the landlord. Jones slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, and frightened for his life.

Without a further word, Kinnison turned and walked out.

***********************************************************************

At the garbage company Kinnison's query about his possessions was answered with a laugh.
A short, cigar smoking man with a beer belly pointed behind him.

"Its in the dump, kid. Even if we let you look, you'll never find it You can't go there anyway, its against health regulations," grunted the man.

"Someone threw my stuff out illegally. I gotta find something valuable," said Kinnison.

"Sorry, kid. No can do. Hit the road."

Kinnison glared at the garbage man, wondering if he should force the issue, and finally decided that the enforcement of his will would only result in police involvement. That's something he had avoided all his life. He turned and walked out sullenly.

*****

Not long after it got dark the pot bellied man pulled away from the dump in a worn out pickup truck. Inside the small house that served as office and headquarters for Seiger Sanitation was a single light. It served no purpose other that to falsely indicate to prowlers that someone was inside the building. There was no one inside, but to Kinnison's dismay there was a pack of three german shepards patrolling the eight foot high barbed wire fence that surrounded the dump. Kinnison watched them from across the street. They snarled and played with each other, without barking; they had already been taught not to bark needlessly and wake up the few neighbors that lived down the street from the dump. There were a few floodlights on the dump, though the owner of the business wondered why he bothered. Who was stupid enough to steal garbage?

Kinnison circled the fence until he was as far from the dogs as he could get. He advanced to the fence and looked up at the barb wire strung across its top. There were no trees around that he could climb which would allow him to jump over the fence from a low hanging branch. He would have to do it the hard way.

He managed to get over the wire without cutting himself and dropped lightly to the ground inside. His recently sharpened sense of smell sucked in and reported on all the unpleasent odors that fragrented the area. There was garbage everywhere; stacked in plastic bags, thrown into pits, or just splayed out in a smelly, ugly spread. He didn't know where to start. The garbage man had been right; it was hopeless.

He didn't know how much time he had before the dogs picked up on the fact that he had invaded their nocturnal territory. The sweat running down his back turned cold as he pictured those three brutes rushing at him, barking, growling with their powerful jaws open to bite. Maybe he was crazy. How in the world would he find one small box in this jungle of garbage? Rubbing his forehead with his hands he began to wonder if the only change he had gone through was a trip into madness.

If he was mad, then part of his madness was a new confidence. He wanted that box! He dangled its memory in front of his mind until he could see it, smell it and feel it. Slowly, hesitantly, his feet shuffled forward, as if moving of their own accord, until he came to a particular pile of black garbage bags. With a strange certainty he tossed aside some of the bags, ignoring the smell and slime of garbage, until he came to the one he wanted. A quick twist and the bag was open. He plunged his hand inside and came up with a small, flat black box. He tossed the bag away and gingerly opened the box. Inside was a military medal, a medal of honor, the only thing he had to remember his father by, and perhaps, the only worthy thing his father had ever earned.

Snarls behind him alerted him that what had to happen had happened. The dogs had found him; they were no longer in a playful mood. From 50 feet away they were charging, eager to maul this foolish man who had entered their playground. Kinnison took a second to reflect that they were no different from the human gangs who played tough guy within the boundaries of their turf. A second was all he could afford. With the medal case in his hand he broke for the fence, which loomed a dimsal 70 feet away. The dogs curved to overtake him. They came on savagely, barking and loping like wolves after a deer. Kinnison spurted into top speed, and was surprised when he reached the fence before the dogs caught him.

Guided by some new instinct, Kinnison leaped over the fence, as if he were a real stag the dogs were chasing. Slamming against the fence, the dogs yelped and growled; they gnashed their teeth on the chain links as if they could bite through the frustration they felt as they saw their prey escape. Kinnison ran about fifteen feet away from the fence and gave them a backward glance. Exilerated at the miraculous thing he had just did, he ran down the street at an alarming speed. The dogs were left behind and so was the danger. He laughed whole heartedly and for the first time in his life he felt truly free.

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