“It is 17 past the hour and that was Tom Petty with ‘Breakdown’

  on 95.1 Heavy, Toronto’s premiere radio station for all hard rock

  and classic metal. Coming up next we have Van Halen with ‘Mean

  Street’. Stay tuned after a word from our sponsors.”

  An

  old radio sat on top of a hard plastic container, its cassette window

  hung open, the joint broken and unable to shut. It could still pick

  any station around, though, so the sound its speaker blasted off of

  the warehouse’s tall brick walls. The festivities of commercials

  competed with the clatter and boom of construction for audio

  dominance across the building’s main floor.

  The

  main room’s concrete base had been drilled away for supports. The

  construction was overseen by Paul Windsley, a 193cm mountain of a

  man. He stood off a corner on the floor and through thick goggles,

  watched his men tear up the ground. Although his business was as

  legit as any other in the eyes of the city’s record keepers,

  Windsley thrived in the underbelly of society; taking jobs where the

  full nature of the construction wouldn’t be revealed. He had a lot

  of clientele like that, so it was no problem to him if he was unsure

  what exactly he was making. It was ritual for him to work with

  incomplete information.

  However,

  he had heard that Dead Head’s gang was full of . In

  terms of Dead Head’s gang, Windsley only really talked with the

  leader himself or “Shimmer”– was that a name?– and they

  seemed like normal people although the former dressed like he wanted

  to show off his Hallowe’en costume early. Were the creeps ?

  The

  less presentable parts of society had a way of uncovering the various

  that lived across the city, and perhaps the world, but

  it was only a month ago Windsley started hearing about them. Frankly,

  it was about time he one of them. Windsley looked across

  the warehouse floor. The only men that were not part of his

  construction crew were two normal-looking guys prepping plastic

  crates in the corner.

  Maybe

  the creeps had Friday off.

  Dead

  Head walked out of his office, a paled hardhat on his head. The

  machines quieted down for a minute so Windsley walked over past the

  base of construction towards Dead Head. When Dead Head saw Windsley

  coming over, he backed up towards the door of his office to find a

  quiet(er) corner to discuss things.

  “The

  base is looking solid,” said Paul, “so we won’t have to replace

  the whole floor.”

  Dead

  Head nodded. “Good.”

  Windsley

  looked around the warehouse. The building was old but it was in

  pretty good condition. The only problems with it were superficial

  like the dents on the side of the wall that looked like someone

  tossed a sledgehammer against it.

  “Where

  did you pick this place up?” asked Windsley.

  Dead

  Head didn’t know. Shimmer was responsible for the purchase. “I

  don’t have that information. I’d have to talk to my assistant for

  that.”

  Windsley

  only had the floor update for Dead Head and he only desired the

  tidbit on where Dead Head picked up the place. Done with that, he

  went back to monitor his men. Dead Head looked over the construction

  and calculated in his head how long it would take before new concrete

  was poured, when the frame would be finished, and then when the

  portal would be functional. He gave himself the reputation of being a

  calm and in-control leader but his patience got sensitive whenever he

  thought about the end of this project and what it would give him.

  He

  went back inside the office and sat down at his desk, looking over

  his budget book. He was still doing monthly payments for the

  warehouse, and he had the money to pay off the entire thing, but if

  he slammed down the money to pay the cost entirely, it would have

  looked suspicious. No, he drip-fed money to the bank and carried on

  with his economical theatre.

  The

  vent in the corner rumbled. Dead Head looked over to see Haze seeping

  through, the cloud boy needing to turn into a featureless mist to

  pass through barred surface. Once the majority of his foggy mass was

  through, the cloud boy reformed into his humanoid shape, complete

  with shirt and pants. He popped down on the floor.

  “Get

  down!” hissed Dead Head, eyeing through the office window at the

  crew managing the main floor. “What if they see you?”

  Haze

  scowled and got down on the floor. “Why do I gotta hide myself from

  those construction guys? I don’t have to with the rest of the

  crew.”

  “Because

  they are not in our organization,” said Dead Head. “They are

  outsiders and– since it isn’t easy to come across a construction

  company that will work with this gang without reporting us to

  authorities on suspicion of terrorism–” He took in a breath after

  that long rhetorical detour– “I’d like to keep these men as

  comfortable as possible and not flaunt my more eccentric members of

  the gang, like you and Petrov.” He also didn’t want Thrash coming

  around the warehouse but there was reason why

  he didn’t want a curvy woman in a catsuit around a crew of

  hardworking men.

  Haze

  slumped in the corner, unsure what to do with himself now. He hung

  his arms over his knees and rested his face in his wrists.

  Dead

  Head peered at Haze lazing about. “How are you liking that room

  Shimmer set you up with?”

  “It’s

  okay,” said Haze, not lifting his head to avoid talking into his

  hands.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Haze

  was young but he needed a proper residence if he was going to

  function in Dead Head’s gang. Shimmer set the living cloud up with

  a room in an apartment on the south side of Greenwood, some place

  that Haze’s misty form could slip in and out of without being

  noticed. All Haze knew about it was that Shimmer took care of the

  bills.

  Dead

  Head wasn’t good at small talk, but he’d accept his minion taking

  his new place without any complaints. Dead Head said, “We’ll be

  heading to the lab later. Will you be ready?”

  “Yeah,

  yeah...” said Haze, defensively.

  A

  second big batch. Dead Head wasn’t sure who he was going to sell it

  to, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He’d need more

  money to keep the place running until the portal was finished.

  He

  watched the workers cut up a chunk of the floor and lift the concrete

  out.

  he thought to himself,

  Later

  came quickly for Haze.

  Dead

  Head got a phone call saying Seven was already at the lab, so when

  the sun went down and the Windsley’s men went home, Dead Head met

  with Haze and Thrash in the parking lot. Thrash had to give Dead Head

  guff about her being barred from the warehouse during construction

  hours because she it was less about her strange

  complexion and more about her being an attractive woman that would

  pull eyes towards her. Dead Head denied it, though.

  It

  was Dead Head’s Cadillac DeVille that would be the ride over but

  Thrash was the one driving. The vehicle was still rolling strong

  after five years in Dead Head’s possession. Dead Head got in the

  back with Haze. Sure, Haze could have flew to the lab much quicker

  than driving through Toronto traffic, but Dead Head insisted on his

  escort.

  After

  Dead Head locked the warehouse up tight, they all got in the vehicle.

  Haze thought it was pointless for him, a person made of cloud, to

  buckle up, but it felt strange not to. Thrash pulled out from the

  warehouse and they hit the road towards Oakridge.

  The

  windows on the vehicle were tinted, so even if Haze looked outward at

  the sights of the city, nobody around could look in. It was a Friday

  night, so the streets were loud. Teens were out making noise and

  getting started on their weekends like a few kids walking the

  sidewalk with one girl tugging on a guy’s coat, everyone laughing

  with each other.

  The

  front windows weren’t tinted but even if people looked in and saw

  Thrash’s face, the darkness of the night would have shrouded the

  odd, blue pigment of skin and hair. As far as most people around were

  concerned, Dead Head’s transport was nothing but a nice-looking car

  rolling through the neighbourhood.

  In

  the silence of the car ride, curiosity came over Haze so he turned

  over to Dead Head and asked, “So, uh, what’s that portal going to

  be for anyway?”

  Thrash

  flipped on her ears. She was curious herself.

  Dead

  Head knew these questions would come. He had worked with Shimmer to

  come up with a list of excuses, a cover story to conceal a would-be

  unpopular truth about what the portal’s true purpose was. Dead Head

  kept his tone disinterested. “It’s going to be for teleporting

  places.”

  “Like

  where?” asked Haze, with all the blatant curiosity of a child.

  Dead

  Head was not used to dealing with someone so young. He choked a groan

  back. “Banks. Maybe if we are feeling more disruptive we could

  steal something important, like the Declaration of Independence.”

  “The

  Declaration of Independence?” asked Thrash. “Why would you steal

  that?”

  Dead

  Head smirked. “Just to see how the American government would

  react.”

  Seen

  by none, Thrash grimaced. She didn’t read the news often but knew

  that America typically responded with events of that magnitude with

  warfare.

  Part

  of selling the lie, as Dead Head and Shimmer brainstormed weeks ago,

  was to leave some believable ambiguity to what the portal was capable

  of. Said Dead Head, “Stealing from a vault– a big vault– is

  something I had in mind. We could always use more money.”

  “Can’t

  you do that anyway?” asked Haze. “With your powers?”

  “Not

  from a big bank,” said Dead Head. “Even if I got to the vault, I

  wouldn’t be able to get out there with much. I could disable every

  camera in the place but enough people would see me that I’d leave a

  clear trail.” He tapped the edge of the window. “That’s why I

  stuck to robbing smaller places for years. It’s a lot easier to use

  my nullifying abilities on smaller systems.”

  Thrash

  eyed Dead Head in the rear-view mirror. “Like that loan agency that

  got two of your men in jail. You could have done that yourself.”

  Dead

  Head let out a disgruntled sigh. “Yes, . I know.”

  “So

  it can teleport people through?” asked Haze.

  “Yes,”

  said Dead Head, spouting a practised

  lie. “We’re not sure how easy it is, so we need to get it

  built, then test it, to figure out what it’s capable of. Then, we

  will make substantial plans and use the portal to its fullest.”

  Haze

  wasn’t excited about the idea of a portal but he had no further

  questions. The three of them continued to the lab quietly.

  The

  “lab” was actually the basement to and old house in a

  neighbourhood of old houses. Few of them looked anything but

  decrepit. The lab house had its lot occupied by Seven’s vehicle so

  Thrash parked on the side of the street. When the Dead Head’s crew

  got out of the car, everyone got a smell of the manufacturing plant

  nearby, some kind of “chemical” smell to quote Lombardi when he

  to drive Haze there a week ago. It wasn’t terrible– actually, it

  was pretty faint– but it caught everywhere when the factory got

  going.

  There

  was no one around to spot the cloud boy coming out of the Cadillac

  but it wasn’t a time to stick around outside. As Haze walked up to

  the porch, a door opened. On the other side was Seven.

  Haze,

  Dead Head, and Thrash walked inside. The house’s interior wasn’t

  any better than the outside. Although tidy in the sense that all the

  dishes were put away and the floor was mopped, several spots on the

  walls had holes in them. There were cupboard doors missing. A board

  in the plank floor was turned up. Thrash could the mice

  running through the walls.

  But

  they were not there to hang out. Haze knew the drill. He went to the

  back of the hall where there was a doorway leading into the basement.

  Other smells, more powerful than the one outside, heaved up the

  staircase like the sulphurs of the underworld. Haze could smell them

  (how a cloud could smell, he didn’t actually know), but he could

  stomach it.

  Seven

  walked up to a vent riding up the hallway’s wall. He patted it, a

  deep rumble clattering out. “Rerouted the vent to the basement.

  Helps with the smell.” He pointed at Dead Head’s coat. “Basement

  doesn’t have heat, though.”

  Last

  time they cooked a batch, there was a noticeable smell around the

  house afterwards. Even timing out cooking to the functions of the

  plant down the road, the plant’s own stench didn’t overpower the

  one they made whenever they got together to bake. Still, reducing the

  smell of synthesizing drugs was important in case neighbours started

  asking around.

  Thrash

  put on a polypropylene mask and after removing his hood, Dead Head

  did the same. Seven walked them to the end of the hall and all three

  of them went downstairs to join Haze in producing the gang’s next

  big batch of product to sell.