Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer

by Michael C Bailey

  “Sara’s a psionic too. She has defenses against telepathic intrusion,” Edison argues. He looks to Bart for confirmation, but Bart shoots him down.

  “Her defenses aren’t that developed yet,” Bart says. “She can filter out normal background noise, but fending off a telepathic assault is a different ballgame. If she wasn’t aware she was under attack...”

  “It might not matter anyway,” Natalie says. “The King of Pain’s modus operandi is to target people who are already emotionally compromised, and then wear them down. He erodes their defenses until they’re completely vulnerable.”

  “Bart,” Edison says.

  “Matt’s right. It fits.” Bart stands, slowly, like a man in a trance. “The King of Pain set the narrative and we bought into it without question. We’ve been staring the truth square in the face this whole time and never saw it for what it was.”

  Bart grips the back of his chair and puffs out a breath, like he’s fighting off a sudden wave of nausea, then, with a screamed profanity, hurls the chair across the room. The chair bounces to the floor after leaving a crater in the drywall.

  I’ve seen Bart angry on rare occasion — very rare, and very fleeting, and never so raw and explosive, but the King of Pain has stirred something dark inside him, so dark that he’d lobby hard for the man’s swift execution. To see someone who’s always been in total control of himself, who readily plays the role of the Protectorate’s stable center, fly off the handle so completely...I can only compare it to the sense of profound loss I felt as a little girl when I learned Santa wasn’t real. It’s more than disappointment; it’s a loss of faith.

  Bart slams his fists on the table. His body trembles with rage not yet expended. Edison and Natalie rise and move toward him, but he wards them off with a curt gesture.

  “Bart, this is not your fault,” Natalie says, and I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a conversation in progress.

  “I should have seen it,” Bart says. “Dammit, I should have seen it.”

  “None of us saw it,” Edison says. “No one saw it.”

  Astrid glances over at us in silent acknowledgement, but this isn’t the time to pat ourselves on the back.

  “We know now,” I say, “and the King of Pain doesn’t know we’ve figured him out.”

  “She’s right. That gives us the advantage,” Natalie says. “We know how to fight him.”

  “Doesn’t do us any good as long as he’s on the run,” Bart responds.

  “We’ll find him,” Edison vows.

  “After how many more people die?”

  The Entity sighs. “I’m leaving. Let me know when you finish wallowing in self-pity and are ready to work,” he says, standing.

  “You need to shut the hell up,” Natalie shoots back.

  “Why? Am I wrong?” The Entity marches up to Bart. “I get it. This is personal for you, but you need to get over yourself. The King of Pain is responsible for all the people he’s killed, not you, and acting like his wretched existence is somehow your fault won’t bring back the dead, and it won’t stop anyone else from dying. Pull your head out of your ass and get it in the game.”

  Wow. And I thought Edison could be tactless.

  The Entity leaves without anyone calling him out for his douchebaggery — maybe because we all realize he might have a point.

  “I want everyone to go home and get some sleep. That’s an order,” Edison says. He lays a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “We’re not going to get anywhere running ourselves ragged. We need to rest up and come at this fresh. Okay?”

  Bart, after a moment, nods.

  “I’m calling a strategy session for tomorrow afternoon,” Edison says. “Carrie, Matt, I want the Squad here at two. Whatever ideas you have, throw them out. I want every conceivable option on the table.” His face hardens. “Whatever it takes, we need to bring the King of Pain down before he destroys one more life.”

  Sara glances at her alarm clock. The blocky green display announces the time at 4:13 AM — twenty-six hours of sleeplessness.

  And yet, she does not feel the need to sleep. Fatigue runs roughshod over her body, causing her joints to grind and her muscles to groan with the slightest of movements, but her mind remains sharp, alert, alive, clearer than it has in so very long.

  That clarity allowed her to ably weather a homecoming that was, predictably, less than joyous. Her father treated her little better than an intruder come to steal the family silverware, while her mother played her usual role of silent bystander. She said nothing while her husband challenged Sara’s right to dare step foot in the house, much less reclaim her residency.

  He ordered Sara to leave. Sara stood her ground, calm but defiant. He screamed. He bellowed. He gestured threateningly, his hand promising a sharp disciplinary blow but never delivering. Sara did not flinch or cower, did not return his aggression with anything but a placid expression and a gentle tone.

  In the end, Tobin Danvers allowed his only child to climb the stairs to her bedroom, but swore to God almighty that if she left the house again, she’d return to find every last lock changed.

  Around seven, Sara’s mother stole into the room with a plate of pot roast and assorted vegetables, all of which had grown cold, and set it on her nightstand — no doubt against her husband’s wishes. It was a thoughtful gesture, but a wasted effort. The plate went untouched.

  Sara rolls out of bed and picks up the plate, its contents bound together with congealed gravy. She carries it downstairs, intending to deposit the plate, food and all, into the dishwasher, and pauses on the bottom step. A light from the kitchen creeps across the living room carpet, and the faint tinkle of a spoon pinging off the inside of a teacup floats on the air. Her mother, perhaps, up early due to one of her occasional bouts of insomnia.

  No. It’s not her.

  Sara enters the kitchen. The King of Pain taps his spoon on his teacup and sets it down on the counter.

  “I used the microwave. Didn’t want to wake your parents with a screaming teakettle,” he says, lifting his cup as if in toast. He takes a sip. “Tea’s good for the throat, you know. Mine’s still a little sore.”

  “I wondered when you’d come to finish the job,” Sara says. “Come on, then. I’m not scared of you.”

  “I know. You made that quite clear during our last encounter, right before you delivered a truly impressive beating,” he says without malice.

  “Then what are you waiting for? I know you’re blocking my powers. I can’t fight back, so get it over with. Kill me.”

  “Kill you? Oh, no. I have something much better in mind for you.” The King of Pain sets his teacup down, his expression turning quite serious, businesslike. “When I first heard about your team, I thought your friend, the cute little blond, would be my target. In my experience, people who appear to be strong are often weak inside, but no, not her. You, however...”

  “I am not weak,” Sara snarls.

  “No?” The King of Pain grins. “Prove me wrong. Prove me wrong and I’ll let you live.”

  “...How?”

  “By showing me how strong you truly are. And here comes your first opportunity,” the King of Pain says against a backdrop of footsteps thundering down the stairs.

  “Sara, what —?” Tobin Danvers freezes in the doorway. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I might be a friend of your daughter’s, Mr. Danvers,” the King of Pain says, “or I might be a passing acquaintance. That has yet to be determined.”

  “Get out of my house,” Mr. Danvers says, “both of you, right now. You hear me? Both of you, out!”

  “Your father’s a very angry man,” the King of Pain remarks, curling a hand over Sara’s shoulder. A sensation rushes into her, flooding her like a physical thing: her father’s anger, his shame, his disgust — all of it inspired by her.

  “Yes, he is,” Sara says. “He always has been. Sometimes he acts happy, but it never lasts. Something always comes along to piss him off, and then it’s bac
k to the swearing and yelling — usually at me.”

  “Tsk. Treating your flesh and blood like that,” the King of Pain says, wagging a chastising finger.

  “That’s not how he thinks of me.”

  “What does he think of you, Sara?”

  “He thinks I’m some sort of punishment from God. He thinks he’s done something so terrible in life that God saw fit to burden him with a freak for a daughter — but he can’t yell at himself, can he? He can’t man up and blame himself for what an utter failure he is, so he takes his self-loathing out on me,” Sara spits, glowering at her father. “So much easier than admitting you just plain suck as a human being, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “He tears you down. He tries to destroy you,” the King of Pain hisses in Sara’s ear. “He. Makes. You. Weak.”

  “Tobin, what in the world is going on down here?” Cecile Danvers says, drawn downstairs by the tumult. “Tobin?”

  “Call the police,” Mr. Danvers says. “Go on!”

  “Yeah, Mom, hop to. Do exactly what Dad says like you always do,” Sara sneers. “Don’t question him, don’t challenge him, just obey him to the letter. Do what he says. No backtalk. Don’t dare disagree with him, don’t speak out against him, ever, even when he’s screaming at your own daughter for having the audacity to be something other than a nice, normal, straight, God-fearing little girl!”

  “Call the police!” Mr. Danvers barks. His wife turns, reaching for the phone on the wall near her shoulder. She shrieks as the phone wrenches itself from her grasp, sailing across the kitchen and embedding itself in the opposite wall.

  It’s raw instinct that impels Tobin Danvers to lunge at Sara, that primal survival reflex that kicks in when a threat makes itself known. Sara also reacts instinctively, responding to an attack as she’s been trained to do. A telekinetic slam stops her father’s charge cold. He falls to his knees, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

  “You tried to hit me. You wanted to hit me,” Sara says. “Thanks for making this easy, Dad.”

  It happens immediately, almost silently, save for the gentle thud of Tobin and Cecile Danvers’ bodies collapsing to the cool tile floor. Sara stands over them, marveling at how impossibly still they are, how their eyes seem somehow artificial, like doll’s eyes.

  “That was easy, wasn’t it?” the King of Pain says. “It won’t be the next time.”

  “The next time?”

  “Your weakness doesn’t come only from those who despise you. There’s a more insidious enemy. They drag you down and hold you back and claim all the while they have your best interests at heart. They say they love you, and you believe them, and thus you never recognize them for the threat they are. They are the heaviest of millstones around your neck, and that is why you must rid yourself of them.”

  “...How?”

  “Carrie. She’s the key. When the center cannot hold, things fall apart — but defeating her won’t be easy. She’s strong, but she’s not invulnerable. She has a weakness, too...and you know what it is, don’t you?”

  Sara nods. “I know exactly what her weakness is.”

  The King of Pain bows and with a sweep of his hand says, “After you.”

  Sara pauses at the front door, her hand on the knob, and for a moment considers taking one last look at her parents, but decides against it.

  That would be a sign of weakness.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  My eyelids creak open. I look over at my alarm clock, which tells me I’ve managed to sneak in a solid twelve hours of sleep, yet I still feel like death warmed over. Who knew putting down a massive prison riot would take so much out of a girl?

  The first thing I do before rolling out of bed is check my phone for missed calls. Nothing. Nothing is good.

  I head downstairs and find a half a pot of coffee on the burner. It smells relatively fresh. I pour a cup, throw some Pop-Tarts into the toaster oven, and eat breakfast with much less enthusiasm than one might expect considering I’ve barely eaten anything over the past two days. Maybe that’s why I feel so ragged.

  For no real reason I check my phone again. Nope, definitely did not miss any calls, not from Edison, not from Matt, not from Sara or Malcolm...

  Sara. That’s what’s gnawing at me. I haven’t heard anything from her since she went home. Things cannot have possibly gone so smoothly she didn’t feel the need to call me and commiserate. I’ve learned better than to ignore my instincts, even when they’re buzzing for no obvious reason, so I give Sara a shout on the brainphone. She doesn’t reply, so I try the more traditional method of contacting people, the phone (crazy, I know). It goes right to voicemail.

  I finish my coffee and head over to Sara’s. I get about halfway there when my phone goes off, but I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Carrie? This is Gerald Forth.”

  “Mr. Forth, hi. What’s up?”

  “Have you seen or spoken to Mal this morning?”

  “No, I haven’t. I only woke up a few minutes ago, I haven’t seen or spoken to anyone. Why?”

  “Well, we’re about to head into church and he’s not here yet,” Mr. Forth says.

  “He didn’t ride in with you?”

  “He took his car this morning because he planned to stop by your house after church. He left a few minutes before I did so he should’ve beaten us here. I tried his phone but he’s not picking up.” Mr. Forth laughs uneasily. “I must sound like the world’s most overprotective parent. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Yeah, I tell myself that a lot. Sometimes it actually works out that way.

  “I’ll try him. If I hear anything I’ll text you so I don’t make God mad for interrupting His weekly meeting,” I say, and that draws a second, less nervous laugh from Mr. Forth.

  He thanks me and hangs up as I reach Sara’s front door. I hit the doorbell and wait. And wait. And wait. I push the button again and, when no one answers, knock on the door. It drifts open a crack.

  Sometimes it actually works out that way.

  My hands buzz with power as I push the door open and scan the living room for anything suspicious, but all is quiet within the Danvers household. That counts as suspicious, all things considered, so I creep inside. The buzzing builds to an electric tingle.

  I’m a few steps into the living room when I see it: a pair of feet, clad in drab brown slippers, jutting out from the kitchen. I dash over. Mrs. Danvers looks up at me from the floor with wide, glassy eyes. My heart thunders like a jackhammer, and my throat constricts. Mr. Danvers lies nearby in the same condition. Oh God oh God oh God please no please...

  I bend and search Mrs. Danvers for a pulse. I keep my fingers pressed to her neck for several seconds to assure myself that the faint throbbing beneath my fingertips is real, that she is alive. I shake her gently, say her name, but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t respond at all. Neither does Mr. Danvers.

  I race upstairs to check Sara’s room. Empty. The whole house is empty. I return to the kitchen and try to work my phone with hands that won’t stop shaking. Edison’s phone rings and rings and rings and finally goes to voicemail.

  “Edison, dammit, where are you? Call me,” I say. I try Bart’s number next. He picks up after two rings.

  “Bart, something happened at Sara’s house,” I say. “Sara’s gone but her parents are here but there’s something wrong with them.”

  “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “I mean wrong!” I shout as panic takes over. “I found them on the floor and they’re alive but they’re not moving! It’s like they’re, I don’t know, in a trance or a coma or something!”

  “Call an ambulance. I’ll be right over. Wait there, and don’t say anything to the EMTs,” Bart says.

  The ambulance arrives a few minutes after I call 911. Bart shows up a few minutes after that. I bring him up to speed as the EMTs work on Mr. and Mrs. Danvers.

  “Wait here,” he says. He approaches one of the EMTs and flashes a business c
ard. Their quiet yet intense discussion is interrupted when the other EMTs shoo Bart to the side, giving them room to wheel Sara’s parents out on stretchers. I overhear one of the EMTs remark that this has all the earmarks of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  I wish that were the case.

  “Carrie, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Bart says. “Sara’s parents...their minds are gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone?” I say. “How can their minds be gone?”

  “They’ve been erased. Every last memory has been wiped out.” He’s not making any sense. It’s all crazy talk. People can’t have their minds erased. “Carrie, have you been able to reach Sara?”

  “Sara? What? No. She’s not answering her phone. I can’t reach her telepathically,” I say. “Oh my God, you think she did this?”

  “No, Carrie, no, this wasn’t Sara,” Bart insists. “Completely erasing a person’s mind is way beyond her capabilities. That’s something only a highly skilled psionic could accomplish, that or —”

  Bart stops himself. His face tightens. “What?” I say. “Bart? Or what?”

  “Or an inexperienced psionic who screwed up,” he says, adding quickly, “but I’m not saying this was Sara’s doing. Considering what we learned about the King of Pain’s powers, it’s not outside the realm of possibility —”

  My phone rings. It’s Malcolm’s ringtone. “I have to take this,” I say, and I withdraw to the corner of the living room. “Malcolm, are you okay? Your parents have been looking for you.”

  The voice that answers isn’t Malcolm’s.

  “Have they now?” the King of Pain says. “Well, I am happy to report that Malcolm is alive and well. Whether that remains the case, however...”

  My adrenaline levels are already off the charts. I have nowhere left to go emotionally, so I skip over the customary threat to kick his ass and get down to business.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to follow my directions to the letter. Step one: get into your uniform. I want to see Lightstorm, not Carrie Hauser. Two: come to the high school, and come alone. No police, no Protectorate. Tip them off in any way and your boyfriend dies.”