by Baron Sord
Oh no.
Were we too late?
Was this person already dead?
A wave of nausea washed over me.
The other doors on both SUVs opened in unison and a bunch of big men wearing black jackets climbed out. Two had assault rifles with sound suppressors on the barrels and curving extended magazines.
Two men without rifles dragged the body into the glare of the headlights.
I edged closer, trying to stay hidden.
The two men pulling the tied man lifted him onto his knees.
The tied man moaned slightly. Not dead, but close. His face was bloody and bruised. Someone had given him a serious beating. He could barely hold his head up.
One of the other men walked up to the tied man and pointed a long pistol at the tied man’s head. He wore a black suit and his pistol had a long sound suppressor affixed to the barrel.
They were going to execute the guy on his knees.
I didn’t have time to waste.
“OVER HERE!” I shouted as loud as I could before springing into motion. Good thing I was on the ground. I had solid footing and leapt 50 feet in the air. Came down and landed high up on the back side of a nearby gravel cone, just beneath the peak. I crawled up to the top to watch and wait.
The two men with the silenced assault rifles were already jogging over to my last location. The other five men waited impatiently. I worked my way around the peak of the cone until it was between me and the two men with assault rifles.
They were clearly searching for me on the ground.
The other five men shifted impatiently from foot to foot. The one in the black suit with the suppressed pistol threw his hands in the air and said, “Which one of you promised me this place would be a fucking ghost town this late at night?” He wasn’t quite yelling, but he was hollering. He was far enough away that it was difficult to hear him, but not impossible. “That didn’t sound like a fucking ghost to me!”
One of the men said, “Probably a jackrabbit.”
The man in the black suit said, “It can’t always be a fucking jackrabbit, Spaz. What is it with you and jackrabbits? Maybe it was a raccoon. Or a snake.”
“Maybe, it was my dick,” the man named Spaz chuckled.
Another man joked, “You better go get it if you want to use it again.”
Several of the other men chuckled but nobody went anywhere.
A third man scanned the gravel cones, “I don’t see anybody, boss.”
“Then who shouted?” said the man in the black suit. He appeared to be the leader of this bunch.
The other men all shrugged. The two holding the bloody man dropped him to the ground. Four of them pulled pistols out. None were silenced. Not that it mattered out here.
Altogether, there were two assault rifles and five pistols.
Seven weapons.
We were in trouble.
If they found Arnold, they’d probably try to execute him too.
I had to warn him. Sent my thoughts as loud as possible. Arnold! Can you hear me? Don’t come back here! They’ve got assault rifles! Go back to the car and get out of here!
I hoped he heard me.
I had no way of knowing whether or not he did. On the long list of things I had never tested about my powers was how far I could send thoughts to Arnold or how far away I could read his. It hadn’t been an issue before now. We’d never been in a location this remote or this large or this full of obstacles. We should have tested it, but we hadn’t. We had been too busy responding to the endless distress calls night after night. You couldn’t think of everything.
Too late now.
I considered my options.
Help the bloody man tied up, or help Arnold.
That was a no brainer.
I needed to find Arnold and send him home. If I managed to do so safely, I might come back for the bloody man. But only after I found Arnold and made sure he was safe.
I scanned the scene and strategized.
Rifle Thug #1 was circling the base of the gravel cone where I’d been a minute ago. Rifle Thug #2 was jogging back down the road.
Toward Arnold.
Shit.
A cold fist of fear gripped my chest.
What had I gotten Arnold into?
I didn’t know, but I was determined to get him out of it before he got hurt.
Or killed.
—: Chapter 44 :—
Despite my elevation on top of this particular gravel cone, I couldn’t see Arnold anywhere. The quarry was too big and there were too many cones.
I had no choice but to move.
I bounded quietly down the mound and went looking for my best friend. Up ahead, Rifle Thug #2 turned a corner and I lost sight of him.
I took off running, intent on following without being seen. Went down the row of gravel cones one row over from Rifle Thug #1. I leapt ahead in high arcs, spacing them so I always landed dead center behind each gravel cone I passed. Unless Thug #1 thought to look up, he wouldn’t spot me.
Somewhere in the corner of my brain, I had to ask myself: did I plan on killing these guys? Only if necessary. I would endeavor to disarm and disable instead.
After several high leaps, I realized I had lost track of Rifle Thug #1. I had been jumping too fast. Probably the adrenalin. I had to double back. When I still didn’t see him, I crossed over to the row where he had been running.
He was gone.
I tried to sense his thoughts.
Didn’t get anything.
I ran to the main road and sprinted right down the center, no longer concerned about surprise as I cranked up the speed. Moments later, I saw Rifle Thug #2 running up ahead. He was the one who had first gone after Arnold.
He stopped suddenly and aimed his assault rifle up the road, away from me and toward Arnold, who was jiggling wildly as he ran as fast as he could, arms pumping, head back.
Rifle Thug #2 readied himself to shoot.
Before I could even blink—
Spack! Spack! Spack!
Thug #2’s muzzle flashed and the suppressed rounds sparked off the rocks in the distance, barely missing Arnold as he darted around another tall cone of gravel.
Thug #2 took off after Arnold.
I blasted after them both, hitting 50mph or more within a dozen strides. To my surprise, my top speed was better than I remembered. Or it could be the adrenalin. Arnold’s life was on the line.
Up ahead, Thug #2 rounded the gravel cone and disappeared. When I caught up, he was busy pounding up a steep metal staircase that was almost a ladder. It went up the side of a large piece of processing equipment that consisted of multiple grated platform levels with walkways and adjoining stairs, trussed metal towers that contained crushing mechanisms, and large angled conveyors.
I leapt high to get a better view and look for Arnold. Logic said Thug #2 had followed him onto the piece of equipment.
While in the air, I saw the entire structure was quite large and had a footprint of at least 50x100 feet sqiare. With its multiple levels, its area was effectively double or triple that. Arnold had to be in there somewhere.
Still airborne, I saw the conveyor belts led to a big open-topped round water tank that stood on the ground beside the tower. The tank was 50 or 60 feet in diameter, and its circular wall was at least 15 feet tall.
Some kind of sand processing machine.
I also saw Arnold running across one of the metal platforms like his life depended on it — it did.
Rifle Thug #2 had just reached the top of the staircase. He stopped and aimed.
Only a second had passed since I’d leapt high in the air. I was still soaring through the dark moonlit sky. There was nothing I could do for Arnold except watch.
Spack! Spack!
Bullets pinged and sparked off the metal structure.
Thankfully, they missed.
Arnold kept running across the grated metal walkway on the first level.
I prayed he didn’t do anything dumb like stop
and shoot back. He needed to find cover, not engage the thug.
That was my job.
After what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, I finally landed on the ground near the base of the steep stairs. Jumped straight up and landed on the first level of the processor 15 feet overhead. I came down harder than planned and banged against the grated metal with my black boots. The metal resonated with a ringing echo.
Surprised, Rifle Thug #2 swiveled smoothly and started shooting at my position. He had to be trained. The fluidity of his movements suggested he was ex-military or ex-law enforcement.
Spack! Spack! Spack!
I was already moving.
The rounds missed, again sparking off the grating and railings with metallic pings.
Where had Arnold gone?
I’d lost sight of him after landing. I needed to find him so I could lead the thug’s aim as far from Arnold as possible.
My eyes quickly scanned this level of the processor.
The rectangular platform walkway surrounded 3 square boxy columns that housed the rock-crushing mechanisms that processed small gravel into smaller gravel. The boxy columns were encased in sheet metal that gave blind cover to anyone who wanted to hide behind them. Arnold could easily be hiding behind any of the 3. Or climbing up one of the support trusses. Or—
Nope.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiit!” Arnold hollered as he hot-footed it across a narrow conveyor that was 25 feet in the air. It wasn’t as thin as a balance beam — not even close — maybe 2 feet wide. But, running across it at top speed while being shot at by an assault rifle?
That took balls.
Especially when you were Arnold’s size. He was wider than the conveyor.
Go Arnold!
The long conveyor led out over nothing but air for about 10 feet before running another 20 or 30 feet over the water in the circular processing tank. I was glad the water was there to break Arnold’s fall, but he was cornering himself.
Unless he planned on jumping in the dark water?
Rifle Thug #2 thudded after him onto the conveyor and shouted, “Stop or you’re fucking dead!”
Arnold ran off the end of the conveyor and sailed toward the water 10 feet below, his Glock waving in one hand. He hadn’t fired it once that I had heard.
SPLOOSH!
Arnold kicked up a cannonball splash that made this brother proud.
Rifle Thug #2 clattered to a stop at the end of the conveyor and trained his rifle on the frothing water.
Now was my chance.
Take the thug out, then get Arnold out of the water and to our car.
Before I could, Arnold burst from the surface, his back to the thug. He wasn’t treading water. He was standing in water up to his waist. The reason?
Although the tank walls were 15 feet high, and the water level was inches from the top, the tank was mostly full of processed gravel — aka sand. Arnold was standing on the submerged surface of the sand. At least he wasn’t likely to drown… unless someone held him under.
“Don’t fucking move!” Rifle Thug #2 growled at Arnold.
Arnold put his hands up slowly. One hand held his Glock.
“Drop the gun into the tank! Drop it!”
“Okay, okay!” Arnold lowered it and let go with a grimace.
Blorp!
There went Arnold’s $600 Glock.
Oh well. It cost a lot less than his life was worth.
Rifle Thug #2 seemed to have forgotten me, so I got ready to jump. My plan was to land on him. He would never see me coming.
“One move and you’re dead,” Rifle Thug #1 grunted behind me — I was assuming it was him. He had been closer than the other five thugs back with the SUVs. Based on the location of his voice, he was at least 10 feet back. Not close enough for me to turn and grab his rifle. So I lowered into a crouch and I prepared to jump.
Spack!
A bullet hit me in the back. The force was enough to startle me and ruin my balance as I jumped, causing me to fly more forward than intended. When I landed on the platform, I stumbled.
Spack! Spack!
Two more rounds hit me in the ass and thigh. Let me tell you, rifle rounds had a lot more kinetic energy than pistol rounds. Fortunately, the pain was minimal. That said, the kinetic energy was enough to jolt my body noticeably when the high-powered rounds hit muscle. It reminded me of when the doctor hit your knee with the rubber reflex hammer. You couldn’t help but react.
Not wanting to get shot again, I jumped upward and grabbed onto the side of the nearest of the 3 boxy crusher towers. Twenty feet above the grated platform, I slapped my hands with a boom onto smooth sheet metal. Hugged both sides of the square corner on the boxy column as hard as I could.
Despite my strength, I started to slide downward.
In response, I dug my super-hardened nails into the sheet metal through my black leather gloves, noticeably denting the metal in divoted streaks as gravity dragged me downward. It was just enough to slow my slide.
That gave my feet time to find the nearest flange joint between sheet metal panels. The flange stuck out maybe a half-inch, offering a narrow ledge for my toes to grab and support my weight.
Spack! Spack! Spack!
Having been shot several times already without getting hurt did not change my natural inclination to avoid bullets whenever I knew they were coming. In response to the sound of gunfire, I jumped over to an adjacent platform on the third level of the processor.
Oof!
The toe of my black boot caught on the hand-railing as I went over and slammed onto the grated metal walkway, landing on my chest hard and laying myself completely out. Normally, such a fall would’ve knocked the wind out of me (and likely busted some ribs), but I didn’t even gasp.
Spack! Spack! Spack!
The bullets were flying but so was I. I hopped off the top level of the processor and plummeted 40 feet to the dirt below. Landed no problem. I needed to get around to Arnold.
Spack! Spack! Spack! Spack!
More bullets followed me as I made my way around the water tank. I jumped up onto the 15 foot wall, landing on the narrow 4-inch ledge like a pro. I was about to make my next move when I stopped short.
Rifle Thug #2 stood on the conveyor belt with his gun trained on Arnold’s head from five feet away. Thug #2 hissed at me, “You try anything and I shoot your friend.”
Fuck.
Rifle Thug #1 jogged over to the railing on the first level where it faced the tank. He too trained his rifle on Arnold, then growled at me, “Don’t try any more of your jumping shit either, or I’ll pop your friend’s head like a melon.”
They had found my Achilles’ heel.
Arnold.
What was I going to do?
Since I wasn’t touching either of the two thugs, I couldn’t freeze them. Believe me, in this situation, I would’ve made Ice Statues out of them both without a second thought. This was Arnold’s life we were talking about. But I was too far away to freeze the thugs.
I couldn’t burn them either because I didn’t have any stored heat.
Damn it!
I should’ve extracted some earlier! But I had been busy saving people elsewhere earlier! Resource management was an art, not a science!
Okay, I’ll be honest. As I mentioned before, I didn’t want to make more Ice Statues out of anyone else. One was enough. Namely, the guy in that downtown San Diego alley who had tried to rob Pudgy Batman before shooting me eight times. Nor did I want to burn anybody with my Wildfire powers on purpose. The truth was, ever since freezing Ice Statue to death, I had been avoiding the mere idea of using my fire powers on any living thing.
I didn’t want to avoid that ghastly outcome now.
But, without any heat, I couldn’t use my powers.
I could extract heat from the environment, but the closest thing I was touching was the water tank. Arnold was standing in the water. If I started extracting heat from it, I might freeze him. But I needed heat right fricking now!
Where was I going to get it safely? I didn’t fricking know!
Rifle Thug #2 on the conveyor growled at Arnold, “Get out of the fucking water, douchebag. Now! Or I fucking paint the walls with your brains.”
Arnold was looking right at me. He was soaked and frightened out of his mind. He said apologetically, “Too bad I dropped my Glock in the water.”
“Yeah,” I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what else to say. Or do.
Spack!
Plish!
Rifle Thug #1 fired a round into the water near Arnold from where he stood by the railing. He grunted, “Get fucking moving, fat ass!”
“Okay, okay!” Arnold muttered as he waded over to the side of the tank. He was close enough to the platform on the far side from me to climb onto the rim of the tank and over the railing. He stood dripping on the grated walkway with his hands up.
I immediately started extracting heat from the tank.
Rifle Thug #1 yelled at me, “If you move, I will shoot your fat friend. You hearing me, Pogo Stick?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, focusing on extracting heat from the cold water tank.
Thug #2 on the conveyor walked carefully backward, keeping his assault rifle trained on Arnold’s chest the whole time. He ignored the 25 foot drop on either side of the 2-foot wide belt where the conveyor passed over open air.
I wished for him to trip and fall off, but he didn’t.
Sadly, we had already established back at the car fire at the convention center that I had no wishing powers.
Thug #2 hopped off the conveyor onto the platform and walked over to Arnold.
Now both thugs were on the first level walkways and both were covering Arnold from point-blank range as they guided him over to the steep stairs. Thug #1 climbed down first while Thug #2 kept his rifle trained on me.
“Climb down, Fatty,” Thug #1 said to Arnold while pointing his rifle at me from where he stood on the ground.
Arnold climbed down the ladder.
Thug #2 followed.
I watched all this from my perch on the edge of the tank. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t collected enough heat energy from the cold water in the tank to do anything but watch. It might have had something to do with the fact that it was extremely difficult to concentrate on anything when there were two assault rifles aimed at your best friend.
