by Baron Sord
Smirking at that image, it was clear to me the only thing I could possibly be ejecting from my feet was my own body mass.
Did I somehow function like a solid propellant rocket, incinerating my own molecules or heating them into hot plasma that I ejected at high velocity? That didn’t make sense. First, plasma temperatures were in the tens or even hundreds of millions of degrees kelvin, if not billions. Second, assuming the interior of my body was not a billion-degree kelvin kiln, human tissue didn’t store much chemical potential energy. It wasn’t an exothermic goldmine like gasoline or other fossil fuels, and it wasn’t made of inorganic compounds like solid rocket fuels (think explosives) that were itching — pun intended — to burn at the slightest spark.
Was I somehow splitting my own atoms like a fission reactor?
Was that how I achieved thrust?
If that was the case, people needed to start wearing radiation suits around me at all times.
People like Arnold.
Or Heph.
I had exposed both of them to ample amounts of my heat powers earlier today.
But I didn’t think nuclear fission was the explanation. At least I hoped it wasn’t. I needed to find a Geiger counter ASAP and make sure. For everyone’s sake, especially Arnold’s. He was around me all the time. I didn’t want to discover in a day or a week or a month from now that his hair and teeth had all fallen out and he was slowly and inevitably dying from radiation poisoning because we hadn’t known any better.
The idea made me shudder.
But Arnold’s hair hadn’t fallen out yet. Or even thinned. Not even close. If there was one thing Arnold had going for him in the looks department, it was a full head of thick hair.
Was it possible my super-powered body was fissioning the food I ate into some kind of nuclear fuel, while my ultra-resilient body worked as a radiation shield that prevented it from leaking out?
That seemed like wish fulfillment, especially after I had set that tree on fire outside the box warehouse. If I was leaking heat, I had to be leaking radiation, right?
Right?
Or leaving it behind in the toilet — yet another troubling issue to worry about. Whoever worked at the sewage treatment facilities in San Diego might be getting exposed to high doses of radiation every time they went to work. Or the dolphins and whales out to sea. Poor dolphins, and poor whales! I could see the headline now:
Save the whales — from Doug Moore!
You get the idea.
Unless… my stomach turned the food and water I ate into liquid propellant? The Space Shuttle used liquid hydrogen as its fuel and liquid oxygen as the oxidizer (you needed oxygen for combustion to occur in a vacuum), so why not me? Heck, for all I knew, my alien super-powered stomach could split good old H2O into the requisite hydrogen and oxygen atoms, thereby making me into a walking rocket fuel factory, all while shielding the world from the nuclear reactor core that was my stomach. Perhaps my super-resilient body was equally effective at scrubbing X-rays, gamma rays, and the other particle byproducts of a fission reaction.
Like I said, why not?
That wasn’t any stranger or far-fetched than the rest of my powers.
Whatever the explanation, I wasn’t achieving liftoff here at this airport. For all the heat blasting from my feet, I couldn’t get myself off the ground. My feet slid slightly from side to side as I adjusted my center of gravity, but that was it.
Curious, I took a step forward.
When I put my foot down and put weight on it, it shot out from under me and I fell on my ass. No different than walking on ice in flat-soled shoes.
Now on my back, my feet blasted bright geysers of noisy thrust, shooting flames wildly in every direction.
I cut off thrust immediately and all went quiet.
I still glowed bright orange. If I had to guess, I had burned through half my available fuel.
I smiled to myself.
Okay, that had sort of worked.
Not liftoff, but lifting.
It was a start.
If I wanted to slide around like Iceman from the X-Men, fine. But unlike his traveling ice ramps that melted away after he was gone, I would be burning anything I slid across. The asphalt where I had been standing while shooting off rocket blasts was now glowing red hot in a 6-foot radius and looked ready to melt.
Running would be simpler and less destructive.
I sat there on the ground thinking.
I wasn’t giving up on flight completely.
No way.
Maybe I needed to better control my exhaust thrust?
Yeah, I probably needed to play around with nozzling. The right nozzle shape made all the difference and maximized the flow rate of the exiting gases (the burning rocket fuel), helping them expand at the optimal rate to achieve maximum thrust.
The wrong shape would create excessive turbulence and dramatically decrease exit velocity and therefore fuel efficiency, thereby wasting tons of fuel and drastically limiting overall thrust.
Yeah, for all I knew, I was already producing enough total force to fly, but wasn’t ejecting it with enough precision to produce enough lifting force.
Whatever the answer, flight wasn’t happening tonight. I didn’t want to bake the taxiway any more than I already had. Maybe with more research and experimentation — which required someplace where no one cared what I burned, like Heph’s airport — I would crack the code of flight.
Hey! Doug! It was LL sending her thoughts. Where’d you go?!
I thought, I’m over at the airport!
The where?!
The airport! It’s like two blocks from the fire!
Oh! Maybe you should get over here!
Why?! Are you in trouble?!
She didn’t respond.
LL?! Are you okay?! What’s going on?! Elles?! ELLES?!
Still no response. Panic swept over me. If she was in danger…
I’ll be right there!
I couldn’t yet fly, but I could run like the wind.
I jumped to my feet and tore down the taxiway, banking steeply as I turned onto the short access road that led out to the expressway.
On my way back to the burnt warehouse, I jumped over roads, fences, and buildings. Seconds later, I came running around the side of the familiar U-shaped box warehouse building like a bright orange beacon.
I skidded to a stop at the corner, still in shadow.
There was a fricking hornet’s nest in the middle of the building’s U, and Lady Liberty was dead center.
—: Chapter 23 :—
Lady Liberty stood in the middle of mayhem, surrounded by the news crews. Their vans were parked nearby in the street, their dish antennas raised high. NBC-7. Fox 5, CBS News 8, 10 News, KOSD-6 (the Tanner Landry and Colette Spears channel). Every local station in town.
Camera lights blasted Lady Liberty and microphones were jammed in her face while the reporters interviewed her.
Were they sending out a live feed to all of San Diego? It didn’t matter because, if they weren’t, Lady Liberty would be on the 11 o’clock news later tonight anyway.
I sent a thought to LL, I thought you were in trouble.
What gave you that idea?
I… you sounded… never mind.
You should get over here, Doug.
Why would I want to talk to the TV news?
No answer from her because she was answering a question from one of the reporters.
I’d be more inclined to join her and talk to them if I had my mask on. I hadn’t thought to ask Arnold or Heph if I was recognizable when I was glowing with heat energy, or checked a mirror, not that I needed to. My guess would be yes, I was recognizable. Glowing did not change the proportions or shape of my facial features. Being recorded without a mask from far away was fine. But up close? I could easily get recognized by someone like Justine Escala, or Clifton, or Rene, or Sanjay.
Didn’t want that.
Promoting the Masked Jumper or Wildfire was one thing, but keep
ing my identity secret was critical. Not just because district attorney Max Garrison had issued a warrant for my arrest, but also for Arnold’s sake. After my multiple run-ins with the mysterious FwCK gang — whoever they were (aside from being murderers) — I didn’t want them coming after me and hurting Arnold. Or going after Arnold to get to me. Seven members of FwCK (eight if you counted Tied Up Vince) had already seen my face and Arnold’s at the rock quarry.
The last thing I wanted was to have my face splashed across five local news stations, whether or not I was glowing orange. Not without a mask.
As for Lady Liberty, she was wearing her mask and clearly didn’t care about disguising her voice, nor did she need my help answering the reporter’s questions. Let her enjoy the spotlight while I ducked into the shadows and disappeared.
“We gotta man on fire! Get a hoseline over there! West side of the building!” The fire chief was shouting through a bullhorn and pointing at me.
I was the fire.
Time to go.
I ran back behind the warehouse building.
Doug! LL called telepathically. Where are you? They want to talk to my partner!
I thought, Your partner? Who, me?
Who else? They saw you with me on the roof!
They did? Did they see my face?
Would you just get over here and—
A panicked and distorted distress call stabbed into my brain, blocking out Lady Liberty’s thoughts.
…He shot me. He fucking shot me…
Following that was a spray of Spanish future-distress coming from dozens of feminine voices I couldn’t decipher.
Doug? LL called. Where are you, Doug?
I thought, A bunch of people are in trouble! A shooting! I have to go!
I needed to find Arnold and the car. Hopefully he hadn’t moved it. I sprinted down the middle of the street, heedless of anyone who may have been recording me now.
After jumping over a few buildings like a streaking meteor, I found Arnold in the Ford where I’d left him. He was sitting in the driver’s seat. I hopped into the passenger’s.
“What the—?!” Arnold gasped, throwing up a protective arm and shielding his eyes. “You scared the shit out of me! You’re like a freaking walking firework!”
“Sorry.”
“No worries,” he said more calmly. “Your voice is all weird again.”
“It’s the heat,” my voice shimmered.
“Can you turn your temperature down? It’s like a billion degrees in here.”
“Not without releasing it. I might need it later. There’s going to be a shooting south of here.”
“Good thing I brought my Glock,” he grinned.
“You got your vest on?”
“Yeah. I got bored waiting for you, so I put it on.”
“Good. We need to go. Now.”
Arnold chuckled, “What, is someone going to raid San Onofre and blow it up?” Onofre was the nuclear power plant 20 miles north of Oceanside, past Camp Pendleton.
“Don’t say that,” I chastised. “That would be a disaster. Start the car already.”
“Okay, Dad.” Arnold punched the start button and lowered all the windows. “I hope you don’t mind a little air. You’re making this place an oven.”
“It’s fine. Let’s go.” I concentrated on keeping as much of my remaining heat in the front of my body so I didn’t burn the rental car seat too badly. I hated to think what a new seat might cost me because, no damage waiver. Whatever the cost of repair, I knew I couldn’t spare the cash.
Arnold said, “Where to again?”
“South. On the 5.”
Minutes later, we drove down the freeway going 70. Arnold pulled his ninja mask down as soon as we got up to speed.
“What’s that smell?!” Arnold hollered over the sound of wind buffeting into the car. “It’s like burning plastic or something!”
I looked down. “I’m melting the seat. You might not want to inhale too deeply.”
“Oh, great. Now you’re making me breathe toxic fumes? What other dangers are you gonna expose me to tonight, Doug?” Arnold was grinning. He didn’t care. He didn’t alarm easily.
I didn’t mention the possibility I might be emitting dangerous levels of radiation. Yes, it was an untested theory. That didn’t mean it was wrong. There was no rule that said super-powers were safe. I’d have to Geiger myself later or get a radiation dosimeter badge for Arnold (or do both) so I could put my worries to bed.
Arnold grinned, “Can you turn your brightness down? I’m seriously having trouble seeing the road from the glare.”
“Put your sunglasses on,” I grumbled. If I was dangerously radioactive, shooting flames around Arnold now — to lower my overall temperature — would expose him to more radiation.
“I can’t wear my sunglasses at night!” he chuckled with fake outrage. “It’s not the 1980s, Corey Hart! Dump some heat already!”
I grumbled, “I need it for later. Shooting, remember? From what I can tell, it involves a bunch of people. I’ll need every advantage I can get.”
“Fine. But can you turn your brightness down somehow? I seriously can’t see out the windshield.” He wasn’t kidding. My reflection overpowered the view forward. I was that bright.
I said, “Can’t you stick your head out the window and see that way?”
“Are you serious?” he chortled. “Of course not! Turn it down, Doug!”
“Okay, okay.” Hopefully I was not about to further irradiate Arnold by ejecting more flames in his presence. Then again, he had been exposed to plenty at Heph’s airport.
What were a few more rads?
He wasn’t dead yet.
That was morbid sarcasm. No, literal gallows humor.
I tried not to picture Arnold swinging from a noose, his body bloated with radiation sickness and seeping pustules, his hair having all fallen out, and his teeth too.
He said, “Were you going to turn it down or not?” He was trying to shade his eyes from my glowing glare, but not having any luck seeing the road.
I suddenly realized that, for all I knew, holding stored heat was exposing Arnold to more rads because he was inches away. There was no way to know how much of a radiation shield my body was without a Geiger counter. May as well get rid of the excess heat.
I sighed and stuck my arm out my window and aimed it straight up into the darkness. I told myself the car’s roof would offer Arnold some minor measure of protection.
I blasted a 50-foot stream of fire into the air like a flamethrower, which I basically was. Because of our forward motion and the wind resistance, the fire curved up and back behind the Ford in an impressive rooster tail.
Arnold glanced in the rearview mirror and laughed sarcastically, “Like nobody is gonna see that! That’s freaking awesome!”
When my body had cooled from bright orange to orange embers, I stopped. “Can you see now?”
“Much better,” Arnold grinned behind his ninja mask.
A random car pulled up alongside us on my side. The driver had his window down and held his smart phone in one hand, pointing it at me. His eyes were glancing between me and the screen on his phone. Obviously shooting video of me, Mr. Orange Embers, the Flamethrower Man. Correction, Flame-Hurler Man.
“Quit recording and watch the road!” I shouted at the video gawker.
He didn’t. Just kept shooting video as he laughed, “What the fuck, man?! Was that you? You got a flamethrower in there or something?”
I didn’t answer.
Arnold asked, “What’s that guy doing? Is he shooting video of us?”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
Arnold leaned over and shouted out my window, “Hey! When you post your video, say it’s Wildfire!”
I grunted, “Would you stop?!”
“Why? It’s free PR.”
I ignored him and pointed my finger out the window at Video Gawker’s phone and shot a concentrated blast of hot white fire a quarter-inch in diameter. Aimed it at
the back of the phone. It took only seconds for the case to glow bright orange and start melting.
“Ow, ow, ow! Shit!” Video Gawker suddenly dropped his phone like a hot potato. It clattered onto the road and went bouncing behind us at speed. He shook his hand like it had been burned, blowing on his fingers. If I had irradiated his hand, that was his problem. He was the fricking gawker invading my privacy.
I shouted at him, “I think your battery is bad! Was that a Samsung Galaxy Note 7? They’re notorious for having exploding batteries!”
“No!” Video Gawker said, totally confused. “It was an iPhone 11! I just bought the damn thing!”
“Oops!” I laughed. “You should’ve gotten an iSearch Robot! Their batteries never blow!”
Video Gawker was no longer listening. He slowed his car and drifted back behind us.
“Why’d you do that?” Arnold demanded. “That was free PR!”
“Are you insane? We’re in my rental car! It can easily be traced back to me.”
“Oh, right. Good thing I have my mask on.”
“I don’t,” I grumbled.
“But your face is all Human Torch and shit. I can barely recognize you. I don’t think you need a mask.”
I flipped down the passenger visor and checked myself in the mirror. “I can. I can totally tell it’s me. All it takes is someone getting closeup video of my fiery face and some facial recognition software, and they’ll figure out Wildfire is Doug Moore.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“What are you talking about? There’s enough pictures of me floating around on the internet for facial software to identify me.”
Arnold rolled his eyes, “Even if that happens, deny it. Say Wildfire is someone else.”
“Did you forget you were almost killed a week ago at that rock quarry by organized criminals?”
