by Baron Sord
“I don’t know.”
“Let me think. You use electricity, i.e. electromagnetic waves,” I said thoughtfully. “Wait, are you projecting X-rays or some kind of magnetic field? Are you working like an X-Ray or MRI?”
“I don’t know, both? Neither? You tell me.”
I didn’t have time to figure it out now. What I needed to do was focus on stopping Arnold’s bleed. It didn’t help that his case was more difficult than with Cauterized Guy. The large gash in that man’s leg had offered me easy and direct access to his femoral artery with both my hands. With Arnold, my only access would be through a single 9mm bullet hole.
I’d have to get this done using a single fingertip.
I grimaced in anticipation, praying I wouldn’t make things worse.
—: Chapter 26 :—
I re-sterilized my hand, sending internal heat to my index finger until it was white hot. When it cooled, I wormed my finger into Arnold’s wound.
“Ugggh,” he moaned.
“Sorry, Arn.” I tried to feel for any obvious bleeds. I couldn’t. Everything was uniformly wet, and nothing was spurting or pulsating noticeably like with Cauterized Guy’s femoral artery. I didn’t know where to start. “Acch,” I grunted. “I can’t tell what’s going on in there.”
LL said, “Maybe you can see what I’m seeing.”
“How?”
“If I let you inside my head, do you promise not to snoop around?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m gonna try and share what I’m seeing with you. We can share thoughts, so why not pictures?”
“Good point.” It was ridiculous, but, why not? Fricking super powers, right?
“You ready?” she asked.
“Uh, I guess? Will this even work?”
“I don’t know. But we have to try, right? Dolphins can send pictures to each other with sonar. Why not us?”
“Are you sure about that?” I said skeptically. “I thought they could only—”
“Just go with it,” she smirked. “Now shut up and close your eyes.”
I did.
“Seeing anything yet?” she asked.
“No, not… Oh, wait. No way!” Sure enough, a red colored 3D image of Arnold’s insides filled my imagination. “This is crazy!”
“I know, right? Can you see what you’re doing?”
“Now I can. I can see every blood vessel in perfect detail! This is much better than my TGV.”
“Your what?”
“Temperature Gradient Vision.”
“Come again?” she giggled.
“See, my vision works similar to a—”
“I was kidding. Help Arnold already.”
“Right,” I nodded. “Can you zoom in on my fingertip?”
“Sure.”
“Wow! My finger is like the size of a watermelon! Too bad Arnold’s tissue is a mangled mess.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I can try.”
“Do you see the bullet?” LL asked.
My view shifted and suddenly I could. The bullet was lodged in Arnold’s pelvis. In my mental field of view, the 9mm mushroomed slug was the size of a large yard mushroom, one of those huge ones, and highly detailed. Talk about next-level MRI. “I can see it perfectly.” I also saw the ragged wound channel. Mangled mess was an understatement. Under magnification, it looked horrendous.
“Should we take it out?” LL asked. “The bullet, I mean?”
“I don’t know. It has a lot of rough edges that might fragment if I yank on it.” I was imagining using my super-hard fingernail to pry the bullet out of Arnold’s pelvis bone. With my strength, it would be easy to crack the bullet into pieces by accident. The smaller they got, they harder they would be to remove with a single finger inside Arnold’s slippery guts. It wasn’t like I had surgical tweezers handy. I said, “The fragments could get stuck elsewhere if I try to pull them out. That might cause more problems later.”
“Do you want me to magnet it out?”
“What, the bullet?”
“Yeah. I can get the little pieces too.”
“Uhhhh… Bullets are made of lead.”
“So?”
“Lead isn’t ferrous.”
“What?”
“Magnets only work on ferromagnetic metals like iron or steel. Well, they have a minimal affect on other metals, but it’s negligible. Bullets are made mostly of lead with a little bit of copper. It’s pretty much impossible to do anything to a hunk of lead with a magnet.”
“But they do it in movies all the time. Magneto does it in the X-Men. Maybe I can do it.”
“Uhhh… not unless you can create directional anti-gravity.”
“How do I do that?”
“Uh, by using more electric current than is available in the entire San Diego power grid? You have to get your energy from somewhere.”
“Oh, right. I don’t need that much, do I? I’m a really strong magnet.”
“We’re not talking about magnetism. Look, no scientist has ever achieved anti-gravity under any circumstances, and they’ve used tremendous amounts of power in their attempts, so I’m thinking yes, you need a lot of power. More than San Diego has.”
“What if I need less than that? You know, because super powers.”
I couldn’t argue with that illogic because, look at me and my nuclear reactor core stomach, or whatever it was. “I would say yes, go ahead and try, if it was something other than removing a bullet from Arnold. I’m worried if you use too much power, you’ll melt the lead and fuse it into Arnold’s pelvis permanently, and possibly cook him from the inside in the process.”
“Oh. That would be bad.”
“Very bad,” I added.
She sighed, “So we leave it?”
“I’d rather let the surgeons handle it. They have tools we don’t have. Like tweezers. We need to focus on stopping his bleeding.”
“So do that.”
“I’ll try. Can you swing the view around so I can see the wound channel? That’s where the bleeding is.”
“Sure.”
My magical 3D MRI view shifted again.
She asked, “How’s that?”
“Perfect. Now I need to focus.”
Time disappeared as I delved inside the image in my mind’s eye. The red mess of tissue was confusing to sort through, but I did find two medium-size blood vessels that were both leaking profusely. Using my index finger, I cauterized both with pinpoint accuracy, releasing microbursts of heat from my finger from a variety of angles. Not thrust, which ejected mass. Just heat, which conducted best via direct contact. As I had with Cauterized Guy, I released heat in any direction I wanted, from any surface of my finger I chose (even the tip or edge of my fingernail), and with any precision I could imagine.
We’re talking literal pin-points of heat.
While I worked, I had LL shift the 3D MRI view for me as needed. Between her zooming (which seemed to provide endless levels of magnification as good as any high-powered microscope) and my precision, the repair process seemed less like trying to glue together individual spaghetti noodles (the blood vessels) or fishing line (the smaller capillaries) with my clumsy sausage finger, and more like I was welding an 18 inch drainage pipe (the vessels) or a garden hose (the capillaries) with a handheld soldering iron. With my precision control, it was easy to get in there however I needed.
I had to keep telling myself that I was not poisoning Arnold with radiation from the inside, and that stopping him from dying from blood loss was the priority. That said, I really needed to get up close and personal with a Geiger counter after this was all over and put my worries to bed.
When I finally finished on Arnold’s vessels and capillaries, I decided to stop. Best to leave working room for the doctors to get in and remove the bullet. They would also need to address any muscle tears or tissue trauma because I wasn’t sure what to do with any of that. I had no doubt fixing it was more complicated than sealing tubes.
&
nbsp; I pulled my finger out and pressed my palm over the seeping entrance wound, applying direct pressure.
“What now?” LL asked.
I said, “I say we take him to the hospital.”
“Okay. How do you want to carry him?”
“Let’s carry him on the table. Like a stretcher. But let’s wipe off any remaining heroin dust, or whatever it might be. Might not look too good to any hospital staff.”
“You think?” LL laughed.
We hastily brushed off the table.
“You ready?” I asked, preparing to pick up the table.
LL nodded, “Yup.”
Suddenly, the booted thugs in black were starting to wake up. Several of them moaned and groaned incoherently. FwCK tattoos were visible on the necks of several. No surprise there.
“At least they’re not dead,” I said with relief. “I was starting to worry you’d killed them.”
“Eh,” she shrugged.
I was surprised by her nonchalance.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” I shook my head.
“They deserved it,” she glowered.
Not wanting to argue, I nodded, “We need to go.”
We picked up the table and headed toward the exit. As we passed the open office, my eyes drifted through the doorway. I saw the pile of money LL had mentioned. It was gigantic. I couldn’t begin to guess how much it was. Tens of thousands of dollars? Hundreds of thousands? A million or more?
I must’ve slowed my stride without realizing it because LL said, “You’re thinking about taking the money, aren’t you?”
“Are you?” I asked.
“Should we take it? Split it three ways?”
“Three ways?”
“You know, some for you and your friend Arnold.”
I was impressed she was thinking of him, but I sighed, “It’s drug money.”
“What’s wrong with stealing stolen money?”
“Because somebody might want to steal it back. Like that guy who shot Arnold.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. You’re probably right.”
“Let’s get out of here.” I took a final painful glance at the mountain of money before walking outside.
While I walked, a mental image flashed through my mind. It was of the other mountain of money I had spent on my exorbitant food and fuel expenses since getting my super powers. Since then, every single dollar bill I had saved and deposited in my bank account over the years had taken flight like a flock of flapping birds leaving the nest to fly south to THE BANK BREAKER’s hideout where they would take up permanent roost.
I would never get that money back now.
Oh well.
In the darkness, LL and I walked down the sidewalk carrying Arnold. As far as I could tell, nobody saw us as we made our way along the street. It was late and this entire area was industrial businesses.
When we arrived at LL’s 4-door Audi A4, we carefully slid Arnold off of the table and into the backseat. I set the table quietly on the sidewalk — it wouldn’t fit inside the car.
LL and I dropped into the front seats and closed the doors.
“Wow,” she said, sitting behind the wheel, “you’re really bright when it’s dark.”
“Oh, shit,” I grumbled.
“What?”
“I need clothes for the hospital. I can’t go in there like this. Once I dump my heat, I’ll be naked. I also need to dump Arnold’s gun.”
“What if you need it later?”
“The gun? You can’t bring a gun into a hospital and I don’t want to leave it in your car.”
“No. I meant your heat. What if you need it for something or other?”
“Right.” I shook my head, “No, I need to be there for Arnold. That means I need to dump my heat and get clothes. I have some in my car.”
“Show me the way,” she smiled.
I directed LL to where my Ford was parked. I had to fish the keys out of Arnold’s pocket — directed heat away from my hand to do so — and opened the Ford to stash the Glock in the glove box. I didn’t want LL getting in trouble for it.
I offered a silent prayer to the God of Parked Cars (he was in the Nonhuman Deities section in the first edition of TSR’s Deities & Demigods — AC: -4, hp: 330, Total Badass, with equally badass illustration by Erol Otus) that no one would break in and steal Arnold’s Glock while we were at the hospital.
Speaking of Deities, at the moment, I probably looked like Kakatal the Fire Lord. Unlike the God of Parked Cars, Kakatal was actually in Deities 1st ed. (to the disgruntlement of Michael Moorcock). You could find Kakatal in the now-defunct Melnibonéan Mythos section, pp. 90, AC: -2, hp: 289, Total Badass.
But I wasn’t a Fire Lord and I couldn’t walk into a San Diego hospital looking like one. Rather than spew fire from my hands in a torrent of Kakatalian splendor, I jogged away from my car and LL’s Audi.
“Where are you going?!” she called. “We need to go already!”
I thought, I need to dump my heat! I don’t want to melt your tires or mine. Stay there for a minute.
Okay. Go for it.
I stopped in the middle of the street 30 yards away.
As I transferred heat down my naked legs into the ground, it didn’t take long to heat the asphalt to a dim red glow. I didn’t even need my TGV to see it. In the darkness, it was clearly visible as a widening circle of warmth. Call it a Fiery Street of Death, or FSoD for short — not to be confused with an FFoD (Frozen Freeway of Death). I told myself it was late and nobody would drive down this particular street before it had a chance to cool naturally.
While I emptied my stored heat, I closed my eyes to monitor my TGV underground. Didn’t see any electrical lines that might be in danger of melting. Around here, all the electrical was strung from telephone poles. But I did see what I believed to be a sewage main and some smaller sewer lines branching off it to the surrounding businesses. Hopefully I didn’t heat them to the point of failure.
Speaking of underground lines, there had to be a water main around here somewhere that I wasn’t seeing with my TGV. Unlike sewage lines, a water main would be under pressure, and heating it could be disastrous, but my TGV didn’t reveal one, so I assumed there wasn’t one within the radius of my heat hemisphere.
When I started worry about that sewer line getting too hot to maintain its structural integrity, I took note of the temperature color of my body. Green. That was generally around normal. I opened my eyes and saw my skin no longer glowed.
The street on the other hand…
It was bright red. Like a Lava Street of Death.
The LSoD.
Hopefully anyone who saw this would be smart enough to not drive or walk across it.
Fingers crossed.
But I had to walk across it.
Thankfully, the heat didn’t bother me. But the LSoD stank of hot tar, and the molten asphalt stuck to the soles of my feet in increasingly large chunks, similar to trudging through mud. Clearly, hot asphalt was stickier than hot human flesh by far. Worse, I was leaving deep foot-gouges behind that I didn’t have time to smooth out. Not because of the possibility of leaving footprints in the road. The soles of my feet were smothered in tar and my left-behind-footprints were jagged and unrecognizable. No, it was because of the damage to the road surface. Rather than make more for San Diego’s Street Division to fix (they had enough pot holes keeping them busy already), I jumped high and landed on the sidewalk, which had not heated to melting. Concrete didn’t start to melt until reaching about 1800 degrees F (1000 C), whereas asphalt started to soften at a mere 122 F (50C).
I sat down on the sidewalk and hastily scraped the chunks of gooey and cooling asphalt off my feet using my fingers. As I had already learned, hot asphalt was very sticky, and it was adhering to my fingers as much as it was to my feet. That was an easy fix. I extracted all the heat from the asphalt stuck to me until it froze well below 32 F (0 C) — at least 100 degrees below, if not more. Then I bashed
my hands and feet against the concrete and shattered the asphalt into glassy shards. Now it came away easily from my skin. I bashed the broken shards laying on the sidewalk into powder, just in case my footprints or fingerprints had been frozen in.
That done, I opened my Ford and pulled my change of clothes out of the back. Jumped into a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and flip flops. Yes, I was running out of shoes, and you could get flip-flops at Goodwill for two dollars a pair. Since losing my shoes at the rock quarry, I’d bought several for occasions such as this.
Then I jumped into LL’s Audi.
She marveled, “It can’t believe what you did to the street. It’s like a volcano or something.”
“Don’t tell anybody,” I smirked.
“Why?”
“The repair bill, which the city will have to pay for.”
“Oh. My lips are sealed,” she grinned.
I nodded, “Let’s go.”
We drove Arnold straight to the hospital.
—: Chapter 27 :—
“Why’d you turn in here?” I asked as LL drove her Audi into the parking structure at the hospital. “Can’t you pull up to the Emergency Room entrance and let us out there?”
“You’re not going in alone,” she said with irritation.
“Oh, I thought you were just dropping us off.”
She frowned, “Why would I do that?”
“Oh, I just… you know, I had…” assumed you would leave me hanging like you always do.
“I heard that,” she smirked.
She parked in a free space and we both got out. She took a moment to put a trench coat on over her skintight costume. When she turned to face me, she wasn’t wearing her mask.
It was the first time I had seen her without it.
Prior to now, even with her mask on, I had always thought she was incredibly beautiful. It was now clear I had vastly underestimated her beauty.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
At least once in your life, you crossed paths with someone who knocked you on your ass the second you met them. I wasn’t talking about seeing someone in a movie or a magazine or internet porn, although images did have a power of their own. I was talking about coming within inches of that person in real life, seeing them face to face, and everything just stopped when they looked you in the eyes. Not you looking at them in secret. I meant you looking openly and them looking back at you with a glint of interest. Granted, there was no guarantee you would ever get that person — even if there was a momentary mutual chemistry — but that didn’t change the fact they were your 100% perfect match. Not an 87% match, or 93%, or even 98%. I was talking 100%.
