by Baron Sord
I pistoned up the stairs, pushing the loitering college kids to the sides. Fortunately for them, it was walls on both sides all the way up and nobody went flying over any railings.
At the top of the stairs, I planted a foot and pivoted. Ran past several doors, all of them closed. Frightened kids hugged the walls in the upstairs hallway, not wanting to get trampled by the charging ninja bull.
I got to the sixth door — it was a huge house — and nearly twisted the knob right out of the wood. I didn’t want to kick it open because I wasn’t entirely sure who was behind it, but I had a pretty good idea.
When I pushed the door open, I saw the usual chaotic clutter that was characteristic of many a football college dorm room, like a bomb had gone off and thrown clothes and empties and beer coasters in every direction. On the disheveled bed, some young athletic guy was lying on top of some young woman with his pants down to his knees and his ass in the air, but otherwise he was fully dressed.
The woman mewled, “Please stop! Please! Ple-e-e-e-e-ase!”
It was the fifth time I’d heard that exact sobbing plea since I’d heard it at Stazia’s. I grabbed the back of the would-be rapist’s T-shirt and pulled him off the young woman.
“What the fuck?!” he gasped as I threw him into the wall with a bang, his dick flapping in the wind.
The young woman on the bed clutched her arms tightly against her chest and pulled her knees up to her stomach. She too was fully dressed, but her skirt was pushed up above her waist. Her panties were right where they belonged, which was a good sign that I wasn’t too late.
Behind me, I heard rustling.
I spun around and grabbed Dick Flap by the back of his neck before he ran out of the room. “Not so fast.”
By now, several heads from the hallway were peering into the bedroom. Two girls, two guys. They looked surprised and slightly mystified.
I turned to the bed and said to the young woman, “Are you okay?”
Gritting her teeth, she shook her head slowly.
I said, “Did he…?”
She shook her head again.
I wasn’t sure if head-shaking was all she could manage under the circumstances, so I asked, “Are you sure he didn’t…?”
Finally, she nodded.
I hoped that was a yes, that Dick Flap had not finished what he’d started. Assuming he hadn’t, it gave me some minor comfort, but this unfortunate young woman had already been through far more than she deserved, all because of traffic and my inability to run faster than 60mph. Had I gotten here sooner, I could’ve prevented all of this, and she wouldn’t be lying here traumatized.
My frustration started biting away at me like a pack of rabid sharks. If only I knew how to use my fricking powers to fricking fly! If I could’ve flown here in a straight line at a mere 90mph, I would’ve gotten here twice as fast! I would’ve saved this young lady from the trauma she had endured! And I wouldn’t need a fricking helicopter pilot’s license to do it! Or a fricking helipad! Damn it!
“Let fucking go of me!” Dick Flap snapped. “Let GO!” He clawed at my arm with his nails and flailed his legs.
Didn’t do him much good because I was behind him and not letting go. And my skin was super resilient.
He thrashed and kicked the air furiously. “LET! GO!”
One of the random guys standing in the doorway said, “Who the hell is this guy?”
“I think he’s the Masked Jumper,” someone in the hallway said.
I made eye contact with the two girls in the doorway and said, “I need your help. I think this guy was trying to rape her.”
The girls exchanged a horrified look, not sure what to do.
The sound of thudding boomed in the hallway.
“MOVE IT! MOVE!”
“OUTTA THE WAY!”
The three footballers I’d knocked aside earlier burst through the doorframe. When they saw Dick Flap kicking the air, they stopped, not wanting to get kicked in their faces.
I still held Dick Flap tightly by his neck.
“Stop squirming!” I shouted.
One of the footballers said, “What’re you doing, man?”
One of the girls in the hallway said, “He stopped this guy from raping her.”
The other girl said, “He’s the Masked Jumper.”
“That guy?” Footballer #1 smirked.
I said, “Yeah, that guy. This girl needs help.” I turned to the young woman on the bed and said, “What’s your name?”
She shook her head without answering. Then she closed her eyes tightly and broke into silent cries.
I pushed Dick Flap into the corner near the closet so he couldn’t kick anybody. Then I turned and made eye contact with the two girls in the hallway. “Can you help her?”
Both nodded and squeezed into the small room and sat on the bed, tending to the young woman.
One said, “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re safe. Everything’ll be alright.”
I said to the two girls, “Can one of you call 911 please?”
They both nodded.
“Now?” I prompted.
“Sure,” one said. She pulled her phone out and dialed.
I dragged Dick Flap out of the room.
The three footballers crowded around me.
I said, “Do you know this guy?”
They looked at Dick Flap and shook their heads.
I said, “Can you hold him? He tried to rape her.” I tipped my head toward the bedroom.
Footballer #1 nodded, “Yeah, totally.”
“Grab him good,” I said.
“I’ll do it,” Footballer #2 said. He spun Dick Flap around and put him in a full-nelson wrestling hold. Good enough.
I pushed through the crowd in the hallway.
Numerous voices were muttering about The Masked Jumper. Word traveled fast.
When I found a group of four sorority girls wearing Greek-lettered T-shirts, I said, “I need your help.”
“Are you the Masked Jumper?” the first sorority girl asked.
“Yes.” Technically, I was Wildfire, but it didn’t matter what they called me as long as they did what I asked. “Listen, I need your help. There’s a girl in that room who was almost raped. I need you to watch over her.”
Sorority Girl #1 nodded, “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“Follow me,” I said and led the four sorority girls into the room. “Watch her.”
Once they were crowded around the bed, I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. Saw Footballer #1, but I didn’t see #2, #3, or Dick Flaps. I said to #1, “Where’d you put him?”
Footballer #1 said, “In here.” He pointed into another bedroom. In it, Footballers #2 and #3 were sitting on Dick Flap’s back with him lying on the floor.
Good enough.
I said, “I need to go. Keep him there until the cops get here. Can you do that?”
Footballer #1 said, “We’re all over it. Are you really the Masked Jumper?”
“Yes.”
“Epic, bro,” he grinned. “Sorry for rushing you like that.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have to go. Before the cops get here.”
“Totally, bro. You know where the door is?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Make sure you watch that guy.” I motioned toward the rapist. “And don’t let anyone bother the girls.”
“No way, bro. Hey, you play football?”
“No,” I shook my head.
“You’d kill on the field. You aren’t in college, are you?”
“No. Sorry.” I didn’t want to say more than that.
“Too bad, bro. We could use you on the team.”
I almost laughed. Not once had I imagined my super powers would open the doors to a spot on an NCAA football team. Not gonna happen.
“I have to go,” I said, and pushed past him.
Not wanting to be followed, I pushed my way quickly downstairs, through the packed living room, into the kitchen, and out a slider door to the backyard where dozens of colle
ge kids were vaping or smoking joints or drinking beer from SOLO cups.
All eyes followed me as I hopped the back fence into a random yard. I hopped several more fences, traveling randomly through backyards — had to dodge more than one dog and sent several cats scattering for cover — until I knew for sure no one had followed me. While yard hopping, I continuously checked the skies for any drones. For all I knew, some clever kid who lived in the frat house had a drone he used for peeping through windows to look at girls, and decided now was the perfect time to put his drone to use for something noteworthy: chasing the Masked Jumper the only way he could.
Thankfully, I didn’t see any drones following.
I considered going back to Arnold’s Prius now, but I didn’t want to risk being seen getting in. Not now. And, the cops would be here soon if they weren’t already. If they started blocking off streets, I might not be able to drive out of the neighborhood. So I continued jogging south through the suburb of Rolando until I was in Lemon Grove. There, I handled whatever distress calls I could by jogging to each one on foot.
Three hours later, I made my way back to Arnold’s Prius and went out for another long Saturday night of helping whoever needed it.
Eventually, my thoughts drifted to Stazia.
She had not looked very happy when I’d left her hanging at her house.
Not happy at all.
—: Chapter 40 :—
“I’ve never seen you look so damn happy, kid,” Jeff Strickland grinned.
Kristy frowned, “Seriously?” She didn’t feel happy.
“That was sarcasm. Somethin wrong, kid?” Jeff asked with genuine concern.
Kristy sighed, “It’s nothing.”
“Oh,” Jeff said, nodding. “I get it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “It’s a lady thing, right?”
Kristy grimaced and lied, “Yup, the monthlies. I’ll try to hide it.”
Jeff waved a hand, “Don’t worry about it. Nobody notices. You got this, kid.” He nudged her arm with his.
The two of them were sitting together behind the signing table inside the modestly crowded Treasure Trove Comics & Gaming in Encinitas.
At the moment, no one was waiting for Kristy to sign anything because she’d already signed comics for everyone still in the store, and chatted with them and taken selfies. Today was the release party for Lady Liberty issue #2. Fans had been coming and going all day. The lines’d been crazy sometimes, quiet others. It wasn’t nonstop like at San Diego Comic Con, which was probably for the best because Kristy was totally bummed Doug hadn’t showed in the four hours they’d been here, and they were only here until the store closed in another hour.
She was hoping Doug might show before then.
She couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t come.
She’d told him the day.
Did he not want to come?
Or had he forgot?
Probably that.
Doug would’ve come if he could, right?
Then again, she had told Doug about coming today.
She’d told him way back on the day Arnold got shot at that warehouse. No wonder Doug forgot. Anyone would’ve forgot, under the circumstances.
No wonder Doug hadn’t come.
Oh well.
Thirty minutes later, during another rush of fans wanting their comics signed, Jeff muttered in her ear, “Hang in there, kid. Only another half-hour till you can go home and sleep it off.”
“Yeah,” she sighed with disappointment.
Still no sign of Doug.
If he wasn’t coming, he wasn’t coming.
There was nothing she could do to make him come, no matter how bad she wanted him to come for her.
He had to come of his own free will.
—: Chapter 41 :—
When I woke up Sunday morning in my guest house bed, I agonized over two things:
1) Figuring out how to fly so no one had to go through what that young woman had at that frat party last night, and
2) What to tell Stazia.
Neither problem was an easy solve.
Starting with Stazia, I considered telling her the truth about why I’d left so abruptly yesterday. But the truth sounded ridiculous. A lie would be far easier to believe.
Unless I told her everything.
My powers, the distress calls, all of it.
Maybe not the murders.
But everything else.
Could I tell her all that?
I barely knew her.
Almost having sex didn’t count as knowing someone.
I’d have to think about it.
As much as I wanted to pick up things with her where we’d left off — at the exact moment she’d been laying topless on her lounger with us kissing passionately — I didn’t think we’d resume that fantasy until I gave her a satisfactory explanation, one that might require several hours worth of grueling congressional testimony on my part, preceded by a swearing-in and notarized at the end by an official notary, the county clerk, three priests, my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Hargutz, Arnold, Arnold’s parents, Sanjay, Clifton, Rene, etc., etc., etc., and anyone else willing to vouch for my character. I might even have to track down Kristy where she “danced” at Flashbacks, and have her explain our super powers to Stazia. I was that desperate.
Whatever it took to convince Stazia that I wasn’t insane, because who other than an insane person would’ve left her hanging like I had?
Man, I had serious reservations about whether or not Stazia and I would ever pick things up again.
Fortunately, I had other things to think about.
Like flying.
That said, thinking about flying wouldn’t get me anywhere. I needed to go someplace to practice.
Practicing flying would definitely keep my mind off Stazia and her smooth, tan body, that minuscule black thong she had been wearing, the way her big boobs had swelled out around her tiny ribcage when she was lying on that lounger and — NOT THINKING ABOUT STAZIA!
Flying!
I was thinking about flying.
Specifically, practicing.
And I knew just the place to do it.
—: o o o :—
“You really think you can fly?” Arnold asked from the passenger seat of his Prius later that morning. “I mean, actually fly fly?”
“I’m going to try,” I said, sitting behind the wheel.
We were driving through the desert toward Heph’s airport. Arnold had developed cabin fever after staying cooped up in the house 24/7 since getting shot. He was still on crutches, but he wanted to get out today and move around.
Arnold said, “You said you couldn’t fly when you tried at that Oceanside airport, right?”
“Yes, I mean, no, I couldn’t get an inch off the ground.”
“Did you get angry?”
“Huh?”
“When you weren’t getting off the ground, did you try getting angry?”
I smirked, “Why would that make any difference?”
“Heroes always unlock their powers when they get angry. Don’t you watch X-Men movies?”
“Yes. I’ve seen them all. I hate to break it to you, Arn, but the Wright Brothers didn’t fly at Kitty Hawk and the NASA astronauts didn’t land Apollo 11 on the moon because they and a bunch of NASA engineers went into beast mode and started bashing things.”
“Says you,” he chuckled. “Once we get to Heph’s, you should try it, just to see.”
“Try beast mode?”
“Yeah.”
“What, like fire off all my heat energy in one big angry blast?”
“If that’s beast mode, then yeah.”
I shook my head, “That’s how rockets get blown up. You need a carefully controlled burst to achieve liftoff. It’s all about proper nozzling. If I ever hope to fly for real, I need to play with mine.”
“Not in front of me, you don’t,” he chortled.
“Not what?”
“Play with your nozzle,” he smirked.
&
nbsp; “Oh. I meant—”
“I know what you meant. Just try getting angry,” he said with complete confidence. “Beeeaaaast Moooooode. Grrr!”
“Okay!” I chuckled in exasperation. “I’ll try it when we get there.”
—: Chapter 42 :—
Some time later, I parked the Prius near Heph’s dusty metal hangar.
Arnold got his crutches out of the backseat and we walked up to open hangar doors.
Heph was busy welding something.
“Yo, Heph!” Arnold hollered.
Heph flipped up his mask, “Yolo, buddy! How’s the gut hole?”
Arnold grimaced, “Can you not call it a gut hole?”
“Sorry,” Heph chuckled. He looked at me. “I see you’re not glowing. I take it you aren’t gassed up?”
“No,” I said. I hadn’t charged myself with heat since that night at the Oceanside warehouse fire. I was too worried about radiation and hadn’t found a Geiger counter as of yet.
Arnold rolled his eyes, “I keep telling Doug he can’t be Wildfire if he doesn’t set himself on fire now and then.”
I shrugged.
Heph nodded and said, “Hey, check this out.” He pointed at a huge cylindrical steel tank lying on its side in the hangar. “A human sized propane forge.” There was a hatch on one end and an adjustable vent on the other. Inside the open hatch was a flat ceramic surface. “The interior is insulated all around with ceramic blankets and sealed with two coats of ceramic paste. She’ll do 2200 inside and be cool to the touch on the outside.”
I said, “Fahrenheit or Celsius?”
“Fahrenheit,” Heph said.
I nodded, “That’s still pretty good.”
“That’s forge hot. Remember that portable hand warmer forge I told you about? This is the epic full-size version.”
With mild disgust, I grimaced a smile, “It looks like a crematorium oven.”
Heph said, “Maybe for normal people, but not for you, man. I thought maybe you could sleep in it.”
