Halfway Heroes

by Dustin Martin

“Is everyone alright?” Sylvia asked.

  Lydia was sick to her stomach. She felt battered from the chase. She was surprised she was even alive, much less that the car hadn’t flipped over. Her ears were ringing from the gunshots. Jando and Aidan groaned their responses to Sylvia, but they looked relatively unhurt. Aidan was carrying some bruises from the bout with Mark, and Jando had dried blood under his nose. Heavy clouds of smoke arose from their car’s engine as it fizzled.

  “Hello?” Gould called on the radio.

  Jando leaned over and answered it. “This is Chameleon,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

  “Put Sylvia on.”

  He handed her the radio. “Here you go, Ear.” He chuckled, mumbling about her needing a better name.

  “We need some help at the hospital,” Gould said, moaning.

  “Are you alright?” Sylvia asked.

  “Fine, fine,” he said, grunting. “Got hit in the stomach. Nothing to worry about.”

  Sylvia turned to Lydia. “Do you know where the hospital is from here?”

  Lydia looked around dazedly. The street shops blurred briefly, but then her vision cleared. “Um,” she said, trying to pinpoint their location. She glanced ahead and raised a finger at a left turn. “I think it’s down a couple of blocks that way.”

  “We’ll be there soon, Gould,” Sylvia said. “Hold on.”

  “What about Rooke, Heather, and Mark?” Lydia asked.

  “What about them? Rooke’s probably at Kentle Funeral Home. Or did you not notice the side of the hearse?” Sylvia said. She pointed at the trail cut into the road by Rooke’s wheel. “He can’t go very far with his damaged wheel. Heather and Mark probably followed him.”

  “That’s at least several blocks from here,” Lydia said. “Maybe Aidan could—”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Aidan said. “What about getting another car?” But there were no suitable cars nearby. Lydia saw only one, which was tangled up in a lamppost and a fire hydrant.

  “Look, Rooke and the others can wait,” Sylvia said. “If we can secure the first SN91 canisters, we may not even need the code. Our people could try and shut them down. But if we follow and Gould’s team is killed, it’ll be that much harder to get into the hospital if we do need the code. Besides, we need a new car. We can take one of the cop cars at the hospital. Not to mention you need something for this.” Sylvia grabbed Lydia’s hand. Lydia winced, jerking her arm away when Sylvia’s fingers brushed the deep laceration from Mark’s knife.

  Lydia hated to admit it, but Sylvia was right. Gould needed help and so did she. They ran down the street, trailing behind Lydia as she guided them to the hospital. Before it was even in sight, they heard gunshots. Although the eerie stillness of her hometown was spooky, she preferred it to the bullets that were ripping through the air. She feared she would grow as desensitized to the gunfire as she had to her ability. Already, it seemed commonplace to hear battles waging throughout the city.

  When Hunter Memorial Hospital was in sight, they slowed down. Lydia guided the group through alleys and stores, seeking shelter wherever they could find it. Eventually, they reached the loose semicircle of police cars camped out in front of the hospital. A couple of dozen officers, off-duty cops, and armed civilians were firing on mercenaries on upper levels of the hospital. The mercenaries shot back. One of the police cars was a smoldering carcass of its former self, charred black and burning with tiny embers.

  Gould was propped against one of the vehicles. His stomach was bleeding profusely, his skin the color of chalk. An officer held a cloth to his wound, but it failed to staunch the blood flow. When there was an opening Lydia and the others sought safety behind the car.

  “What happened?” Sylvia asked.

  “Nothing,” Gould said. “Like I told you, one of them got me.” The officer hurriedly pressed a bandage on his torso.

  When the officer noted the injury on Lydia’s hand, he quickly applied some dressing to her palm. After he finished she flexed her hand. “Thanks,” she said. Her palm was sensitive, but the dressing helped dull the pain. I can fight through it.

  “Look, don’t worry about me right now,” Gould continued. “We’re at a hospital, after all. I’ll be fine. The big problem is those guys.” He motioned with his chin toward the hospital.

  “How many are there?” Sylvia asked.

  “We took out four, so we count ten left,” he said. “Maybe with hostages. Two are holding the front doors, behind the receptionist’s desk. They’ve rigged the other entrances with explosives. Possibly C4.”

  “You sit tight,” Jando told him. “Chameleon has this.” A bullet whizzed by his head. He screamed and dropped onto his back. He looked up at Lydia. “I got your back, Bear.”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes at him.

  “Shut up with the names, Jando,” Aidan said.

  Lydia peered at the hospital. Several mercenaries aimed their guns out of windows on various floors. The closest was on the second floor, off to the side. “Aidan,” Lydia said, pulling him over. “Would you fly me to that window?”

  “Well, I don’t think—” he started, but Jando cut him off.

  “Forget Seagull. I’ll get you close and you can climb up the wall,” Jando said, getting to his feet.

  The officers fired on the hospital. Together with Sylvia, Lydia and Jando, trying to avoid the gunfire, snuck around vehicles to an abandoned ambulance directly in front of the window. “Okay,” Sylvia said, once they were crouched behind it, “Let’s make this quick. I’ll cover you. Jando—”

  “Chameleon.”

  “Fine, Chameleon. Whatever,” she said. “You keep me out of sight. Lydia, you run for the hospital as soon as I say so. Try to get downstairs and take out the two watching the entrance. We’ll come to the front door and catch them on either side. Alright?”

  Lydia nodded. Please, God, let me make it. Don’t think. You can do it, she thought, mentally preparing to hurl herself into harm’s way once more. How many times did that make today alone? Four? Five? She eagerly wanted to have this ordeal over with and be back on the search for Rooke. Jando grabbed Sylvia’s shoulder and she disappeared. She leaned out from the ambulance’s wide frame and shot at the mercenary on the second floor. He ducked and fired back in the direction of the ambulance. He paused and then backed away from the window.

  “He’s confused. Go, go!” Sylvia shouted. Lydia sprinted for the hospital. A squadron of pistols and rifles went off, distracting the mercenaries from Lydia’s movements. She heard Jando cry out. He must have been hit. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Sylvia on the ground, visible to all. “Keep going!” she yelled to Lydia.

  Within seconds, Lydia was at the hospital’s wall. She punched through the solid exterior and hefted herself up. Higher and higher, she climbed up the side of the concrete building, creating handholds every few feet.

  Unfortunately, when she was right below the window, the mercenary decided to emerge. He gazed down and saw her. With no options left, Lydia gathered her strength and flung her body upward. She collided into him, her head meeting his jaw. He fell backward, his rifle clattering to the floor. She tumbled into a patient’s room.

  Swaying, the mercenary sat up. Lydia dashed over to him and kicked his chest. Then she delivered a clumsy hook to his ear. He went down, unconscious for the time being.

  The patient in the room sat up in her bed, looking stricken with terror. Lydia held up her hands. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to make her voice soothing. The patient, seeing that the girl wasn’t a threat, calmed down.

  “Hey, Maurice?” A man’s voice, coming from the hall. “Where are you?”

  Lydia ran to the open door, flattening her body against the wall. She glanced at the rifle on the floor. It was out of reach. Should she run for it? Might not be enough time, she thought. She didn’t know how to reload, or how to use the gun, for that matter.

  “Psst!” Lydia turned to the patient. She was waving a crutch i
n her hand. Nice, thought Lydia. She tossed the crutch to Lydia, who caught it and stood poised by the door. As soon as the mercenary walked in, she whacked him in the head. He dropped. She struck him again, knocking him out. Then she dragged his body over to his friend, Maurice, who lay unconscious in the middle of the room.

  “Thanks,” Lydia said, handing the crutch back.

  “Keep it,” the patient said. “Something tells me you’ll need it again.”

  A clock on the bedside table read ten-fifteen. Have to hurry. That’s two down, and eight to go. Lydia raced down the hallway, passing frightened employees and patients alike. She located the stairs and took care to descend to the first floor as quietly as she could.

  The stairs led to an empty hallway. Lydia had trouble navigating her way, since one white-washed hall was the same as any other. But she soon found the receptionist’s desk in the lobby around the next corner. She edged along the wall, surveying the situation. Two mercenaries, equally armed, and with a clear line of sight on her if she ran out. She could probably surprise one, but the other would definitely hit her if she charged in.

  Luckily, Sylvia took that moment to fire at the mercenaries, and they turned their focus to the front doors. One raised a heavy machine gun onto the desk. The other held up a belt of ammunition, feeding it into the weapon. They crouched low and fired. It was a wonder the front doors were standing at all. The gun ripped through the entrance, letting everyone know there would be nothing left of them if they tried to come in.

  You can do this, Lydia thought again, peering down the hall. Before she lost her nerve, she pelted out of the hallway and hurled the crutch at the man who was loading the gun. Please don’t let me miss! The crutch smacked him on his head and he toppled forward over the desk. Then she ran full tilt at the other. She batted the pistol out of his hand. Then she rammed his head against his machine gun. He collapsed and she stepped on his back and leaned her full weight on him. Lydia closed her eyes, breathing deep. Thank God.

  The other mercenary stood up, pistol raised. A shot came from the doorway and hit him in the back of the hand. His pistol clattered to the ground. He lunged for it with his left hand, but Sylvia stepped in. “Don’t move,” she said. She eyed Lydia. “Good job.”

  “Where’s Jando?” she asked.

  “Caught one in the leg. Don’t worry, he’s fine,” Sylvia said, and Lydia breathed easier. “Clean wound. In and out. Nothing serious, but he needs medical attention. As does Gould.”

  Rogers and the rest of their force filed in, securing the mercenaries. Lydia told them about the two unconscious mercenaries upstairs, and confirmed that there were hostages on the second floor as well. Several officers broke off to check. “Got held up at Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Go get the others outside,” Rogers said. His shoulder was only grazed, but Lydia thought it was still a nasty wound. “We’ll handle things from here.”

  “Sure you don’t want help?” Sylvia asked.

  “No,” he said. “Go get Gould and the BEP. We’ll be fine here.” The police outnumbered the opposition by a ratio of at least three to one. So Rogers stayed behind, assisting a few officers in disarming the mercenaries.

  When Sylvia and Lydia walked out of the building, they could hear firefights coming from inside. The noise died down, and they ran to the car where Sylvia had left Jando and Gould.

  “Finally,” Aidan said. He jerked his head at Jando. “He will not shut up.”

  “I’m going to die!” Jando said. “Dying in the midst of battle! Oh, Lord, I’m coming home!”

  “You won’t die,” Aidan said, pushing him aside. “She already told you it was no big deal.”

  “I can take comfort knowing that I kept you safe,” Jando said, facing Lydia. He reached out to her and she held his hand. “But I’ll regret never experiencing your flavor. If I might have, but one kiss—ow!” he yelled when Aidan smacked him. “I’m being serious here!”

  “Sleazy,” Aidan said. “The correct word you’re looking for is sleazy.”

  Sylvia helped Gould to his feet, but Aidan’s help was needed to support him. Gould’s head lolled to the side. His wound still seeped blood through the bandages. She checked his pulse and shook her head. “It’s faint. Let’s hurry up.”

  That left Lydia to help Jando. “Can you walk?”

  “No, but I can hop,” he said. He refused to be carried, so they lagged behind Sylvia and Aidan on the way into the hospital.

  When they were inside, they discovered that the mercenaries had been rounded up and detained at the front desk. A couple of them suffered terrible wounds and one was dead, lying in a corner, away from those still alive. The one Sylvia had shot was nursing his hand. He muttered curses at Sylvia as she lay Gould down. “Don’t think I’ll be able to use this finger ever again,” the mercenary said.

  “You have nine more,” Rogers said. The mercenary attempted an obscene gesture, but the pain was too much for him. He fell back and held his hand gingerly.

  Three nurses entered the room. The first, with two other employees, helped Jando onto a stretcher. The second nurse cleaned and redressed Lydia’s hand. Lydia grimaced, wanting to rip her arm away.

  The third nurse checked Gould. “I can’t find a pulse,” she said. “I need a crash cart!” Two other nurses rushed to her, one dragging along a cart equipped with air pump, defibrillator, and other items. The other pushed a stretcher toward them. One of the nurses kneeled by Gould’s head, placing the pump over his mouth as another readied the defibrillator, opening his shirt and attaching the pads. The last nurse compressed his chest, counting aloud.

  “Will he be alright?” Rogers asked nervously. He hovered over them.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” one of the nurses said, staunching the wound with clean bandages. The defibrillator beeped. “Clear!” His body jolted, but failed to come to life. All the while, his blood continued to pool on the floor. After several more attempts, the nurses gave up their efforts. “He’s gone.” They gently laid him on the stretcher and two of the nurses wheeled his body down the hall.

  “Sorry,” the last nurse said, patting Rogers’s shoulder. He nodded and thanked her. “You should have that checked,” she said, pointing at his injury.

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you,” he said. Then she left to assist some of the wounded police.

  Rogers turned away. He scowled at the mercenaries and pointed his pistol at them. “Who’s in charge?” he said, his tone a deep growl. All the mercenaries subtly eyed the tallest of the group, the de facto leader who was holding his injured hand. Rogers pulled the man to his feet. “What’s your name?”

  “Emeryl,” the mercenary answered.

  “Well, Emeryl, you’re going to help me out.” Rogers ordered the officers standing around to escort the leader upstairs. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about these canisters. Got that?”

  “You need our help?” Sylvia asked as the mercenary was led away.

  “No, you’ve done enough here,” Rogers said. Lydia sensed an accusation in his voice, as if they were responsible for Gould’s death. But Rogers clarified his position when he added, “You did well.” He turned away. “You should go after Rooke. We’ll handle things here; see if we can shut down the canisters without the code.” Then he left.

  “You up to going?” Sylvia asked Lydia. She nodded. “Alright, come on,” Sylvia said to Aidan and Lydia. “Let’s get to the funeral home.” They bid farewell to Jando, who waved to them as he was pushed down the hall. They selected another police car, started it up, and Lydia directed Sylvia to the funeral home.

  * * *