Crawling From the Wreckage

by Michael C Bailey

  “A welcome home party? Now? I’ve been home for three weeks.”

  Mom shrugs. “That’s all he said. Oh, and that it’s a surprise party and I shouldn’t tell you, but I think throwing a surprise party for someone with PTSD isn’t necessarily the best idea.”

  “I’m not that bad.” Mom gives me a look. “I’m not. I’m a long way from being okay, but I’m not so tightly wound I’d panic and fry a room full of people for jumping out and yelling ‘Surprise!’”

  Mom smiles. “You will be okay again.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know my girl.”

  That’s true. In fact, she knows me much better than she used to, maybe more than she ever has.

  Weird, but comforting.

  ***

  “...and that’s how I, Lightstorm, heroically saved the day, exclamation point.”

  “Please tell me that’s actually how you ended your report,” Sara says.

  “No, I was totally humble about it,” I say, saving my self-aggrandizement-free report.

  Sara glances at her phone. “Your timing is impeccable. I was supposed to make sure you were here for at least an hour so everyone could set up in the hangar, and you nailed it almost to the minute.”

  “Go me.”

  “Okay, according to the master plan, I am now supposed to excuse myself on some flimsy pretense, go downstairs, and let Edison know you’re almost done so he can come get you and lure you to the hangar, again on some flimsy pretense.” She stands up. “Pardon me, Carrie, I have to go powder my nose.”

  “It is looking a bit shiny.”

  “Here I go. Zoom. See you downstairs.”

  I spend the time going over my report one more time, looking for any critical detail I might have missed so it’s airtight when Vendetta and Massacre start making their court appearances on Monday. Edison said the local arraignment process is probably going to take all week, maybe longer, and then we get into the hairy mess of extraditions; at least a dozen other states want their crack at our suspects, and there’s the distinct possibility Vendetta’s collective case could get bumped up to the federal level because they crossed darn near every state line there is over the course of their murder spree. I already said we’d be dealing with this for a long time, but the way things are shaping up? We could be tying off loose ends for years. I could literally be a college graduate by the time the last bad guy has his or her day in court — and that’s including the possible extra year of high school.

  Oh, why did I have to go there? Crap, there goes my party mood down the toilet. Maybe I can sneak out of HQ before —

  Nope, missed my chance. Edison strolls into the records room as casual as can be. “How’s it going?” he says.

  “I think I’m done.”

  “Great, thanks. I’ll look it over tomorrow and let you know if I need anything else. So,” he says nonchalantly, “Sara’s running some drills on the Pelican’s weapons systems so she’ll be a while. If you want to chill down in the hangar until she’s —”

  “If I want to chill down in the hangar?” I laugh. “Oh, Edison, you were doing so well until then. Sorry, boss, slang coming out of your mouth is against the laws of nature.”

  “What? I don’t —”

  “I know about the party.”

  His face falls. “Who told you? Sara?”

  “Mom. What brought this on?”

  He shrugs vaguely. “You never had a proper welcome home. I thought it was overdue.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And,” he sighs, “I thought — I hoped it would make amends for the way I reacted the other day when you accused me of compromising my principles. You had a valid point and I didn’t want to hear it, but I think I needed to — and maybe I still do. I’ve gotten used to doing things my way and old habits die hard. Can I count on you to keep me honest?”

  It seems like an utterly sincere, heartfelt request. Problem is, the operative word here is seems. I don’t know if he really wants me to gut-check him or if he’s giving me some illusory sense of power — just like I don’t know whether this welcome home party is a legit olive branch or if he’s softening me up so I’ll be more inclined to let his next moral oversight slide by without comment.

  Bottom line? I don’t know if I can trust Edison anymore.

  “You shouldn’t need me to keep you honest, Edison,” I say, “but if I’m going to be your Jiminy Cricket, you have to actually listen to me. No blowing me off, no arguing, no rationalizing — if I tell you you’re going off the rails, you have to accept it.”

  “I will try. I promise you, I will try.”

  “Good. Because if I ever feel like you’re not? I walk. And I’m taking the Squad with me.”

  “Understood.” He gestures toward the door. “Shall we? Your guests are waiting.”

  ***

  And what a guest list it is. Not only is everyone from the Protectorate, the Squad, and the Quantum Quintet here, but so are Ashlyn, Bo and Ty, Peggy, and my mother, all mingling with each other like it’s no big deal.

  It’s official: the Venn diagram of my life is now one big circle.

  Word that I was wise to the party spread, so I’m spared the standard surprise party ritual — except for Farley, who jumps out from behind the door and shouts “Surprise!” loud enough for everyone.

  “Sorry, I had to,” he says sheepishly. “It’s convention.”

  “I won’t hold it against you,” I say.

  The little guy proceeds to regale me with every tiny detail of his life over the past eight months, including his parents’ decision to skip him ahead a year in school.

  “Mom’s worried I’ll stagnate in first grade. She actually wanted to push me ahead to third grade but Dad’s pretty insistent that I stay within my own peer group for the sake of my emotional development,” he says.

  He’s getting skipped ahead, and I’m getting held behind? I’d be ripped at the kid if A) he wasn’t so darn adorable and B) he wasn’t so much his mother’s son; at seven years old, Farley already has a better vocabulary than a lot of adults I know. The Quentin DNA is kicking in full blast.

  For a while, he stays glued to my side, like he’s scared I’m going to disappear on him again, but eventually, he decides it’s safe to let me out of his sight so other people can take turns monopolizing my attention. There are a lot of questions about my time in space. I answer all of them. I make myself answer them. On more than one occasion, I have to slip out of the hangar, find a quiet corner, and decompress before I have a breakdown. To my credit, I don’t cry. Not once.

  Any progress is good progress.

  I’m returning from one of my decompression sessions when Mom stumbles into the hallway, almost knocking me over. “Whoops! Sorry, honey,” she says a little too loudly. Someone’s been taking full advantage of the open bar. “Is there a bathroom in this place?”

  “Yeah, there’s one down the hall. I’ll show you.”

  “Thanks.” Mom grabs my arm for stability. “This is fun. Your friends are fun. Are you having fun?”

  “I’m...I don’t know if fun is the right word. It’s nice. I appreciate it.”

  “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I hope so. This should be a happy night for you. Everyone’s here to welcome you back home.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Oh. Oh, Carrie,” Mom says, shuffling to a stop. “Honey, I’m sorry. I invited your father but — well, he didn’t come, obviously, but he’ll get used to this, I promise. He needs time to come around is all.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about Dad. Yeah, it sucks that he blew me off and still refuses to even try dealing with this, but I accept that. I’d have been thrilled if he had come, but it’s not his absence that’s eating a hole in my chest. I hate myself for feeling this way, but there it is.

  I miss Dennis.

  EPILOGUE

  By his calculations, they’ve driven seventy-two miles, give or take.
It’s been all highway driving, first on a major interstate highway and then on a state highway, judging by their speed. They left Philadelphia International Airport at three thirty-six and the sun has been hitting him steadily on his right side; they’ve been driving south. Best guess? He’s in Delaware — Dover, Delaware to be precise.

  What was that old George Carlin joke? Dover, Delaware: The City That Means Well.

  Jason X smiles to himself. The heavy black hood he was forced to don after getting in the limo might have robbed him of any visual cues, but it hasn’t rendered him helpless. He knows where he is — perhaps not exactly, but well enough that he could retrace the route from the airport if called upon to do so.

  The limo tilts and the acoustics change, taking on an echoing quality. They’ve descended into an underground garage, he reasons. The limo eases to a stop. The door to his right unlocks, opens.

  “We’re here,” the driver says.

  Jason removes the hood and steps out into, yes, a small underground garage, all concrete floors and support pillars. Theirs is the only vehicle in sight.

  “There,” the driver says, pointing toward an elevator.

  “What floor?” Jason asks.

  The driver gestures again. “If you would?”

  Jason gets in alone. On instinct, he reaches for a control panel but finds none. The doors slide shut. The elevator rises of its own accord — about six stories, counting garage level, he estimates — and opens on a generously spacious office. The ceiling is high, the lighting low, and the furniture sparse, consisting of a TV the size of a small movie theater screen, a massive desk, a high-backed leather chair for the desk’s owner, and two seats for guests — one of which is occupied by a man wearing a stylized gas mask.

  “Mr. Xander,” the Foreman says, rising. “Join us.”

  “And who have I the pleasure of addressing?” Jason says, doing his level best to control the lisp that has become a permanent part of his speech.

  “This is the Foreman. He’s my most trusted associate,” the dark-haired woman behind the desk says. She doesn’t flinch or turn away from the ruin of Jason’s face. “My name is Sharona. This is my operation.”

  “And an impressive operation it is, ma’am.”

  “Stop fawning and sit down,” the Foreman says.

  “Do you know what it is we do here, Mr. Xander?” Sharona asks.

  “I can’t say I do.”

  “I am in the business of saving the world.”

  “Saving the world?”

  “From itself, to be precise.” She eases back in her seat and folds her arms. “Have you ever taken a good look at the world, Mr. Xander? I mean, have you ever taken the time to fully appreciate all this planet has to offer?”

  “I can’t say I have, no,” Jason says, sensing a test within Sharona’s question.

  “It’s beautiful. Magnificent. There is life here in such abundance and variety it’s truly awe-inspiring — and mankind is killing it by inches. They’re exhausting this planet’s natural resources at an obscene rate, poisoning its air and water, carelessly erasing from existence flora and fauna necessary to their own survival. In short, the human race is committing suicide. Do you understand how pointless that is? How tragic?”

  “We have boundless potential,” the Foreman says. “Potential we’re constantly failing to live up to.”

  “Quite right. Every so often people prove their worth in spectacular fashion, but it’s not often enough. Imagine what the human race could have achieved by now if they hadn’t wasted so much time mired in petty disputes over politics, religion, skin color, sexuality, money, arbitrary and artificial borders between lands...it’s a wonder you haven’t destroyed yourselves already, quite frankly. I’ve taken it upon myself to pull humanity back from the abyss before it falls in and is lost forever.”

  “I see,” Jason says. “I must say, Miss, uh, Sharona, your organization isn’t at all what I expected.”

  “What did you expect, Mr. Xander? Out of curiosity.”

  “Ah, well, I suppose I expected yours to be, for want of a better term, a criminal enterprise. Your use of super-villains led me to believe —”

  “Yes, I understand how you were led to that conclusion. You see, my plans involve some rather Draconian measures — measures that some might find abhorrent, but are ultimately in everyone’s best interests. Those who regard themselves as good and moral people would oppose such harsh steps, never mind carry them out — but so-called super-villains? Throw enough money at them and they’ll execute any order they’re given, no matter how vile. They’re a regrettable necessity.”

  “I understand completely,” Jason says. “In order to make an omelet, one must break a few eggs.”

  “I prefer a different adage: sometimes it’s necessary to cut off a finger to save the limb,” Sharona says, her thin smile becoming somehow — the first word that comes to Jason’s mind, inexplicably, is reptilian. “Do you know what that means, Mr. Xander? It means that sometimes one must make small sacrifices to achieve a greater benefit. For example, let’s consider those two operatives of yours, Typhon and Echidna.”

  “When they went rogue, you could have easily let them go,” the Foreman says. “You’d recovered their armor, they knew nothing of great value — there was no reason to pursue them once they’d turned themselves in to the Protectorate.”

  “And yet, you indulged yourself in a pointless vendetta — and not only did you fail to realize your revenge, you cost us…how many potential operatives?”

  A weight settles in the pit of Jason’s stomach.

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Xander,” Sharona says, her smile vanishing. “How many potential operatives did you lose?”

  “Four dead,” Jason says. “Eleven in custody. Three unaccounted for.”

  “Four dead. Eleven in custody. Three unaccounted for.”

  “Sharona. Miss. Ma’am,” Jason stammers, “I will redeem myself, I promise you. I will do better next time.”

  “Next time?” Sharona’s laugh is loud, sharp, and cold. “What in the world makes you think there will be a next time? I didn’t share the secrets of my organization because I’m bringing you into the fold, Mr. Xander — oh, no. I simply wanted you to understand the extent of the damage you’ve done before you die.”

  “Before I —?”

  He doesn’t finish the thought. The Foreman doesn’t give him the chance.

  ***

  “Shame it had to come to this,” The Foreman says, holstering his gun. “He had such promise.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? People squandering their potential for selfish reasons,” Sharona says — somewhat pensively, the Foreman thinks.

  “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

  “Always.”

  “The problem, as I see it, is the Protectorate. Our recent...internal difficulties might have remained so had it not been for their repeated involvement, and we haven’t had these issues in any other region. If anyone poses a direct threat to this operation, it’s them. They need to be taken out of the equation. I recommend moving up Operation Clean Sweep.”

  “No,” Sharona says after a moment. “I want to withdraw from the New England region.”

  “You want to —? Ma’am, with all due respect, I would —”

  Sharona silences him with a gesture. “You’re correct; the Protectorate is a problem, but our mistake has been engaging them on their terms. They’re very effective as long as they have an enemy they can oppose with physical force, but what happens when they’re faced with a challenge they can’t punch or blast?”

  “Then,” the Foreman says, catching on, “you’re not suggesting a total withdrawal of our operatives.”

  “No, only our shock troops. We build those resources elsewhere and focus on strengthening our New England presence in other areas. We apply pressure by other means, attack the Protectorate in ways they’ll never see coming and have no way to defend against, and break them down unt
il we’re ready to begin Operation Clean Sweep.”

  “Very good, ma’am. When shall we begin?”

  Sharona allows herself a thin smile.

  “No time like the present,” she says.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Bailey was born in Falmouth, Massachusetts and raised on a steady diet of comic books, Dungeons & Dragons, Saturday morning cartoons, sci-fi television, and horror movies…which explains a lot.

  An effort to parlay his love of geek culture into a career as a comic book artist failed when he figured out he wasn’t that good, so he turned to writing as means of artistic expression. Since then, Michael has written several scripts for New England-area renaissance faires, as well as a number of articles based on faire culture for Renaissance Magazine.

  In 2013, Michael left his job of 15 years as a reporter and blogger for his hometown newspaper, the Falmouth Enterprise, to pursue his writing career. His first novel, Action Figures – Issue One: Secret Origins made its debut in September 2013.

  Michael lives in Massachusetts with his wife Veronica, four cats, and an English bulldog.

  Visit Michael online at www.innsmouthlook.com, and find him on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Pinterest, and Goodreads.

  Also by Michael C. Bailey:

  Collections

  Cheap Thrills Digest

  The Final Summons – A New England Speculative Writers Anthology

  Fantasy/Humor

  The Adventures of Strongarm & Lightfoot (series)

  Urban Fiction

  Well-Behaved Women (trilogy)

  Young Adult/Superheroes

  Action Figures (series)