Sleepers and Scouts

by Phillip Murrell

  Claire sighs as she waits for Brock to come around and open the door.

  “Ma’am,” he says after he opens the door. He offers a hand to help her out.

  Claire accepts the proffered hand and exits the car. She walks up the steps to her front door. She’s pleased when the door opens before she can reach for it.

  Benji stands there, smiling and holding two glasses of champagne.

  “Welcome home, baby.”

  Claire takes a glass and clinks it against Benji’s. They each take a long sip, with Benji nearly finishing his glass.

  “Thanks, Brock. See you tomorrow,” Benji says as he dismisses the bodyguard with a friendly wave.

  Brock nods. “Good night, Sergeant Tanner. Good night, Miss Kennedy.”

  “Please, Brock, call us Claire and Benji,” Claire asks.

  Benji grunts. He likely doesn’t agree with the informality.

  “Okay, Claire,” Brock says. “I’ll park the car, a little post operation maintenance, and I’ll head home. See you tomorrow morning.”

  Benji leads Claire into the mansion. The door shuts. Brock drops the forced smile.

  Inside the mansion, Claire gets a panoramic view of her new home. She quickly realizes that her old furniture is too small to fill out this place and a bit common. Benji’s furniture was quickly donated when they agreed to live together.

  “Did you really have to tell your fans today was moving day?” Benji asks as he leads Claire to the living room.

  “Do you and Brock have meetings about me? He was just giving me an earful for the same thing.”

  “He’s a smart guy, but anyone with a television would know your plans for tonight.”

  “Don’t ruin tonight. I’m safe. I have you and Brock.”

  “You couldn’t pick better phrasing? I don’t like the thought of you having him.”

  Claire swats at Benji. He playfully dodges. “Don’t be jealous. It isn’t a good look on you.”

  “True enough,” Benji says as he plants a kiss on Claire’s lips. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Claire seductively says as she waits for a better kiss.

  Benji seems to try to hold a straight face, he fails.

  “Never admit to cheating on me,” he manages to say before breaking into laughter.

  Claire swats him again. “Don’t tempt me, Benji. Now, if you want to have me right now, I suggest you grab the bottle and meet me upstairs.”

  “Absolutely,” Benji says as he plucks the icy bottle from the bucket on the table. Fat drops of water and slushy ice fall from it. “Please, lead the way. The view is so much better when you do.”

  Claire puts much exaggeration into her hips as she sways up the stairs. Claire catches Benji staring intently at a specific region of her body before following her.

  Nijigen and Shot Caller fly over a dilapidated city in North Africa. Shot Caller’s boots provide him with flight, but Nijigen’s armor requires an adjustment. His back has venturi tubes that provide the necessary lift. They’re both fully armored, cloaked, and casually conversing on their internal communicators.

  “I hate this country,” Shot Caller declares. “Any decisions on who to end?”

  “Not yet, and we don’t have to kill them every time, you know,” Nijigen responds.

  “These people don’t believe in law and order. They’ve made their choice. The rules are there for a reason and must be followed.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I just hate bullies.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  A pair of young boys running through the city attracts the attention of both Templars, but they soon decide not to bother with them.

  “And then there were ten,” Shot Caller states.

  “Eleven if you count Abel,” Nijigen corrects.

  “Well, with that mentality, shouldn’t I say thirteen? Don’t forget about the fallen Sir Stretch and El Nino.”

  “Before our time, so I think we get a pass on them.”

  “Does it bother you knowing that people have died and that’s before we’ve even had to fight the Malignant?” Shot Caller asks.

  “No, I believe in Abel. The Malignant may be tough, but I can’t imagine anyone being able to take on Abel. He can will us all away with the blink of an eye.”

  “I hope you’re right. I wake up to nightmares of Malignant marines marching across the planet.”

  Nijigen is distracted by a bonfire below.

  “Did you hear me?” Shot Caller asks.

  “Shut up for a second. Check that out at your four o’clock.”

  Shot Caller focuses his attention.

  “Looks like a good old case of bullies throwing their weight around.”

  “Looks like it. Time for the second wave of Templars to kick some ass.”

  “Please don’t ever refer to us as that again.”

  “I stand by my statement.”

  “It’s not a pecking order.”

  The two Templars swoop down and shock slam into a group of armed thugs. The bullies fall to the ground and scramble to stand back up.

  “You want to spy movie this one?” Shot Caller asks.

  “Sure,” Nijigen says. “I’ll do all the work.”

  “It’s more fun for me this way,” Shot Caller says.

  The terrorists stand back up, but before they’re able to take action on the intruders, Shot Caller intercedes. He stretches out his arms to encompass all nine men. Each stands there and waits.

  “You ready?” Shot Caller asks through gritted teeth.

  “Send them,” Nijigen responds.

  He creates a purple dome around the eleven combatants.

  “They’ll come one at a time for the first four. Then a round of two and finally the last three.”

  “I said send them.”

  Shot Caller holds eight men under his control, but allows one to engage Nijigen. The man initially tries to run away, but soon realizes that he can’t escape. He turns his assault rifle on Nijigen and unloads a full thirty-round magazine.

  The bullets bounce off Nijigen’s torso armor or miss entirely when his limbs become razor thin and seem to disappear. Nijigen charges the man as he tries to change magazines. The fighter attempts to butt stroke Nijigen, but misses when the Templar rolls under the attack and comes up with an arm blade between his legs. The man is symmetrically separated.

  The two halves fall to the ground. A second man throws a grenade at the two Templars after Shot Caller releases him.

  “Cheater!” Nijigen accuses.

  He uses his arm to bat the grenade back toward the group of terrorists. Shot Caller makes the man who threw the grenade dive onto his own weapon and smother it. His body launches through the air with a gaping crater spilling out his entrails.

  “Before we continue,” Shot Caller begins, “let’s agree to no explosives. It makes the competition that much more interesting.”

  Shot Caller allows a third attacker to make his move. The man, really an older teenager, falls to his knees and begs for mercy.

  “Really?” Shot Caller asks.

  “He gets the foam then,” Nijigen says.

  He sprays the boy with adhesive foam that immobilizes him. Nijigen follows this up by spraying a full canister of stink onto the coward. The other terrorists gag and gasp, but are unable to cover their faces while under Shot Caller’s power.

  “So much for dying for the cause,” Shot Caller mutters. “No resolve.”

  “Agreed. Just send them all at once.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we’re drawing too much attention.”

  Nijigen points toward the terrorists assembling outside the purple barrier. They have recoilless rifles and other high-powered weapons.

 
“Challenge accepted,” Nijigen boasts.

  “Let’s not keep them waiting then,” Shot Caller says.

  He uses his power to turn the weapons of the remaining six terrorists on themselves. Each shoots a partner in the face.

  “You want to wait for them to break through or just end them now?” Shot Caller asks his peer.

  “I say we wait. It’ll let us test the limits of these shields.”

  “Sure. Pick the boring option.”

  Nijigen taunts his opponents by changing his limbs back and forth from blades to arms and legs. While he goads them, he watches the recoilless rifle change targets and blow up a pick-up truck with a heavy machine gun.”

  “C’mon, Shot. Save some for me.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Did you see the looks on their faces?”

  The two Templars wait as their barrier fades in vibrancy. Soon after, the shield falls, and both men spring into action. Shot Caller draws his short sword and quickly separates a man’s head as he empties a full magazine into his armor. The bullets bounce away, and a ricochet even catches another terrorist in the meaty part of his calf. The man falls over and writhes on the ground. He then apparently decides to shoot himself in the head. Nijigen knows that strange actions like these are always courtesy of Shot Caller.

  Nijigen dives into a circle of men and dodges as they shoot wildly. The lack of focused shots leads to extensive fratricide, and only about half of it’s because of Shot Caller’s contribution to the fight.

  A terrorist aims his assault rifle at Nijigen. The Templar snap kicks the barrel away as the man squeezes his trigger. The 7.62 rounds rip into his compatriots. Nijigen uses the same leg to impale the shooter through his belly. A twist of the leg and he slices his way free of the man’s body.

  The terrorists decide that the fight is not worth it and scatter in multiple directions. Often, they stop and shoot either themselves or an ally. Many randomly throw grenades or crash their vehicles. Nijigen just watches until the screams end.

  “How many can you own at a time?” Nijigen asks.

  “Only about ten or so. Things get dicey after that,” Shot Caller admits.

  “It’s a shame you never found a relic. Between you and Compel, you wouldn’t need the rest of us.”

  “Maybe.”

  Shot Caller forces one last round of involuntary suicide. The explosions are off in the distance.

  “You hungry?” Shot Caller asks.

  “I could eat,” Nijigen admits.

  “Pizza?”

  “Sure.”

  The two men ascend into the sky and eliminate their visibility to the casual citizen.

  Father Tom stands before his congregation. Alex listens with his family. Although the pews are filled again, he senses that many are displeased with Father Tom. The priest clears his throat and begins.

  “It’s nice to see so many of you here after such a long time in Africa. Between my trip and a lot of time flying my plane, I feel like a new man again. It’s fitting, at this time of year. Lent will soon be over. I know that this means treats for the kids and probably for many adults who gave them up. Easter is a new beginning. I feel that’s exactly what I need right now. I hope my presence doesn’t make people resent the spirit of the holiday. We’ve all seen fantastic stories, almost daily, on the television the past month or so. It’s easy for people to see this new beginning as a bad omen. They’ll focus on the uncertainty and look for reasons to denounce their neighbors. Please do not fall victim to this. Some of you may already know augmented individuals. You need to embrace them. You need to remember that they’re the same neighbors you had over for barbeques or who helped watch your kids when something came up.”

  Father Tom smiles when people begin nodding along. He may be winning some back over. Perhaps his presence was missed by some in his congregation.

  Alex is happy to have the old Father Tom back. He’s also excited that Donald is now a constant companion on Sundays. Donald still claims to be agnostic, but he quickly learned the words for the various prayers. Alex sits back in his pew, then stiffens at Father Tom’s next claim.

  “When you think about it, Jesus was a type of augmented.”

  The congregation grumbles. Father Tom has placed his foot in his mouth once again.

  “Please listen to me,” Father Tom pleads. “I’m not calling Jesus an alien. I’m just saying that the man displayed powers that didn’t make sense for his neighbors. Some of those neighbors gave in to their hate and killed him. They did it in the name of the regular people. Sound familiar?”

  Alex can’t deny the similarity, but he knows it won’t go over well with most.

  “Do not turn on your neighbor. If you must, ignore your television, and radio, and social media. Go back to an analog existence and think for yourselves. Perhaps this change is the Second Coming; perhaps it isn’t, but we can’t allow our fear of the unknown to turn us into an angry mob that future generations will remember with disgust.”

  Father Tom finishes his homily and the rest of mass. Soon Alex finds himself and his family filing out of the church and going to Sunday brunch.

  Father Tom changes out of his robes and sees Father Rich waiting for him with another man. The man’s hair is fully gray and receding rapidly. Father Tom re-adjusts his perfectly round spectacles as he waits for an introduction.

  “Father Tom, this is Bishop Bradley. He and I would like to have a word with you,” Father Rich begins.

  Father Tom sighs. He expects what comes next. Father Rich seems to pick up on this cue.

  “I know this is hard on you. Please don’t make it any harder.”

  “So, I’m guilty already?” Father Tom asks.

  Bishop Bradley steps forward. “Of course not, but I know you’ve heard the rumblings that brought me here.”

  “I have, but aren’t I supposed to speak in the way that God commands of me?”

  “Yes, but that message is relayed through the Pope. His holiness establishes the doctrine that you often stray from,” Father Rich says.

  “So, I’m supposed to pretend that I didn’t see a green sky that lasted a full month?” Father Tom asks.

  Bishop Bradley scoffs. “Of course not.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do? We live in a confusing time. More confusing than any since Christ lived. My faith tells me there’s a correlation.”

  “That’s fine,” Father Rich says, “but don’t just speak without making sure it’s on message with the church. That’s how panic starts.”

  Father Tom’s voice raises as his emotions begin to override his reason.

  “So, what do you want from me? You already sent me back to Africa.”

  “And you did God’s work there,” Bishop Bradley commends.

  “Yes, we did,” Father Tom agrees. “I love that part of the world and its people. They’re so warm, and many are more dedicated to the Bible than here in the States.”

  “Do you want to go back?” Father Rich asks.

  “Not yet,” Father Tom answers. “This is my home right now. This is my family . . . or is it?”

  Bishop Bradley sighs. “I hope it won’t come to that. Excommunication is a big deal.”

  Father Tom’s eyes go wide. “Excommunication? You’re throwing the E word around already?”

  “You’re no fool. You know the church’s hands are tied on this matter,” Bishop Bradley answers.

  “So, let’s hear the ultimatum,” Father Tom states defiantly.

  “Promise to run your homilies through me and Bishop Bradley.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then, you won’t be a priest. You’ll be temporarily relieved of your duties and the sacraments,” Bishop Bradley states.

  Father Tom’s shoulders slump. He expected this, but he wasn’t prepared to actually hear the words. His pulse quicken
s as he selects his next words.

  “Do what you must. I obey God’s word.”

  Father Rich shakes his head and shares a deciding look with Bishop Bradley.

  “Then,” Bishop Bradley starts, “I guess you’ve made our decision for us. For the time being, you’re not to perform mass nor receive the Eucharist. Do you understand?”

  Father Tom pulls his clerical collar from his neck and respectfully hands it over to Father Rich.

  “I guess I’ll see you next Sunday,” he says as he solemnly leaves the room.

  Nate and Vick lie on their respective bunks in their military prison cell. Lights out has passed, and the two men speak softly to each other.

  “Another day down. How many years left?” Vick jokes.

  “I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight,” Nate retorts.

  “When are you ever, pussy? You need to learn to start doing the time. Right now, the time owns significant portions of your colon.”

  “Just go to sleep,” Nate says.

  Vick stands from his bed and stares at Nate’s back on the top bunk.

  “Get up and say that to my face,” Vick challenges.

  Nate ignores him.

  “That’s what I thought,” Vick says as he lies back down. “You know what your problem is?”

  Nate still ignores him.

  “I’ll explain,” Vick sarcastically says. “Your problem is you can’t help but be a victim. If you act like a victim, you’ll be treated like a victim. That’s why you have to take shit from everyone else every single day. I bet you think hateful shit of me for not helping you in those instances.”

  There’s more silence.

  “That’s what I thought. You blame me for your problems because I accidentally killed some civilians. I own that. Should we have been sent here for that? No, but I still own those deaths. You don’t want to own your own shit.”

  “Screw you!” Nate shouts.

  “Oh, did you find your balls under your safety blanket?”

  Nate is silent again.

  “I didn’t think so. I’m sure The Enterprise took them when they claimed they were going to help us. That was over a year ago, and we’re still in here. I never believed them, so it means no never mind to me. I can tell you’re still holding out hope that someone is going to tell you it was all just a big mistake and send you home with a medal. That’s that victim mentality again.”