by Russ Linton
The city ahead resembles the other but makes a smaller, tighter knot in the open desert. Muzzle flares fill the streets and as we descend I hear more and more gunfire rattle off buildings. Sporadic, it never seems to come from one place.
Dad manages a landing in a deserted corner of the hospital parking lot despite the guards on the roof. The area is a mess of trashed vehicles and shipping containers—every city here seems to be a boneyard of civilization lost. Not far is the footprint of a building and piles of blackened rubble. We've got a row of parked ambulances for cover, some of them permanently so. Dad tries a rear door, and when it clicks, motions us inside.
Parking lot lights warm the front seats but leave the back in shadow. The gurney is gone and all the cabinets have been flung open and emptied. It smells of week-old road kill. I hover over the bench. Charlotte hops in, hands drawn tight against her sides.
Dad stands at the half-open door. "I can't risk taking you in. You saw the guards. You're going to have to wait here."
After the flight, I fully understand my plan was a pipe dream. This is probably why I'm at my best on a couch or in a gaming chair. Yet I can't shake the urge to argue my case. Be right there with him. I already proved I could do this once.
"One of these ambulances must have—"
A challenge issues outside, somewhere close. I can't translate, but the tone is cautious, the message obvious. Dad slowly closes the door, and I hear him respond in Arabic. Through the dingy windows, he's a smeared blob. Charlotte edges closer with every syllable which floats through. Dad moves away from the window. Muffled sounds. Silence.
Charlotte and I have suddenly moved far beyond the alley and exchange worried glances. Before I can come up with another brilliant plan, the doors open. Dad. He's shoving a guy's body into the ambulance. A rifle comes next. The stock is busted off and the dude's cratered head an inky blob in the dimness.
"The rifle is decommissioned. There's a pistol on his belt and a radio. Take them both. Keep the radio low and monitor it. If things go south, I'll find one inside and reach out to you." He grimaces at the corpse and regards the two of us with a pained expression. "Be right back."
He closes the door.
Gunmetal glints between Charlotte and I, both transfixed by the body. Could be the alley wasn't that long ago. With slow, deliberate motions I reach for the gun, an inch at a time, waiting for her to move. When I have it safely in hand, she settles into the corner, hanging off the far end of the bench and returns to staring out the dingy rear window.
"Do you even know how to use one of those?" she whispers.
I examine the block of metal. They're all the same principle. Simple machine for a horrifyingly simple job. "Well enough," I lie. "Or did I even need to answer?"
"Even if I wasn't your mother, I'd expect you to treat me like a person."
"Sure thing." Criminal. Murderer. Mental patient.
"We, your Dad and I, we flew together when we were younger. Before you were born. Before everything with his work became so...unclear." She's fishing for a reaction. I take up a position where I can watch out the front window and her. "We were stationed in New Mexico. Everywhere looks the same from up there at night." She sighs. "A day for memories I guess."
If only those memories were hers. I never thought this mission was going to be fun. Sweating it out in here with a corpse and Charlotte is somewhere on the worst possible scenario end of the scale.
She doesn't speak again as the minutes drag. Sweat pools along my chest and my shirt forms a second skin. Soon, I'm wiping my palms on my jeans along with the gun, convinced if I have to use it, it'll go flying out of my grip. Charlotte makes little coughing noises and has slunk further into the seat. Closer to the building, a few cars come and go. As their headlights strobe the interior we cringe, keeping low. Dead guy's funk goes from stagnant to a miasma of sweat and leaky orifices.
I'm a half second away from bursting out of the slaughterhouse sauna when the radio crackles. Shouts in Arabic. From my perspective, a language which always sounds hurried and frantic. I want to believe it could be unrelated.
"Start her up," I hear Dad say.
What?
I crab walk to the front, and lodge myself under the dash. Multitool in hand, I start yanking wires. Dark, dirty, this'll mostly be guesswork. I hear Charlotte move closer.
"Did you look for keys?" She checks the visors and the glove box. She wants to be helpful, fine, but I keep working in case she comes up empty. "What about that?" She says as I crack open the steering column. "Do you really know how to do steal a car?"
"Let's say I have field experience with jacking people's trucks."
She mutters and the sincerity of her frustration almost has me abandoning my work to search her for the truth. I stay focused and tap a couple wires together. They spark and the engine sputters. I try again and still no go. One more time, and I pop the hood release and slide into the driver's seat. I'm half-way out the door when I feel Charlotte seize my arm.
"Be careful."
I withdraw my arm and nervously laugh. I went along with this family vacation in the first place. "Careful" hasn't ever really been part of my vocabulary.
Chapter 15
OUTSIDE THE DEATH MOBILE, I'm greeted by the incongruity of cold desert air. I want to bask in the glory—standing in front of an open fridge on a sweltering summer day, but there's no time. A quick inspection under the ambulance's hood and everything is in place, if not worn to all hell. The tank reeks of gas but it's too hard to say if any's in there. We accidentally picked an ambulance not obviously the victim of an IED or scavenged for parts, but there's where our luck ends. Husks of vehicles and big, metal shipping containers litter the area.
More excited chatter on the radio. Driving out of here was never part of the plan. Dad can fly for fuck's sake. Makes no sense he's calling for a chauffeur.
Sounds of gunfire inside the hospital send me into a crouch. There's enough cover I can't clearly see the building. Whatever has happened, I have no desire to hop back in that hearse with Charlotte. Checking the other vehicles scattered about sounds like a plan. He asked for a ride, right?
Dead. Exploded. Extra-crispy. Venturing into the actual parking lot to find a working vehicle quickly becomes my only hope of following orders. More bursts of gunfire erupt, and I flatten against one of the shipping containers. Hopefully they're too busy wasting bullets on the Crimson Mask to put one in my scrawny ass.
A deep breath and I prepare to make the run. In the span of silence, I hear a comforting hum, enough out of place to mute the chaos. Pressing an ear to the shipping container, the vibrations rattle into my jaw. Yep, those are cooling fans. A metric ass ton of them cranking under the drone of a compressor.
No way I can walk away from this technological mystery.
One end of the container has a port for a bundle of power cables and there's an exhaust fan for a refrigeration unit. The heat coming off it is uncomfortable enough to trigger sweat on top of sweat. More gunfire fills the night, but it's become a harmless soundtrack. I slink around to the front where the doors should be.
One quick peek. That's it. Then I'm back on car-jacking detail.
The doors are sealed but not locked and the bolt slips aside with ease. Lukewarm air courses out. Row after row of little black boxes line the walls, their industrious lights blinking. Salarium miners. Eric's cryptocurrency hobby. Emily. Her friends.
I've heard all the news reports about terrorists selling drugs, running guns, human trafficking—whatever they can do to fund their operations. I've even been to the parts of the dark web where they make their shady deals. Hell, I once added pieces to that virtual infrastructure back in the day, not caring how it was put to use only that it was there, and free. Crypto-currency like Salarium has always been a fringe part of those transactions. Perfectly suited for circumventing official channels.
But terrorists running entire cryptocurrency mining operations? I gotta admit, that's kinda dope. Expla
ins why the guard happened to be wandering around their junkyard, too.
Dad's voice cuts through the harsh shouts on the radio. "Pinned down. Southeast corner."
What does that even mean? Crimson Mask, trapped in the building?
Not the best idea, but I key up the radio. "Pinned?"
All I get is a fresh cacophony from the speaker. Indecipherable shouts and screams which I originally translated as "Allah, save us, it's the Crimson Mask!" take on a more sinister tone. Co-ordinated call outs. Battle cries. He's in trouble?
I'm at a full sprint between containers and vehicles. It's a tough decision, but I make for my only backup in lieu of heading for a working car and leaving Charlotte behind. Convincing her to drop the act and use her powers is probably the only way we get out of here.
Charlotte's already outside the ambulance. When she sees me, relief floods her. Pure, untainted, it's enough to cause me to pull up short. Somehow, I can sense she's fighting an urge to wrap her arms around me. If I only had one more chance. No more goodbyes. To have her here despite my utter failure to save her. Dad's failure.
"What's happening?" She approaches cautiously.
I reach. Grab her wrist. Run.
"We're fucked, that's what." We weave further into the junk maze. It isn't far before we come to another shipping container. I shove her against the side with one hand, the other on the gun. "I need you to lay off this bullshit and puppet master a terrorist or two."
She's watching me, fearful not of what I might do, but of the chaos unfolding around us. There's that hum again, vibrating through my palm. I scan the ground and see another power cable.
"What the hell is going on here," I mutter. Why are there techno-terrorists? Why is Cyrus here? Why is Dad calling for help...from me?
"Spencer." Her touch puts me on alert. "That's what I want to know," she says, calm and collected though uncertain. "Have you heard from your father?"
"He's in trouble." I slam the container next to her head but there's no force behind the blow. "You need to stop pretending and use your powers."
"Trouble?" Her attempts at remaining calm falter. Something inside me breaks.
We've always shared this. Our lives held prisoner until video of Dad's exploits hit the nightly news. He was always missing. Even physically being there didn't guarantee he was present. But for all the empty space, he left a weight we both shouldered. A burden I always tried to distract her from. Coping meant developing a twisted sense of humor, a skill with deception—whether I was lying to her or myself or both. She didn't need to read minds to know I was putting on a show just for her. She doesn't need to read my mind now to know I'm starting to believe.
"He just radioed. He's pinned, southeast corner. You have to do something." My wet shirt becomes a chilled straight jacket.
She tucks a strand of stringy hair behind her ear and pleads, "We have to."
Her turn to drag me along. What's happening simply can't be. We near the edge of the scrap yard, and I'm shivering. In the goddamn desert, shivering. Got to think. I escaped the cold, didn't I? A frozen existence left behind for a desk, homework, my worst problem a douche bag professor with an irrational hatred of smartphones.
I'd had a purpose behind all the studying. An obsession, some said. But I'd made a promise. To her.
We hunker behind the cab of a burned-out flatbed, and she peeks around the wheel well. More shots fired. They're loud, piercing without the metal containers and junkyard to mute them.
"We landed on the south side." Not the pitch but the cadence of her voice reaches through the frigid shell forming around my brain. "There's the southeast corner. And I see...I see a truck." Her grip tightens. "Spencer...Spencer. I need you to come with me. Ready?"
Almond eyes and a heart-shaped jaw, those thin lips hide crooked teeth. The smile which follows doesn't fit Charlotte’s face. The incessant tucking of hair in just the right way.
"Mom?"
A flush of color radiates through her cheeks and her eyes well with tears. "Can you run with me?"
I nod. She slides to the corner and waits as though timing the flood of gunfire, then we're gone, launching, escape velocity. Dirt becomes cracked asphalt, our hands cinched together and feet in a mad scramble. Harsh illumination leaves plenty of darkness to hide in. We ignore those for speed. Muzzle flares flash behind the hospital window blinds, all concentrated in one room. Two guards kneel on the rooftop, pressed against the edge to see the gun battle inside.
She's zeroed in on an SUV with welded on metal plates and a homemade turret above the backseat. No chance to slow, we slam against the side and crouch.
"Go, just go." Dad on the radio again. He sounds as though he's...struggling. In pain.
I've never been any good at listening to him. Anyone for that matter.
The doors on the SUV are unlocked. We're inside before anyone notices. I'm about to crawl under the dash when I see the keys dangling from the ignition. Finally, a break. I crawl over the center console to settle in behind the wheel while Charlotte—Mom hops in shotgun.
"You can drive?"
Last time I saw Mom I hadn't bothered to get a license. Eric attempted to teach me, but bumming rides from him was easy and we didn't exactly get out much. Since then, I've stolen a truck, flown a battle suit, and when I started my new life, finally got a driver's license. Granted, I hacked the DMV to get it. No test required.
"Sort of."
She accepts the answer and squeezes into the back seat. The engine turns over first crank. I dig the radio out and key it up. "Dad, get out here! We've got your ride!"
Static and more Arabic. One of the guys on the roof shifts his attention toward the parking lot. Fuck. Thank you, public schooling. Thank you for leaving me a monolingual moron in a multi-lingual world.
Bullets skitter across the pavement near the hood. I scrunch behind the dash. "Shit!"
Charlotte yelps amid a clank of metal and a cascade of loose brass. "Give me your gun!"
I want to tell my hands "hell no," but I've already held the gun out and felt it slide across my fingertips. She stands atop the platform where the backseat used to be, popping up out of the turret. A shot follows and a scream of surprise. Our rooftop welcoming committee disappears. Mom's steady volley peppers the sidewalk with fragments of brick and mortar.
Curled nearly into a ball, I search for the gas pedal. Tires squeal. We barrel toward the corner where the battle seems to be taking place. More brick than window, there's no ramming through to the rescue. Brakes wobble underfoot as we squeal to a stop at the curb. Helpless, I lay on the horn.
"Out of bullets!" Charlotte appears in the rear view, huddled under the open turret. She shrieks as shots ricochet where she'd been standing, sparking madly a half-dozen times before burying themselves in the seat next to her.
"Charlotte, Mom, whoever you are, forget bullets! Sign these bitches up for brain surgery!"
"Honey, I can't. That's her. She's not...in here."
We flatten as another stream of bullets rake the SUV. I slam into reverse and tear away from the building hard enough that Mom’s thrown against the door. Tires squawk, burning rubber fills the cabin. The SUV teeters dangerously as I whip around for one more pass. Tires chirp and we bounce over the curb sending Mom to the floor. Our bumper kisses the building a little harder than I meant.
"Dad," I shout into the radio. "Stop fucking around! Bust through the damn wall and let's go!"
Almost on command, a body smashes through the window. It skids across the hood, tangled in the blinds, and tumbles to a stop. Mouth open and twisted in his black beard, the guy's combat vest is shredded, covered in blood. The pommel of a knife juts from his sternum.
"Is it him?" Mom screams from where she's wedged on the floorboard. Before I can answer, Dad launches out of the shattered window. He rolls, knocking the corpse to the ground, and stumbles through the passenger door. "Sean!"
Cuts crisscross his exposed skin. More blood runs from a hole in his shoulder a
nd his face is twisted in pain. I can't move, can't think, as he arcs back in the seat and clenches his teeth. Mom's already squeezed between the front seats, feverishly tearing at his clothes, applying pressure to his wounds. Gunfire chases him through the destroyed window and bullets spark on the hood.
"Drive!" He shouts.
I throw it in reverse again, doing my best not to steal glances at the blood pouring from the obvious bullet hole. He fills the entire passenger side, crammed into the seat. A Goliath, a behemoth, a formerly invincible god among men.
I aim for the open desert, the overloaded, armor-plated SUV jostling along a shattered road. We can run all out here with nothing to stop us. Nothing to stop the swarm of headlights swinging onto the road behind us, either.
Chapter 16
CRIMSON MASK, COME in. Crimson?" Eric checked over his shoulder where Hound panted a fusion of unfiltered cigarettes and black coffee.
"Get 'em on the horn, son!"
"What do you think I've been trying to do? We've lost the connection completely."
Ordering the communications gear to work was likely a thing in Hound's mind, Eric thought. There'd been an Augment, Gadgeteer, gray, circle, '58 to '62, twelve known field operations all with the Central Intelligence Agency. That ability to control machines with his mind was sick. He'd have probably warranted a better rating but it was hard to quantify with the way he went out. Dumb ass died on a mission July 14th, 1962 when a terrorist tricked the guy into fixing his car.
No problem, old chap. Easy peasy. Just a think, he'd said, all British like that. Of course, as soon as the car started, BOOM!
Disappointing.
