The Push Chronicles (Book 2): Indefatigable

by J. B. Garner

  I pushed off from the crouch into a smooth pounce, crashing on top of the corpse while it was still off-balance. Another spray of moist earth blasted up into the air as I tried to pin the creature with my knees. I frantically dug through the mounds of earth and debris for something wooden, long, and pointy. It didn't take long, a mere moment, to find something suitable. It was time for a classic horror-movie-vampire-staking. I raised the broken, jagged-edged plank up high and brought it down, letting my scientific knowledge guide my hand.

  If it had gone according to plan, my strike would have been true. My aim was impeccable. I had failed to properly account, though, for the plethora of supernatural abilities vampires were reputed to possess. Just as the makeshift stake began to part the perfect outer flesh, the creature shrieked and exploded. Not, unfortunately, into inert dust like so many TV show portrayals, but into a sickly cloud of fog. I held my breath as the mist suddenly burst past me on an unnatural wind, ending with another slight pop as the air pressure shifted back and forth. I threw myself from my kneeling position to spin onto my back, just in time to see a pair of massive fangs descend. There was no room to maneuver in the wreckage of the trunk. All I could do was throw up a forearm in defense.

  I was saved from the worst case scenario once more by my peculiar immunity to the Pushed. Those knife-like teeth were immaterial to me. Still, the inhuman strength behind the corpse's jaws mashed hard into my leather sleeve. I could feel my forearm muscles get torn and mangled as my mind ticked off the damage and suppressed the pain. My eyes locked with the double gaze of my attacker, who continued to try to gnaw through my sleeve, I blindly stabbed upward with the sharpened slat. Though nowhere near the heart, the wood itself seemed to be repellent to the beast, at least able to wound it better than my fists or feet. There was a shudder that ran through my arm as wood pierced inhuman flesh. The glowing red eyes gaped and in a fraction of a second I was free as the beast recoiled to howl in rage. It turned away from me, clutching at the board that had impaled it through the guts. I was sickened to see not only bits of dead matter drip out of the wound, but surprisingly fresh blood as well.

  Willing myself to hold it together, I forced myself into action and rolled to my feet. The creature was having trouble extracting the crude stake; for all its feral qualities, it seemed to realize that leaving splinters of wood inside it was bad. Thinking myself unnoticed for the moment, I surged towards it with the intent to drive it chest-first in the wall, hopefully impaling it further and buy me time to find another sharpened piece of wood. I had underestimated the corpse's sensory powers or its primal instincts, however, as my rush was met by an immediate backhand, delivered with preternatural speed and power. There wasn't even a muscle twitch to read in the animated corpse; I had no chance to divert. I did, however, manage to roll with the impact as it sent me sprawling backwards, landing face-down on the slick stones.

  Having been hit by the most powerful Pushed on the planet already, I certainly wasn't put out of action, but I was still dazed by the hit, spitting up blood from my now-gashed lip. The bruise would certainly be impressive if I lived through this. I could only be glad that the impact had shattered the corpse's hand into fragments, so much so that even the Push aura couldn't properly form a hand out of it again. As I pushed myself up with my hands, I couldn't help but notice that, to the right of me, was a dirty but still intact crucifix. I quickly surmised that it probably had belonged to the victim, lost in the struggle before it could be brought to bear. I wondered if it would work at all, especially for an avowed skeptic, as I crawled for it. It was just within my grasp when I felt a vice-like grip on my ankle.

  Three months of on-the-job combat training kicked in when I instantly lashed out with my free leg, feeling the brief slow of the shell before the sickening squish of biker boot in mouldering flesh. Unfortunately, there was no recoil of pain or shock, only the relentless corpse grip. The world sickeningly whirled as I was yanked through the air by one leg. Muscles and tendons screamed before I was suddenly free, only for one more violent impact on cold, hard stone. It was only a miracle that kept my head from being brained open on jutting stones and my bones intact. Still, my ability to shutdown pain and push my body had its limits, and I was left slow to getting my bearings and defending myself.

  The world was still a gray blur as I felt myself once again hoisted into the air, this time by the scruff of my jacket, a dead cold corpse hand on my forehead, driving it back and to the side. No protection there. It wouldn't drink my blood with its phantom fangs, but it would still easily chew open a deadly wound there. Two things happened, near-simultaneously, that stopped that.

  First, I opened the hand that had clenched just as I was thrown by the leg to reveal the glittering necklace, with its smudged but intact cross.

  Second, there was a sudden pure white flash, the same color as the Whiteout itself, that radiated from behind the monster, followed by an immediate loud twang, like the release of a bow string magnified ten fold.

  The vampire dropped me, recoiling its eyes from the crucifix, just as a large metal arrow protruded from its upper right chest. It looked like I had help, help from someone I didn't want it from. That white flash was indicative of only one thing: one of Epic's teleport gates. The Crusaders sent someone here. Why here and how did he know? Those questions would have to wait for a vampire to be dead first.

  The figure who had just appeared seemed ready to assist with that. I could tell instantly that he was Pushed but, more importantly, he was using Pushtech. Invented and built by 'super scientists', to me, it was nothing more than random parts and structures put together, but to mundane eyes, it was impossibly advanced technology. Of course, it only worked for a Pushed, something always excused away with one conceit or another. What to me was a suit of random looking armor bits with a crossbow strapped to one gauntlet appeared with its shell to be a magnificent suit of powered armor with an advanced-looking mechanized crossbow system attached to it. Annoyingly, because he had a real motorcycle helmet on, I couldn't see his features or read his expression. At least the bow was aimed at the vampire and not me.

  "Monster!" he cried out with an accent straight out of an Arthurian movie. "Stand down or I shall smite thee again!"

  Great. I was going to die either from a vampire or his horrid dialogue. Ultimately, I decided that beggars couldn't be choosers as the vampire, tearing the steel arrow harmlessly from its chest, sprang back to the attack.

  Chapter 3 Archer

  If I could say one nice thing for all the yelling and posturing that is mentally ingrained into the Pushed, it makes for an excellent distraction. The vampire snarled and leaped at the armored Crusader who responded with another round of metal shafted arrows. Though the projectiles didn't seem to harm the creature, the tremendous force of the volley sent it flying back towards the far wall. I tumbled away from what I had so recently been planted against. My goal was the only obvious way to stop this: the shattered remains of the steamer trunk. As I moved up into a crouch, just past the armored archer, he glanced sidelong at me.

  "I am most pleased to see Milady isn't too badly hurt," he boomed, apparently lacking in any sense of volume control or practical sense. "Lord Epic made no mention that -"

  The vampire barreled over him during his commentary and the pair hit the wet ground hard. Again, on top of the obvious animal instinct, there was a more cunning intelligence at work, as the corpse had the Crusader's bow in it's one working hand, pushing on the attached arm with the other. It could recognize a threat, that much was obvious. I could already hear the phantom creak of metal in the air as I left my search for another stake. My accelerated mind was racing. The creature was far too strong to pry off and the Push Hero was in a bad position to free himself. As much as I had my problems with Crusaders, I certainly didn't want to see him as item one on the vampire buffet. That's when it hit me.

  I hopped the pile of broken wood and rusted metal bands as, with a twist of the wrist, I let the necklace chain
wrap around my fingers, until I felt the crucifix settle on the outside of my knuckles. Whatever intelligence was at work, it considered me a minimal threat, ignoring me as I stepped up to it with my fist clenched. It didn't even move to flinch as my punch came in, a glittering cross at the forefront of the blow.

  Instead of the usual feeling of striking phantasmal gelatin, there was a solidity I had never experienced when striking a Pushed before. It was accompanied, strangely, by a comforting warmth that came from the crucifix. The effect on the creature, though, was far different. There was smoke and the fetid smell of burnt rotten meat while its head recoiled to the side as if I had fired a cannon in its face. As it recoiled, I could just barely catch a glimpse of a cross-shaped melted hole in it's flesh, giving full view of the teeth in the beast's mouth. In a strange reversal, what burnt the vampire had no effect on the corpse inside. The dead thing retreated from me, leaving the armored Pushed behind. Holding my crucifix-wrapped fist out as a ward, I extended my other hand to the Crusader.

  "A little less talk, a little more action," I ordered, one eye on the vampire, who scurried and scuttled, trying to find a way around the cross. The melted hole in its fact still smoked and refused to heal as all of its other injuries had.

  "Yes, Milady, well said," he replied as he took my hand to help right himself. Unlike some Pushtech suits I had seen in the past few months, his was lighter. It seemed it's primary purpose wasn't to make him stronger or more powerful, it was all built around the crossbow. As he stood, he lined up a shot. "Once through the heart! Ho ho!" I would have palmed my face had I not been fighting for my life.

  As once more the overpowered twang of his crossbow echoed in the tiny chamber, the monster, alerted to the danger to its vital organ, put on a burst of unnatural speed, almost disappearing from sight for a moment. The steel arrow sunk deep into the brick wall as I tried to turn to keep the corpse facing the crucifix. I very much desired to cuff this guy right upside the head, but I was far more concerned with keeping myself alive. The bad, bad thing was that I didn't see the creature any longer, just mist.

  I grabbed the Crusader by a shoulder and pulled us both hard towards the shattered crate right as the cloud of mist formed into a pouncing vampire. While initially surprised, I was relieved that my would-be savior had enough sense to roll through the tumble and came up in a crouch, having already reacquired his target. There was a click and whir as something in his weapon's ammo feed changed as he fired. Even a preternatural creature can apparently be off-balance; this time the corpse didn't blur out of the way. The head of this arrow was different and exploded into a weighted net. The bow-driven force of it yanked the creature off it's feet as the weights on the edges of the net bound it together into a neat package. Of course, this could only hold a creature that could turn to mist for mere moments. I ran at the struggling mass, the cross held outward in front of me. It hadn't turned to mist when confronted with the crucifix before, hopefully this would be no different.

  "Zounds, it's just like the stories say!" the archer expounded. "Methinks I would have loaded wooden bolts if I would have known."

  "Christ, man," I replied over my shoulder, "there's wood all around you. Just grab something pokey and stake this bastard." I held the minute cross just out of the creature's struggling reach, honestly trying to believe in what it represented. Strangely, concentrating so hard on it seemed to be taking something out of me, but I shook my head and held off the unnatural fatigue in my body. There was a moment of rummaging, then the sound of rubberized sole on stone.

  "Make room, Milady," came the voice from behind me. I took a step to the side as there came that horribly loud ch-chunk of his bow. I didn't even catch it's flight, only the violence of the huge splinter of wood crudely but powerfully ripping through the corpse's chest. There was a final, soul-wrenching shriek and, in its outward appearance, the writhing beast slowly shriveled to a corpse-like state. For me, the phantom shell simply dissipated, leaving behind only the sad reality of the situation: a dead rotting corpse with a big sliver of wood impaling him.

  "Ye gods, what a vile beast! 'T was most boon that -"

  The moment the corpse returned to it's natural state, the strange fatigue left me instantly, giving me plenty of strength to grab the Crusader by the plastic sport pads that existed underneath his Pushtech armor and shove him roughly, not so hard as to hurt him, into the nearest wall. He let out a cry of surprise as I glared holes into his visor.

  "Atlanta is not a Crusader town," I growled, anger welling up unbidden inside of me. "Your beloved demigod knows that." I reared back a fist. "You've got ten seconds to tell me why you're here and if 'because Epic wanted me to be safe' is the only one, I swear to all I hold dear I'll -"

  "Please, Milady, still thy rage," the archer begged, raising his hands either defensively or diplomatically. "Though 't would be folly to lie and say that Lord Epic's concern for your safety does not often weigh upon his glorious brow, it is not why I was bidden to come here." I didn't lower my fist, but I did loosen my grip on his mock armor. Where my grip had cracked the plastic shell, the phantom armor was deformed and twisted. "Verily, Milord had tracked vile scoundrels from the Humans for God group to this very chamber. He suspected some new treachery when his omnipresence failed him suddenly whilst trying to pinpoint what exactly had happened." I so badly wanted an excuse to send this guy packing back to Epic, beaten, bruised, with his tail between his legs, as a message to keep his nose out of Atlanta. There was a long moment as I held the archer to the wall.

  I would have felt totally justified with my original plan. Just as Eric had predicted, he and I were now in a perpetual dance, as he tried to spread the Crusader movement across the country. Already most of the Deep South embraced his vigilante justice and obeisance to the Pushed as some kind of messed-up Second Coming, not to mention Epic's scattered pockets of supporters around the world. Growing pockets, I would have added. I spent as much time making public appearances and political speeches to try to turn the populace away from his insane philosophy as actually saving lives, and far more than the time I invested in to stopping the Whiteout permanently. However, did our personal war mean that I should hurt a man who came here tracking something that was worse than either of us?

  The Humans for God movement were terrorist assholes, plain and simple; there was a reason why they were dubbed 'the Hogs' early on. They weren't really religious, except at the grunt level. The religion was just a ploy to bring in gullible, jealous bigots who saw the Pushed in the same way they saw anything that wasn't like themselves: with hate. I first ran into them just after the Whiteout, when I first met the Atlanta Five. At that point, they had been set up and manipulated by Ian Mackenzie, the man who made the entire Battle of Atlanta happen and the only other person I knew of for sure that was a Natural like I was. Since then, they managed to take root like some disgusting weed. Taking them out was one of the few points Epic and I agreed on.

  What was more important? Taking a cheap shot at Eric or saving lives?

  I unclenched my fist and settled the Push Hero on his feet. I turned towards the corpse.

  "So this guy had been with the Hogs?" I knelt down for a closer look. "Did you or Epic have any idea he was, you know, like this?"

  "Yes to the first and no to the second, Milady," he replied. "At least if it was so, Milord did not see fit to inform me as such." He cleared his voice. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. They call me the Argent Archer. 'T is an honor to -"

  "Please, no." I didn't even look up. The fading adrenaline as my mind and body down-shifted combined with the horrid stench of death was making my stomach nervous enough. The way he was treating me wasn't helping. "Just ... no more of this 'Milady' crap. Let's focus on the task at hand, okay?"

  "Oh." There was a distinct hint of disappointment in his voice. "As you wish." I heard an electronic whine. "Whilst Mi- you investigate the former beast, I will employ my visual sensors and quest for more clues to what transpired." His booted foot
falls began to move around behind me as I steeled myself to investigate the dead terrorist further.

  Now that I had some peace and quiet, a few things were immediately obvious. First, my communications were down. While Rachel's constant tinkering had greatly improved the robustness of the uniform's electronics, any one of those slams or tumbles could have broken or shorted any piece of the gear. Second, I recognized the face on the body, even in this early state of rot. This was the third of the seven victims, which meant that this wasn't our man. Or at least he wasn't the only one. I felt along the discolored flesh of the neck and, just as with the girl's body across the room, there were two distinct circular wounds. His wounds were larger than hers, which brought a chill to my bones. This wasn't the end of the nightmare ahead, this was only the beginning.

  Forcing my nerves to quiet, I continued searching the body. There were still tatters of an olive green wife-beater T-shirt tucked into the pants, black with a military cut and plenty of pockets. I rifled through them and, in short order, had a small pile of personal belongings to examine. A battered leather wallet with identification and some cash, a half-empty matchbook, three filterless cigarettes, a roll of fishing line, a multi-tool, and a few spare bullets, that is all I cataloged. It seemed little to go on, but there was undoubtedly something I was missing. I was brought out of my thoughts when Archer spoke up from across the room.