After seeing the gesture, a very uncomfortable thought ran through Paul’s head. “You mean…you’re going to drive?”
Said smile faded, replaced by a frown on the water-bag’s face. “It’s downloaded. I’ll get the hang of it. Don’t worry. Angela can drive, too, but she’s better off flying, anyway. Still,” he reached up to rub his head in a very human-like gesture, “if you need backup and a lot of muscle, CF and I will be there.”
Immediately the thought in Paul’s head transitioned from uncomfortable to downright bad. CF had been hauling out garbage in plain sight, and now they were going to let him out in a densely populated city? “I’m not sure if—”
“It’s going to work?” Ooze finished while giving a gesture that approximated a shrug. “Yeah, I’m not sure, either, but you might need backup one of these days and I’m also getting cabin fever—or CF is. Sandstorm isn’t going to help us, but we could use CF’s muscle, just in case. Whatever, he’ll be in the van, so it’s not going to be a big deal. Besides, we’re supposed to protect the city, right?”
There was no way to answer the question without sounding silly, so Paul simply said, “We can try.”
Chapter Seven
Making it Count
Nights were for fun, and in this case, fun meant taking on the bad guys and beating them at their own game. After getting dressed—Paul found a pair of black pants along with a black shirt—he had a word with Sandstorm. If the crooks were out in force, then they needed all the bodies they could throw at them.
As usual, the sand-man was making shapes on the table in his room. In a quick series of transitions, a plane, a steam train, and a Mobius-like pattern appeared, all at light speed and all seemingly without any effort. Sandstorm finally stopped practicing and formed the question, ‘What do you want?’
“Uh, we’re going out on a mission tonight, and we thought you might, you know, want to come along.” Paul tried to sound as friendly as possible, and wondered if the sand being actually understood the concept.
‘You need me to come along as what?’
“As back-up,” he replied, still fighting the idea of communicating with usually inanimate objects. He’d only recently gotten over the weirdness of speaking to a zombie and sentient water. Communicating with sand was going to take a bit more time.
The grains of dirt swirled around for a few seconds before forming the sentence, ‘You have CF and Ooze. What do you need with me?’
What was up with this guy’s attitude? “You could set up a kind of smokescreen or something,” he said after fumbling with a few ideas. “You know, blind the opposition, confuse them and throw dirt in their eyes…stuff like that.” He wasn’t a tactician…but if they had the abilities, he figured they should use them.
More time passed while Sandstorm shifted his form back and forth as if making up his mind about going. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he indicated, and formed the image of a hand waving goodbye. ‘I’ll stay here.’
More than a little pissed at Sandstorm’s attitude, Paul started to toss of a smart-ass reply then, deciding that it would do no good, walked out of the room and found the trio waiting downstairs in the living room. As usual, CF stared into space as if pondering the merits of dusting or vacuuming. A few bits of flesh hung from his fingers and Paul ran to the kitchen to get a couple of brain packets. Returning, he handed them over and CF’s eyes lit up. “Thanks,” he said as he tore them open.
Ooze got up from the comfort of the couch. “Let me guess, our dirt friend wants to play in his own sandbox?” he asked.
“It seems to be that way.”
Angela blew out a deep breath and pointed at the door. “Forget about him. Let’s get going. I’ll take point.”
This time they drove back to the Bronx—Morris Park, to be exact. It was a low-rent district full of hard-working families, but it also had a high crime rate and drug trafficking. Angela flew on ahead, roughly fifty yards in front and around twenty feet overhead. She’d tricked out the edges of her cape with some kind of glowing material in order to provide a beacon. It billowed out behind her, framing her against the darkness. Ooze had rigged up two-way communicators for everyone that fit neatly into their ears, and she called out directions from up top.
Paul sat in the back of the van and tried not to be terrified by the way Ooze drove. It could be summed up in two words—fast and erratic. Just before they’d left, he wondered how they’d get away without being seen, but the water-bag assured him it was all good. “This van has special glass,” he said. “We can see out, but they can’t see in. And the glass is shatter-proof, too.”
Now, though, Paul felt the only thing about to be shattered was his spine, as another jolt sent him into the wall. Even CF had a mildly scared expression on his face. “Are we there yet?” he enquired.
“No,” Paul said as he prayed for guidance, “Not there yet.”
He banged on the window that separated him from the front seat. “I thought you knew how to drive!”
“Knowledge, not experience,” the answer came just before the vehicle swerved to the right side of the road and almost took out a telephone pole.
Fortunately, they met with no accidents and finally, with a screech of the brakes, they arrived at their destination. Paul opened the door and sat bent over, trying not to heave. His heart hammered almost uncontrollably in his chest and he thanked whatever gods existed that they’d made it.
It was almost pitch black out. A wind started to rise, and snow began to sift down from the heavens.
“Well, we’re here,” Ooze called out in a cheerful voice from the front. He got out and ambled over holding a small bag in his hand. “How was my driving?”
“No comment,” Paul replied, still sucking in air.
CF piped up in a plaintive voice with the comment of, “I’m hungry.”
“You ate before you left,” Ooze said with a pained expression on his face. “You should be grateful you don’t have to go like humans do.”
Angela lit gracefully in front of him. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked.
A few seconds passed before Paul realized that everyone was looking expectantly at him. “Um…you’re asking me?”
Nods came his way, and Angela cut in. “If we’re going to fight crime, then we have to take on the scum. We find them. So what’s the game plan?”
In a word, this was asking for trouble. She may have been bulletproof, but he wasn’t. Scanning the area, a number of homeless people off in the distance shuffled by, many of them pushing shopping carts loaded with their meager belongings.
Closed and shuttered shops, many of them old and battle-scarred by time and neglect, lined both sides of the street. A few men wearing heavy coats lurked in the doorways, but they were blowing on their fingers and stamping their feet in order to keep warm. They weren’t a threat.
After thinking things through, Paul came to a decision and snapped his fingers. “If we’re going to catch anyone,” he said, “then we should go to where the, uh, bad guys would wait and do their business.” He realized that he sounded worse than amateurish. He sounded downright naïve. “Um, are there any warehouses around here?”
“If you mean you want directions, ask and ye shall receive,” Ooze said in an absurdly cheerful voice. He turned to the side, and a second later, a very detailed map formed on his body.
“Neat trick,” Paul said in admiration while staying inside the van where it was semi-warm. “I thought only Sandstorm could do something like that.”
“You’re not the only one who’s got special powers of cartography,” laughed Ooze, and pointed to an X that had sprung up. “We’re here,” he said, and pointed to the X. “If you’re talking about bad, then we should go…here,” he added, and flicked his thumb at another spot on the map that lay roughly eight blocks away. A number of statistics appeared on his body listing recent assaults and murders. The numbers went over a hundred, enough to intimidate even the most veteran of police officers.
“Let�
��s do this,” Paul said after testing the wind with his hand. It was cold and only going to get colder. He set out, Angela followed him on foot and Ooze said he and CF would stay in the van.
Five minutes later, Paul and Angela reached their destination. While most of the warehouses were still operating—they were surrounded by chain-link fences with secure locks on them—many of them had been abandoned. There were no fences, and many were in a severe state of disrepair with broken windows and no doors.
A few figures skulked in the shadows. “Homeless people,” he muttered, realizing if his situation had gone any differently, he’d be in the boat as the rest of the homeless crew—and maybe worse.
Angela suddenly let out a soft grunt and staggered. Reaching out quickly, she steadied herself against a fence. “Is something wrong?” Paul asked. Her face looked paler than usual.
With a mild curse, she shook her head. “I forgot my shot.” After taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a whoosh of air, a reassuring smile emerged. “I’ll make it. See you soon.”
With a quick leap, she soared aloft, leaving him to the mercy of the streets once more. “Guess who the cannon fodder is now,” Paul muttered as he paced back and forth. Swinging his arms to get the blood flowing, it began to snow harder and the wind increased in intensity, whipping against his face and body and chilling him.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked the air as doubt began to well up in him. For a second, he doubted his ability to lead and grew doubly scared at the prospect of getting his butt kicked yet again. Still, Angela’s words about not giving up rang in his head. Now he had to make things count.
The weather didn’t want to cooperate as it grew more frigid by the second. The glare of the street lamps was partially obscured by the swirling snow. He strained his ears to make out the sounds of feet clumping through the slush and sleet. Maybe he’d get lucky and no one would show. This was the worst kind of weather around. He could go home and get warm…
A second later, though, he squelched the thought. Bad weather brought out the cockroaches as five large men suddenly appeared out of the shadows. From the way they dressed, they were Bangers. At least they had some sense to dress warmly when they went out to kill someone. Paul shivered and hoped his allies were ready to rock.
“All alone here, kid?” asked one of them in a pseudo-friendly voice.
The voice sounded familiar, and looking up, the scarred face of Louis stood out against the gloom. A heavy and dangerous looking pipe dangled from one hand, but once he got within range, he twirled it around in a pair of thick fingers like a cheerleader with her baton. He nodded twice as if recalling the previous meeting’s events and a slow, mean smile began to trace itself across his face. “Hey, I remember you.”
“Weren’t you in jail?”
“I got out early for good behavior. So who’re you waiting for?”
“For my friends,” Paul replied. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “Piss off,” he added, finding his backbone.
The other Bangers laughed, but there was no humor in their response. Louis smirked and his smile got meaner still. “You got a death wish, you know that?”
Sneaking a look over his shoulder, Paul saw the door to the warehouse was ajar. Whirling around, he rocketed over to the door, ran inside, and slammed the door shut, locking it. A second later, the sound of heavy fists thudding on the door started, followed by shouts of outrage. “You little scum sucker. You’re dead. You’re dead!”
He sucked in a series of deep breaths and scanned the area. A number of crates and mounds of garbage filled the open space. The air smelled foul, but there wasn’t much choice in the matter.
“What are you doing here?” a voice asked.
Startled by the voice, Paul spun around and saw a man standing not two feet away. The man was tall and slight and wore various patched-up clothes along with a ripped-up coat that might have looked respectable ten years ago. Behind him stood a woman and a little girl, also wearing old and mismatched clothes. They had the look of the homeless on them—faces smudged with dirt and a lost look in their eyes. To their rear was a series of crates arranged to look like a makeshift home.
Let’s hear it for the economy.
“You should get out of here,” Paul warned while pointing to the rear of the place. There didn’t seem to be a door, but he spotted some holes in the wall large enough for a person to squeeze through. “Lots of bad guys are coming.”
“It’s cold and we need a place to stay,” objected the man as he planted his feet. “This building’s abandoned.” He squinted at Paul. “You’re not a cop.”
“That’s obvious.”
Confusion painted the man’s face. “So if you’re not a cop, what are you doing here?”
This wasn’t the time to write a novel. “Look, I’m hiding out, okay?” Paul said as a sense of urgency overtook him. “That’s all you have to know, all right?”
“Hiding…” Now the man’s confusion turned into panic. His daughter—she looked no more than five—began to whimper and her mother hushed her and stroked her hair. The man shook his head in disbelief. “You’re hiding from the police? What do the police want with us?”
“It’s not the police.”
“But we didn’t do anything…”
“Shut it, okay?”
The banging on the door began in earnest. Sweeping his arm toward the rear of the warehouse, Paul whispered as urgently as possible, “Hide. Just hide and my friends will take care of things.”
Bewilderment crossed the man’s face, but he grabbed his wife and child and ducked behind some crates in the far corner only seconds before the door burst in. Paul took off in the opposite direction, hoping to lead the scum away, and found refuge behind a number of rusty pipes.
“Find him,” Louis said. “But don’t wreck him. That’s my job.”
The sound of footsteps echoed in the open space. The place was large, but a person couldn’t stay hidden forever. “Angela,” he whispered and hoped that she was listening. “I’m inside the warehouse. Are you coming?”
Static sounded in his earpiece and Paul’s heart sank. She’d picked a fine time to bug out and leave him on his own. Maybe she was out of range or maybe she’d gone somewhere else to deal with trouble. “Angela,” he whispered again in as loud a voice as he dared. Silence greeted him, and with a sense of inevitability, he knew his luck was about to run out.
It did ten seconds later when his nerve broke and he made a dash for the door. Two large men caught him by the arms and tossed him into a pile of garbage. “Well, kid, it seems as though you’re about to meet your maker. You got any last words?” Louis asked as he strode over.
“Not really,” Paul replied, “just that you’re scum.”
The scum didn’t appreciate being called scum as a sneer formed on his face. Instead of lashing out, though, he waggled his thick finger like a parent about to scold a truant child.
“You know,” he said in an almost conversational tone, “if you were a few inches taller and a couple of years older, you could be part of this cause of ours. You know how to get in and out of places and it looks like you know the city. We need smart kids like you in our ranks.”
Paul figured this jerk was just trying to scare him before the beating began. If so, he was doing a good job, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “You need a lot more than smart kids to help you. You’re so dumb your dog probably teaches you tricks.”
The other Bangers chuckled at the lame joke. Louis didn’t find it funny at all. In fact, his eyes narrowed, so Paul, sure his time was up, added, “You’re proof that evolution can go in reverse.”
This time, the other men howled with laughter. Louis, though, snorted and spit a wad of gunk on the ground. “Guess what, kid. I’m not amused. Get ready to meet Hell.”
Paul shut his eyes, waiting for the impact, but a second later, a voice called out, “Hold it!”
Risking a peek, two familiar figures approached—Mr. Finger and Mr
. Hand. They nodded at the Bangers who’d been waiting for the blood to flow. “Your job is done here,” Mr. Finger said and jerked his thumb at the door. “You can go.”
“Suppose we want to watch?” asked one of the punks with a hopeful note in his voice. “I mean, is that against the rules or something?”
The corners of Hand’s mouth twitched upwards in a smile, a mean one. “I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Paul put in, hoping for leniency. It was a given this situation was not going to end well and right now the cavalry wasn’t anywhere near to riding over the hill.
A snort of derision came from Hand and he waved at the wall. The gang members obediently went over to stand by it. Finger knelt down and whispered, “Yeah, you get a say—just before we tear you a new one, kid. This is your one chance. We want to find your buddies. You know what I’m talking about. You know who they are and what they were made for.”
Scared beyond fear, Paul summoned up his ballpower long enough to ask, “What did they do to you? They’re innocent, man. They’re just people.”
Both men laughed, their voices echoing off the walls. “Innocent, the kid says,” Finger offered and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “No one is innocent,” he stated with quiet menace. “They’re killers. They were made to be killers, and we want them back. It’s as simple as that, so tell us where they are and we’ll only destroy one kidney.”
Hand leaned over, and his words rattled like ice in a glass. “What my partner said times two. If you tell us where you’re hiding them, it’ll be just one kidney. You can live with that, right?”
Paul summoned up his courage. “Screw you.”
It wasn’t the answer they were looking for, as they proceeded to take turns laying in a shot here and there, each one deliberately. They took their time and waited about ten seconds to let the pain receptors kick in. Just as the immediate pain faded, they delivered fresh blows, and that meant a whole new level of agony.
Beginnings Page 11
