Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  “It’s called the horizon.” Perry points. “That’s a cloud, and that bright thing there, which I really hope you’re not lookin’ directly at, is the sun.”

  “I’m bein’ serious, cabron.” Noir’s eyes are coated with a light neon blue sheen. “There’re...waves in the air. I think it’s something on the electromagnetic spectrum. I can almost hear it.” He tilts his head to the side.

  Leo steps away from the van. “Electromagnetic? Could be what’s messing with the phone signals and the engine. What else do you see?

  “Just blue waves in the air.”

  “Can I help you folks?”

  They turn.

  A police officer approaches them from behind, arms rigid on either side of her waist. The gun and laden utility belt cinched around her hips don’t hinder her movements at all. She studies them from behind a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  “We’re just having a bit of car trouble is all.” Perry tucks the rag in his back pocket.

  Her head doesn’t move, but maybe her eyes do behind the tinted glasses. “Maybe I can give you a hand.” She walks toward the van, tugging a pair of black gloves from her fingers and slipping them through her belt beside her gun. She keeps her glasses on.

  Perry steps aside and watches as she checks the oil, fluid levels, and the engine. She twists her head this way and that, looks up and sticks her arm down as she fiddles with something.

  Then—

  Noir. “Get back!”

  Bisset. “Watch out for her hands!”

  The officer casts her hand out. Solid, oily darkness blasts forth from her smooth palm. It billows into Perry and savagely catapults him back, arms and legs pinwheeling in the air.

  Leo flicks out a hand of his own and catches the flying man with a soft force field cushion. Perry lands gently, sinks slightly, and bobbles on the silver-blue construction. A large black stain clings to his shirt.

  The woman steps away from the van while slicing a hand in Noir’s direction. A crescent of onyx jets out from her fingertips. The cigarette tumbles from Noir’s lips as he rolls out of the way. The scythe of dark energy embeds itself deep in the dirt, soaking the grass in an oily gleam.

  The woman’s arms piston in a parade of punches. A volley of black blobs with violet tails pepper the air. Noir blurs, streaks, and slithers out of the way. He avoids most of them, but not all. One slams into his shoulder, whirling him around. Another takes him in the hipbone, forcing him to his knees.

  Perry runs up behind her and launches his foot out at the small of her back. The blow causes her to stumble forward and he takes a sidestep and kicks out at the back of her knee with his right foot. It buckles inward and forces her to the ground. Perry lifts his foot for an axe kick that never lands as the woman thrusts her open palm down and shoots out a wide mass of black concussive force at the earth. The recoil of the massive power jets her body into the air. Back bent, she twirls head over heels, popping West in the chin with her heel as she flips over. She lands on her feet, spins on Perry, and strikes out with both fists to fire another wide net of midnight force.

  Leo lifts a hand and curls his fingers. A concave force field flashes into view around the detective and shields him. The morass of black colliding with shimmering silver-blue emits ripples of sickly yellow-green in the air. Leo concentrates on keeping the integrity of the field intact. The woman cranks her head at him, eyes sightless behind her glasses. Fingers spread and darkness dives forward in a wide tide. Leo makes the field around Perry wider.

  The woman suddenly jerks her right hand in his direction and sends out a stream of darkness.

  Leo grits his teeth and swings his left hand up close to his body, blocking the stream with a plate-sized shield over his chest. The stream swells wider. The tide rolling towards Perry grows stronger, following him wherever he goes. Leo broadens the field protecting him, sweat popping out from his pores and sliding down his forehead into his eyes. He blinks rapidly.

  Noir is a colored streak in the air racing towards the woman.

  Without letting up on either attack, she twists her hips and throws a leg out along with a vicious explosion of dark power. Noir’s blurring form becomes solid as he’s knocked to the ground.

  “Perry, roll to the left!”

  Perry rolls to the left.

  Before the woman can redirect her stream, Leo sweeps his right arm to the left along with the force field and uses it to knock the hand pointed at him aside. He hardens the shield in front of his body and shoves his left arm out along with it. She takes the driven force field in the side and is slammed harshly to the ground. She rolls to her knees. Her sunglasses sit shattered on the grass, revealing sunken pits of obsidian weeping black mist masquerading as eyes.

  She begins to raise her hands, fingers laced with tangled black ribbons.

  Bisset steps in front of her, lifts an upraised palm and lets loose a blinding cascade of luminance.

  The light gradually settles, soft motes of ivory and gold dotting the air.

  The woman is sprawled on her back, unconscious.

  Giorgio peeks out from the van. He looks up from the senseless woman. “That was a fantastically fine pair of Apollo sunglasses you just destroyed.”

  Damon watches as the uniformed cleaners clear Charles’s body from the living room, shaking his head.

  A footprint etched in blood mars the floor.

  Damon goes into the kitchen, returns with a wet rag. He stoops down and rubs at the blood-smeared spot. “I’m truly sorry about your husband.” He goes down on his hands and knees and rubs harder.

  Anita takes her eyes from Tina, who sits on the couch gingerly touching the bandage on her neck. A ghastly bruise has blossomed just above the collar of her shirt. Her swollen lip barely disguises the slip of a smile gracing her puffy mouth.

  “Sorry doesn’t bring Charles back, and it doesn’t give back my son’s hands.” Anita holds her children close by her sides.

  Damon stops scrubbing and looks up. One of the cleaners crosses in front of him and starts sopping up the bits of brain staining the easy chair. “Charles was more than a subject to me, Anita, and I’m being sincere when I say that. As for Miguel, that decision was out of my—” He looks down, shaking his head. “I know you think that what this organization is doing is awful, and it is. I’m not going to sit here and give you some tangled mess about how we’re really not all that bad.” He sniffs. “Sure I don’t have to remind you of what life was like in your home country.” He touches a knuckle to his lip. “Libera Mentis Machina wants to make the most of the way the world is being tested right now, put the data to good use, and you and the rest of your family have played an essential part in doing that. What it means to be human is being redefined, and you’ve all helped mold that definition.”

  One of the cleaners places a bucket of water next to him. Damon whispers his thanks and dunks the bloody rag in the steaming water.

  “Our organization was formed by a group of psychologists and scientists a few years back.”

  “You’ve told me this before, Damon.”

  “And I feel like it’s the ideal time for a refresher, Anita.” His grin is subdued this time. “Instead of looking at an individual patient, we wanted to study and treat an individual group.” He wrings the bloody rag out. “Society.” He scrubs at the last stubborn streak. “Some think that looking at society as a whole to determine how people think isn’t as effective and accurate as examining individuals.” Finished, he drops the rag in the bucket and rests back on his heels, palms on his thighs. “You’d be surprised at the hive mind people share. Look at religion, politics, fashion, social class, literature. All of them molded into the same shape from different pieces of clay.”

  “This is starting to sound more and more like a tangled mess.”

  He blinks behind his glasses, lifts them to wipe at his eyes. “Bear with me just a second longer. How many times have you been influenced to buy something, say something, think something, or live a certain
way by another person? Either on TV, in a magazine, or in real life.” Pause. “Now, think about that idea being shared by millions and millions of people, all on the basis of its appeal.” He scratches his thigh. “Alpha-Omegas are being regarded with so many emotions. Some people hate you, some fear you, others love you, and there are those who hope they will become you. In our experiment with your family, we took all those separate strings—” He holds his hands up, fingers spread. “—and wove them together into this assortment, forced them to interact each other, to intertwine.” He interlaces his fingers, brings his palms together. “And the result is the truth. People revealed how they really felt about you and your kind. There were deaths, riots in the streets, protests.” He looks at her and holds up a finger. “All because of one special American family. That’s what Libera Mentis Machina does, we bring the light to the truth.”

  A knock sounds at the front door.

  Everyone stops.

  Damon holds his hand out. “It’s your house.”

  Anita slides her eyes to Tina before looking down at her children.

  “They’ll be fine. You’re just going to the front door.” Damon washes his hands in clean, warm water.

  Anita slowly gets up and goes to the door to find the mailman.

  “Afternoon, Anita.” He smiles. “Was asked to deliver this message to Damon. He’s here, right?”

  Anita’s mouth parts. She nods and accepts the letter. The mailman tips his hat. “Have a good one.” She watches him bounce down the stairs, whistling all the while. She closes the door and walks back to the living room where she hands Damon the letter.

  “This came for you.”

  “Thank you.” He dries his hands and opens the envelope, scanning the letter inside. He looks up and shakes his head, eyes on Anita. “One of your own has fallen.” He takes his phone from his pocket, presses an icon and waits. “Tell Eric to open the Cavity.” He ends the call and perches himself on the arm of the couch. “You all may want to hold on to something for this.

  Noir squints and chews on a blade of grass in the corner of his mouth. His eyes flash gold.

  “I can see the outline now. Pretty swanky community, gotta admit. Looks perfect for privileged, gentrifyin’ white folks.”

  “Any visible defenses?” Perry and the others stand behind him. Giorgio watches from inside the van.

  “Ahh...no. Got a weird-ass heat signature comin’ from the perimeter, though, prob’ly some kinda gate.” He chews on grass and rubs his chin.

  “How are we getting in?”

  Perry looks at Leo. “You’re the one with the big brain, you figure something out. I got us this far already.”

  “No need to argue, gentlemen.” Bisset gives a slight head shake.

  “We’re not arguin, we’re just havin’ a discussion.”

  “Guys.” Noir’s brow creases.

  “All I did was ask how we were getting in. Is this how you thank me for saving your life?” Leo lifts his shoulders a bit, opens his palms.

  “Guys.”

  “Didn’t know you were looking for payment.”

  “I’m not, detective. I’m just saying that a pinch of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “GUYS!”

  Electricity crackles and snaps in the empty air. Something shimmers in the distance. Thornebriar gradually wavers into view in all its suburban splendor.

  “Noir, did you—” Perry looks over at him.

  Noir shakes his head, lips parting as a curiously warm wind snatches the blade of grass from his mouth.

  A brilliant, blinding flash of emerald soaks the air accompanied by a sucking squall that seems to emanate from the light. The air whines and shrieks, whistles and rages rebelliously.

  Ears are covered, bodies are wrenched forward by untamed winds. The group is almost yanked from their feet before Leo stretches out his arms and throws a half-bubble around them. The van rocks, wavers, and eventually tumbles over into the green light emanating from the center of Thornebriar.

  “Giorgio!” Bisset reaches for him, but is restrained by Noir.

  Perry yells over the tempest. “Leo, can you catch him?”

  Leo shakes his head. “It’s taking everything I’ve got just to keep this shield up.”

  The emerald luminance bends and wavers the edges of reality, swelling and growing as it consumes houses, minivans, tricycles, trees, and flowerbeds. The battered police van slams into the now-visible concrete street once, twice before being swept up into the void, disappearing in a sizzle of light.

  The roaring winds dissolve into whispers along with the turbine whine knifing through air and ear alike. All is quiet. The emerald light eventually coalesces into a massive dome covering the entire suburb.

  Leo drops the barrier. “Where did Giorgio go?”

  Rain lashes the inside of the void.

  Verdant lightning rends the sky outside the van and forces Giorgio’s eyes to squeeze shut against the sparkling vividness. He waits for his vision to righten itself before he crawls from the backseat and tries the sliding door.

  It grinds out protest.

  He grips the handle and trickles death essence over the metal. It corrodes and rusts as he yanks on the handle again. Something inside the door pops as it slides open. He steps out.

  And sees a line of soldiers with assault rifles aimed at him.

  The rain soaks through his clothes in seconds, matting his once lustrous curls to his forehead, water dripping from his lips. Green lightning casts light on the five women and men in black body armor in a semicircle around him. A man with an umbrella stands behind them. The two gunners in front of the man part on a silent cue as he walks forward, rain speckling his spectacles. His eyes slide to the van.

  “Did you come alone?”

  Giorgio drips in silence.

  The man repeats the question several times in several languages until he bats a hand through the rain-soaked air. “Finish him off, Vin, single shot to the head.” He turns and walks away.

  Raindrops drip from the barrel of Vin’s rifle as he squeezes the trigger, muffled brap of the gun ruffling through the rain. The bullet slams into Giorgio’s forehead, jerking his head back a bit.

  As the bullet drills through his dead brain, it dislodges the memory of a song: 311’s “You Wouldn’t Believe.”

  Rifles waver when he doesn’t fall and die like he’s supposed to.

  The man with the glasses pauses when he doesn’t hear the sound of a corpse splashing down on the pavement. He turns. The bullet pushes itself from Giorgio’s forehead and plinks down into a puddle. The man with the glasses lifts his eyes from the ejected bullet. “Alpha-Omega.”

  Giorgio starts to shiver in the freezing rain. He looks down at his skin and sees that it has taken on a deathly pallor, veins standing out vividly beneath his flesh. “My name is Giorgio Quintero. I’m here to rescue the Johnsons.”

  Rain bounces on the umbrella and the man gives Giorgio his profile. “Are you now?” He turns fully and takes a single step forward. “Are you the one who killed Twiggy?”

  “The police officer with irreproachable taste in sunglasses? A rather vibrant name.” He puts his hands behind his back. “And yours is?”

  “Damon. Are you the one who killed Twiggy?[2]”

  Lightning illuminates the pause.

  “I suppose I am.”

  Damon whips out a gun from the holster at his back and shoots the man twice in the gut. Giorgio folds forward on his knees and grimaces at the sudden flare of phantom pain. Seconds later there are three bullets glistening in a puddle. He rises.

  “I apologize.” His voice is a wheeze. “Was she a close friend?”

  “We were close to completing our experiment with her. You’ve just washed months of diligence down that gutter.” He points at a gutter. “How did you find this place?”

  A soaked smirk. “The dead see everything, Damon.”

  “Not everything.” He gives Giorgio a once-over. “You don’t really strike m
e as a man who would risk his invulnerable life to save a family he only knows through television interviews and magazine covers. Make it plain for me, why are you really here?”

  Giorgio slicks water across his cracked lips with his tongue. “Why do any of us care about the life and death of this family?” He wafts back to sit down on the floor of the bus, out of the downpour. “I’m a dead man, and ever since I awoke in the embrace of a necrophiliac, I find that I value my death more than I ever valued my life.” He puts a hand out in the rain, collecting a tiny pond in his palm. “I don’t experience the same feelings, impulses, or emotions that I used to. I didn’t feel anything when I learned of the Johnson’s death, and I felt even less when I discovered they weren’t dead after all.”

  Damon involuntarily slides a sneakered foot forward through a growing puddle, lured by Giorgio’s honeyed words. “So what did you experience?”

  Giorgio upends his palm and watches the water dribble down. “The same thing that I’ve experienced, that I’ve phantom-felt since I died: a sense of water rolling down my skin. Doesn’t cling to me, but it does make me feel clean, fresh.” He gives his eyes to Damon. “Anew.” He pulls his hand back. “I think I came here hoping to feel something again. Maybe I thought when I reached this moment, this very second in this very time frame, my skin would grow warm and my brain would send signals to my limbs and animate me into epic heroic action.”

  “And now?”

  Giorgio cups his chin in his palm. “Now I just feel the need to repair my undying body. Doesn’t agree with this nippy weather.”

  Damon runs his tongue over his teeth. “I take it that bandages and alcohol swabs won’t do you too much good.”

  Giorgio shakes his head.

  “What will?”

  Yellow-green eyes examine the circle of guns. “A corpse.”

  Damon nods and tucks the umbrella between his cheek and shoulder as he takes off his glasses and wipes raindrops from them with a small cloth pulled from his pocket. A beat. “Linda, you were supposed to be watching the Johnsons when they escaped last night.”