Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

  Christine, who had gone quite pale, opened her mouth, but nothing got past her trembling lips.

  Which didn’t really matter, because that last part was rhetorical; Mark had already turned his back on her.

  PCA

  Cooper crept out of his detention cell like a frightened mouse, ready to jerk back inside at the slightest provocation. If this was some miraculous opportunity to get the hell out of here, he didn’t want to miss his chance, but he was still half-convinced the guards were just playing games with him.

  They weren’t. Two of the original guards who had escorted him from the armored truck to his cell remained in the hallway, but now they both lay crumpled to the floor. Thin trails of blood slithered down the backs of their necks. They didn’t look like they were breathing.

  “Did you do that?”

  Cooper yelped and threw up his shield; he tried to retreat back into his cell, but his shield was too large to squeeze through the reinforced doorframe.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said the same reedy voice. “Slow down there, buddy. Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

  Cooper rotated his shield to find another inmate standing in the doorway of his own cell. He was a gawky fellow with a thin face, an Adam’s apple about four sizes too large, and his orange jumpsuit hanging off him. He looked harmless enough, but if that were truly the case, he wouldn’t be in here.

  “Guessing it wasn’t you. But did you see what happened?” the twerp asked. When Cooper didn’t answer, he raised his voice. “Can you hear me through that thing?!”

  Cooper dropped his shield while waving for the guy to keep it down. He stepped closer to the first guard, but saw nothing suspicious except for the trail of blood, and whatever the source, it was hidden beneath the poor sap’s hairline.

  “No,” he finally answered the twerp, “I didn’t see anything. I heard some noise, then my door opened and my metal sweatband—”

  “Psi-jammer,” the twerp corrected as he moved to join Cooper.

  Irritated, Cooper snapped, “Psi-jammer, whatever, it fell off.”

  “Yeah, mine, too.”

  Cooper looked up and down the hall, noting that there was only one entrance, the door through which they brought him earlier. He started to scratch at the gauze over his itching right ear, but forced himself to stop.

  A metallic squeal sounded from the direction he was already looking, so he stayed mostly calm when another holding cell opened to reveal a third orange-clad prisoner. This one, a woman — at least, Cooper thought she was a woman; she was pretty butch, with tattoos on her face and short, spiky hair — eyed the two of them, then walked right over and knelt next to the second guard. Looking up, she asked in a husky voice, “You guys do this?”

  The twerp answered for them, “Nope, not us.”

  Standing, the woman sauntered over to the door at the end of the hall. Poking out a single finger, she pushed it just enough to show that it, too, was open and very slightly ajar.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said without looking back at them.

  Cooper and the twerp edged their way toward her. Cooper, who was new to the whole life-of-crime thing, let alone having any experience with jailbreaks, asked, “Should we make a plan or something?”

  The butch woman shrugged. “You can plan all you want, I don’t give a shit. I plan to start running and not stop until they bring me down or I lose them.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the twerp said, before he confused Cooper by pulling off the top of his orange jumpsuit, exposing his skinny, bare chest and back.

  “Just don’t run in the same direction as me,” the woman added. “I shit you not, I will slap you down if you ruin this for me.”

  “Wait,” Cooper insisted. The woman growled and looked at him, while the twerp pressed his head against the door to try and peek through the slender crack. “What do you guys do? To be put in here, I mean. What’s your thing?”

  “I clap my hands,” the woman snapped, as though he should somehow already know this. “And when I do, you better cover your ears.”

  “I’m the same, I guess,” the twerp said, his voice muffled by the door he was still peeking around; he was tying the loose sleeves of his jumpsuit around his waist. “But with me, you better cover your eyes.”

  “Okay,” Cooper nodded. “I can—”

  “Whatever,” the woman said. She pushed the twerp forward, using his body to open the door. “I’m gone.” Out in the larger corridor, she glanced left, then took off to her right. Once he recovered from his collision with the metal door, the twerp did the same.

  Unable to think of anything else to do, Cooper followed them.

  PCA

  Michael saw Sidney through the exit before heading back toward Christine’s table. His nerves were no longer as taut, having already “made the leap,” as it were. But with her family gone, it was inevitable that they would discuss ... well, whatever it was that remained between them. Would he visit her again? Exchange letters? Or should he tell her that he only came to close the door, and was that even true?

  On his way back, he noticed immediately that something had transpired. Mark was sitting opposite her now, facing Michael with his back reclined against the table. But Mark was looking a little too pleased with himself, while Christine appeared shell-shocked.

  Oh, crap. What did Mark say to her?

  But all of it became moot when an extremely loud thunderclap rattled the whole building.

  All the guards drew their V9s or brought their V10s to bear. Christine’s escort rushed her from the visitors’ room — she managed one fleeting glance back at Michael, which he met with a reassuring wave and a promised, “I’ll see you again!”

  An alarm went off a moment later, a sharp trill that would have induced teeth-grinding under normal circumstances, but after that loud explosion, it sounded a bit muffled.

  Mark joined Michael in the center of the room. “Breakout?” he asked.

  Michael nodded. “Unless some rogue whacko’s trying to break in.” He drew his own V9.

  Mark started to say something like “Stranger things have happened,” but he got cut off by a second Boom!, this one even closer and louder than the first.

  One of the guards, who had started yelling into his radio the instant the first sound hit, rushed over to Michael and Mark. “At least three rogues are making a break for it! Your assistance would be appreciated.”

  Michael jogged toward the exit; Mark and the guard followed. “Where are they? Do you know what their power sets are?”

  “They’re coming from the detention cells ...” (Michael and Mark exchanged a look — Cooper?) “... so they’re right outside! No word yet on their power sets.”

  Michael and Mark emerged from the visitors’ room just in time for the third thunderclap, and it was the biggest, loudest one yet — BOOM! The force of it knocked them from their feet.

  Michael rolled away from it, already digging through his coat pockets for some earplugs — they weren’t anything special, just regular, store-bought earplugs, but they’d be better than nothing. Mark held his ground, getting up to one knee as he twisted around, searching for a target.

  Michael got his left earplug in, but then a different kind of assault took place: An intense, blinding light filled the prison courtyard. Michael was looking down to prep his second earplug, so he was saved from the brunt of it, but it still left spots in his vision. He heard Mark cry out, but he wouldn’t be able to help his partner unless he protected himself first. Palming the remaining earplug and keeping his eyes closed, he fished back into his coat for a pair of polarized, wraparound sunglasses.

  Michael got the sunglasses in place, but the area was still damn bright! It was like the sun itself had decided to pay a visit, except that this light wasn’t hot and its source seemed to be moving along at ground level. He saw Mark’s silhouette and scrambled on his hands and knees toward his partner.

  He found Mark kneeling, with one hand over his ey
es and the other wavering out in front of him. Mark was yelling something, probably curses, but his voice just came through as a bass-y rumble — partly due to Michael’s blocked left ear, partly thanks to the ringing brought on by the thunderclaps.

  Taking the remaining earplug, he tapped Mark on the arm to warn him that he was there, then worked the plug into Mark’s left ear. He reached back into his pocket for another pair when he barely made out a human shape running away from the prison perpendicular to the moving light source. One of the other escaping rogues? He wished he could be sure — he wanted to avoid friendly fire.

  For now, he abandoned the other earplugs. They wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything if they didn’t do something about the blinding light first.

  “Mark!” he shouted. “Can you see at all?!”

  His hand still over his eyes, Mark shook his head. “I can’t see shit, Mike!”

  Squinting through tightly slitted eyelids, Michael tried to look at the rogue generating the light. It appeared as though he was about to reach the far gate, where the armored truck had entered. Damn it.

  “Mike,” Mark began, “can you—?!”

  BOOM! Another thunderclap, this time off to their left — thankfully, the side where they were both partially protected. That rogue was running for the nearer, smaller gate, where the visitors had come onto the grounds.

  Closing his eyes against the painfully bright light, Michael ran a mental inventory of his counter-rogue equipment, trying to reason out his best options, when he registered that Mark was still shouting to him. Peeking through his eyelids again and leaning his open ear closer to his partner’s mouth, he shouted back, “Say again!”

  Mark pointed his available arm toward where the light was brightest — he could probably see straight through his hand in that direction. He shouted something that sounded like “Amy.”

  “Say again!” Michael repeated. “Again!”

  Mark bellowed, “Aim me!”

  Michael got it. He scrambled around to Mark’s other side, taking his right arm as if it were a bazooka. Squinting through his sunglasses, he did his best to target the source of the light, which was about to disappear through the gate. “Got it!”

  “How strong you want it?!”

  “Try not to kill ’em, but I won’t cry if you break some bones!”

  Underneath his covering hand, Mark grinned. An instant later, a shockwave leapt from his extended fist. It flew across the courtyard, broadening to insure hitting its target, and the blinding light cut off as the skinny rogue was slammed against the concrete wall on the far side of the gate. His skin luminesced once more before he collapsed face-first into the dirt. Two guards, also wearing heavy sunglasses, moved toward him, but their raised arms suggested they were seeing the same after-spots as Michael.

  BOOM! The next thunderclap, somewhat diminished from the previous one, reminded Michael that it wasn’t over yet. Blinking rapidly, he spied the other rogue about to make her own exit behind them.

  “Care to try that again?!” he shouted to Mark.

  Mark dropped the hand that had been covering his eyes, struggling to open them before giving up. “Do it!”

  They each reversed themselves, so that Michael was now holding Mark’s left arm. Ripping off his sunglasses and dropping them aside, Michael kept blinking, trying to will his vision back into sharper focus — aiming at the glowing rogue had actually been easier, because he just had to target the most blinding spot.

  “Hurry up,” Mark urged him, “before she makes that noise again! I gotta big enough headache as it is!”

  Michael leveled Mark’s arm, taking aim. Someone in the nearest guard tower fired his stun gun at the escaping rogue, but missed her. Michael figured they only had a few more seconds before the woman reached the gate, and she was already spreading her arms wide with purpose — if she generated that sound right against the gate itself, Michael was doubtful that it would hold.

  “Here we go!” he said to Mark. “Same as before!”

  “Great, but we still got—!”

  Michael’s breath exploded from his lungs as something big and solid slammed into him from behind. Whatever it was pressed down on him, shoving him headlong into the ground. A strangled yell from Mark told him he wasn’t alone.

  The third rogue! Too late, Michael remembered the guard telling them that at least three rogues were trying to break out.

  Their attacker rolled right over them, and only a last-second turn of the head saved Michael from a broken nose, or worse. As it was, his left knee, both shoulders, and other joints screamed in protest from being steamrolled — if the crushing force hadn’t kept moving, he knew they both would’ve been seriously injured.

  Then Michael was free. He struggled to get up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He managed to look up to see the rogue rolling away from them.

  Perry Cooper! Damn it, we just put him in here.

  Another BOOM! flooded the world. As predicted, the smaller gate collapsed; they were probably lucky the whole outer wall didn’t come down.

  As Cooper rolled toward the now-larger entrance, he rotated around inside his bubble. He pointed at the gauze on the right side of his head, then gave them the double middle finger.

  As a return message, Michael pointed at Cooper, then drew a finger across his own throat.

  Cooper rotated away. A hail of stun charges descended upon him as more of the guards recovered their sight well enough to try, but the weapons were as ineffective against him now as they had been in the field.

  Mark recovered enough to see Cooper escaping, cut loose with a string of expletives, and launched himself into the air.

  “Wait!” Michael called.

  But it was too late. Between his spotty vision, ringing ears, and having just been given the rolling pin treatment, all Mark accomplished was popping his tennis shoes off like a pair of champagne corks and flailing through the air sideways into the outer wall.

  Another pair of BOOMs echoed from outside the pit, each coming from further away as the rogue made her escape.

  Michael scowled. And I thought the worst part of today would be seeing Christine? Jesus, this is embarrassing.

  Grunting in pain, Michael picked himself up and hobbled over toward his still-swearing partner.

  POWERHOUSE AND SHOCKWAVE

  Lincoln hit the PCA gym a few hours before that afternoon’s synod. He’d been wanting to try nonstop running for a while, to self-test his ever-growing endurance. He knew that marathon runners could jog for hours, but what about an all-out sprint, as fast as he could go? Since he rarely got tired these days (physically, anyway), he figured this was as good a test as any; all they cared about over at the testing vault was how strong he was and how much his skin could endure.

  Lincoln cleared security, and as he passed through into the gym, he overheard a pair of Ensigns commenting about a prisonbreak at the rogue pit. Lincoln perked up when they mentioned the name Cooper — wasn’t that the rogue from yesterday? He almost stopped to ask, but figured this might be what the synod was about. Besides, he was a little uncomfortable with the air of hero-worship he got from some of the lower-ranking agents.

  Heading into the locker room to change into workout clothes (he hardly sweated anymore, but the habit remained), Lincoln had just finished dressing when the door was kicked open. He looked up to see Shockwave stomp past him toward the sinks. Shockwave didn’t greet him or even acknowledge him, but Lincoln saw the blood on Westmore’s face and the front of his T-shirt.

  Curious and concerned, Lincoln trailed after him. Shockwave turned on the sink faucet and splashed water on his face, muttering under his breath the whole time.

  Lincoln hesitated. If it were anyone else, norm or paranormal, he would have already asked if they were okay. But Shockwave had made it abundantly clear how he felt about Lincoln, so should he just leave well enough alone?

  Unfortunately, Shockwave saw his reflection in the mirror and snapped, “What?”

 
Caught, Lincoln strove for nonchalance. “Just hoping you’re all right, that’s all.”

  Shockwave guffawed. “Yeah, well, when I get the goddamn spots out of my eyes and the goddamn ringing out of my ears, I’ll let ya know.” He scooped water into his mouth, swished once, and spat it out — the water emerged a touch red.

  Lincoln took one step forward. “What happened, Shockwave?” He knew to always address him as “Shockwave,” never as “Mark” — he’d made that mistake once, and once was enough.

  Shockwave continued grumbling under his breath and took off his bloody T-shirt, tossing it to the floor. “Nothing special, just your run-of-the-mill prisonbreak at the pit. And it happened on my watch, so I’m sure you’ll be hearing all about it.”

  “Oh,” Lincoln commented, not knowing what else to say.

  Shockwave continued on as if he hadn’t heard. “Same damn rogue we just caught, plus some really loud bitch.” He splashed more water on his face, adding in a lower voice, “At least we got the sun guy.”

  This rekindled Lincoln’s attention. “A geeky looking guy whose skin gets as bright as the sun?”

  “Yeah ...” Shockwave answered, then paused. Leaning on the sink, he scowled at Lincoln through the mirror. “Shit, let me guess. You originally took that guy down?”

  Lincoln’s gaze drifted toward the floor as he answered, “I was there, yeah.”

  Shockwave laughed, and it was an ugly sound. “Figures. Don’t insult me with that ‘I was there’ shit. What, you expect me to believe that Pendler actually helped you for a change?” He turned off the water with an angry twist and pounded the lever on the paper towel dispenser several times. “I guess even your eyeballs are so tough that bright lights don’t bother you anymore. Wonderful.”