The Strike Trilogy

by Charlie Wood

  “Oops, sorry, Tobin,” Scatterbolt laughed, hopping up onto a chair next to Tobin’s bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Just talking to my friend. I’m supposed to be doing homework, but…I’m not.”

  Scatterbolt looked at the screen of Tobin’s phone.

  “Oh. You talk to your friends on this a lot, don’t you?”

  “Only about twenty-two hours a day.”

  “But you never use it for its intended purpose, right? You don’t use your voice, you only write with your fingers.”

  Tobin thought it over. “Ya know what, I actually kind of forgot that I could make calls with this thing.”

  Tobin’s phone BUZZED; he had a reply from Julie. Scatterbolt leaned over and read the message.

  “This girl likes you, you know,” the robot said.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Tobin replied.

  “Yeah, she does. Look. She sent you one of these guys.”

  Scatterbolt mimicked a winking emoticon; he closed one eye and smiled brightly.

  Tobin laughed and looked to the screen. Julie had written:

  OF COURSE YOU ARE ;)

  Tobin was surprised. “Whoa, you’re right. That’s a total sign of flirting. Good call, SB.”

  Tobin typed on the phone, then sent a reply. He and Scatterbolt waited for a response, staring at the screen.

  “Is she gonna write back soon?” the robot asked. “This is really exciting.” The robot suddenly slapped himself in the forehead. “Oh man, I almost forgot! Orion wanted me to come here so we could head to the police station right away.”

  “Why?”

  “Officer Randy found something. I don’t know what it is, but Orion sounded pretty worried, so it must be a big deal.”

  A BUZZ! came from Tobin’s phone.

  “Do you think it can wait a couple minutes?” the boy asked.

  “Yeah, definitely,” Scatterbolt replied, leaning in closer to get a better look at the phone. “What’d she say? Write back, write back.”

  Forty miles away, Orion was waiting near the rooftop entrance of the Boston Police Department headquarters. The grey-haired superhero was wearing his usual long, red coat, his black boots, and his quiver of arrows on his back. As he adjusted his glasses, he looked down and checked his watch.

  “Teenagers,” he said with a grumble.

  Finally, the door opened, and Tobin and Scatterbolt walked into the police station from the rooftop outside. Tobin was dressed as Strike.

  “About time you got here,” Orion said. “What took you so long?”

  “I was, uh, helping him with his homework,” Scatterbolt replied.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Tobin agreed. “Homework.”

  “Sure,” Orion said, rolling his eyes. “Uh-huh. Yeah.” The old man led the boy and the robot toward a stairway. “C’mon, Randy has something to show us.”

  After opening the door to the police station morgue, Orion, Strike, and Scatterbolt walked into the dark, metallic-walled room. Keplar was waiting for them there, along with Officer Randy Norris of the Boston police department. Seven months ago, when Strike had first begun fighting crime in Boston and its surrounding cities, most of the police officers in the area had looked at the hero as a threat. Some, however, had seen that the mysterious, masked vigilante could be a great help to them, and, if they worked together, the city of Boston could be safer than it had ever been. Luckily, Officer Randy Norris was one of the cops who saw Strike as an ally: for months now, he had been helping Strike and his friends from Capricious, and in return they had helped him solve many cases of his own. For the forty-two-year-old veteran policeman, it was a little strange to be dealing with a masked teenager, a talking dog, a miniature robot, and a superhero that appeared to be older than his father, but Officer Norris was almost starting to get used to it. Almost.

  “The chief would kill me if he knew I called you guys about this,” Officer Norris said, as he led the group through the morgue, “but hell, we don’t know what to do with it. I thought it’d be more of the type of thing you guys would be used to.”

  Officer Norris opened one of the morgue draws; there was a dead body lying on it, covered with a sheet.

  “We were getting reports of all kinds of weird stuff from people down at the fishing ports,” Officer Norris said. “People’s stuff getting stolen, fisherman saying something was eating whatever they caught, sightings of weird stuff under the docks. So last night we went down there and got into a fight with this guy.”

  Officer Norris whipped the sheet off the gurney, revealing the dead body underneath. It was a man of average height, about thirty-five years old, with dark hair. His skin and lips were blue, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “So the guy could use some sun,” Keplar said. “So what?”

  “Look closer,” Officer Norris said, pointing to the man’s neck.

  Orion leaned in and carefully moved the dead man’s head to one side.

  “This man has gills,” Orion explained.

  “What the hell…?” Strike wondered, looking closer. He could see them, too: there were four slits on either side of the man’s neck, a few inches under his ears.

  “Why would he have gills?” Scatterbolt asked.

  “That’s not all,” Officer Norris said. “Watch this.”

  Officer Norris reached to a nearby table, grabbed a pitcher of water, and dumped it onto the dead man’s body. The man’s skin suddenly turned green, he grew slimy scales, his eyes bulged out and moved to the sides of his head, and his nose disappeared. His hair also fell off, shortly before being replaced by a dorsal fin that ran down his neck.

  “Whoa,” Scatterbolt said, his eyes wide.

  “I thought I smelt something when I came in here,” Keplar said. “I just thought it was Randy.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Officer Norris replied. “So you guys know what it might be?”

  “Umm…Tuna-Man?” Strike offered.

  “The Amazing Goldfish?” Keplar tried.

  “Oh, I got it,” Strike said, holding up a finger. “The Piranha.”

  “There’s gotta be a Piranha already,” Keplar replied.

  “Ya think?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “I know what it is,” Orion said, ignoring Strike and Keplar. “It’s a mer-man from Capricious.”

  “What’s a mer-man from Capricious doing here?” Keplar asked.

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be anything good. The only thing that’s confusing me is that mer-men can’t change into humans like this thing did.”

  Officer Norris walked to a computer and pulled up a report on the screen.

  “Well, when it was human, we ran its prints. It’s a schlub named Mike Rossi, some two-bit hood from Southie. Used to sell drugs, cocaine, run a little gambling operation. He was in and out of here all the time.”

  “And now he’s a mer-man?” Strike asked.

  Officer Norris shrugged. “You tell me. He had this on him.”

  The cop handed Orion a piece of paper. Orion read it aloud.

  “Sullivan’s Wharf. May 18th. 10 P.M.”

  “Sounds like a meeting spot to me,” Officer Norris suggested.

  “Thanks, Randy,” Orion said, putting the paper into his pocket. “We’re going to look into this right away.”

  “I also wanted to show you this.” Officer Norris handed Orion a stack of photographs. “People on the T have been calling us like crazy, saying there’s some kind of giant bird-thing down in the subway. One of our guys got these pictures but that’s all we got.”

  Orion looked at the photos: they were grainy and blurry, but they seemed to show some kind of gigantic, six-foot tall crow in the shadows of a subway tunnel.

 
“These two things ain’t the only weird stuff, either,” Officer Norris continued. “Werewolves, lizard-people, vampires...all the sudden, out of nowhere, people are reporting all kinds of screwed up stuff.”

  Orion looked over the photographs. “Thanks again, Randy. You did the right thing showing this to us. We’ll be in touch soon.”

  An hour later, after an inter-planetary jump to Capricious through a swirling, mirrored portal of electric energy, Tobin, Orion, Keplar, and Scatterbolt were in the Museum of the Heroes—specifically, in the museum’s science lab. Here in their hidden headquarters at the top of a mountain high above the trees, the heroes could look over the photos and data from Officer Norris and try to figure out what they were dealing with on Earth.

  “So,” Tobin asked, “you ever hear of a giant crow-man before?”

  “Not in a long time,” Orion replied. He was scanning the blurry picture of the subway crow-creature into a computer. “There used to be a team of crow-like men on Capricious who called themselves ‘The Plague’ about forty years ago, but they’re all either in jail or retired. One of them is in a nursing home in Quantum City.”

  “So it’s not them, then,” Keplar said. “Unless we get a call about this thing stealing prunes and religiously watching ‘Wheel of Fortune.’”

  “No, it’s not them,” Orion said. “It’s something a lot worse.”

  Orion clicked on the blurry photograph, and the image became clear. The creature in the subway wasn’t a giant crow after all: it was actually a flying Gore. Tobin leaned in and looked at the picture closely, and goose bumps ran down his arms. He remembered the terrifying demons called Gores all too well from his battle to save Earth seven months ago: they were about five feet tall and dressed in hooded, black cloaks, with nothing visible in their dark hoods except for red, glowing eyes, and sharp, white teeth. The boy hadn’t seen one of the creatures since the battle, but here was one in the picture now, staring back at him. And, to make it even more frightening, this Gore had something none of the others had ever had: gigantic, ratty, black-feathered wings extending from its back.

  “Crap,” Keplar said, looking at the photo.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Tobin groaned, rubbing his eyes.

  “A Gore?” Scatterbolt asked. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s not,” Orion replied. “Or at least it shouldn’t be. Gores can only be controlled by Vincent. And he’s gone.”

  “For good, right?” Scatterbolt asked. “Please say ‘yes.’”

  “It’s not Vincent,” Orion said with a chuckle. “But that means it has to be someone very close to Vincent, who now somehow has control over the Gores.”

  “Someone who is now on Earth?” Tobin asked.

  “Apparently,” Orion replied. “But it also could be a stray Gore that was simply left over from Vincent’s invasion. There were hundreds of these things, after all, so it wouldn’t be too surprising to find out that some of them survived. Either way, our first step to figuring this all out...”

  Orion put the piece of paper that Officer Norris gave him on a table.

  “We need to check out Sullivan’s Wharf on May 18th. Which just so happens to be this Friday. Who’s up for a stakeout?”

  “I’ll be there,” Keplar said.

  “Me too,” Scatterbolt replied.

  Tobin held his arms up. “I’d love to be there, guys, I really would, but my prom is that night. I know it sounds stupid, but I really need to be there, if I ever plan on having friends again in the future.”

  “That’s okay,” Orion said. “You absolutely should go to your prom. You need to have some semblance of a normal life, after all. Keplar and Scatterbolt can check out the wharf—I don’t want them being seen or getting involved in any kind of altercation, anyway. This is simply a fact-finding mission. They can do that without you, Tobin. You go to your prom and have a great time. I’m sure it’ll be a blast.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days later (May 18th, to be exact), Tobin was standing in the downstairs bathroom of his house and looking in the mirror. He was wearing a tuxedo.

  “I’m not going,” he said, in the direction of the closed door that led out of the bathroom.

  In the hallway outside, Tobin’s mother and her boyfriend, Bill, were waiting eagerly for Tobin with cameras. Chad was also with them, dressed in a very sharp tux, and standing next to him was his prom date, Olga. She was Polish, six feet tall, blonde, supermodel-beautiful, and wearing a prom dress that could very easily cause major car accidents each time she stepped out in public. She also spoke about twenty-three words of English.

  “You have to go, honey,” Tobin’s mother told him. “It’s your prom! It can’t be that bad.”

  “I’m not going,” Tobin repeated from the bathroom. “I look like an idiot.”

  Bill and Chad tried to stifle their snickering.

  “No, you don’t, honey,” Catherine said. “Come out so we can see you! I’m sure you look incredibly handsome. Come on, come out!”

  Tobin opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall, with an absolutely miserable look across his face. Tobin’s mother, Bill, Chad, and Olga all looked him over, and everything appeared fine…until they reached his legs. The pants of Tobin’s tuxedo were about five inches too short, exposing his ankles, his socks, and a good portion of his calves.

  Chad immediately burst into laughter. “Oh my god!” he bellowed. “That is awesome!”

  Bill was trying not to laugh. “You can’t even tell, Tobin,” he said, biting the corners of his mouth. “Honest.”

  “Is it supposed to look so stupid?” Olga asked Chad.

  Tobin pushed past the group and walked down the hall. “I’m not going. I’m not.”

  Tobin’s mother stopped him and hugged him.

  “Tobin, stop it! You look so handsome! I’ve never seen you look so handsome!”

  “I look like an idiot!” Tobin said. “They gave me the wrong pants, I’m not going in the wrong pants!”

  The group followed Tobin into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Chad said, “look at it this way: if the place floods, you’ll be all set.”

  Bill laughed. “Or, if there’s some after-prom clam-digging, you’re good to go there, too.”

  Tobin’s mother slapped Bill and Chad on their arms. “Guys, stop! He looks great. You look so handsome, honey. You’re gonna have such an amazing time.”

  “No, I’m not,” Tobin said. “‘Cuz I’m not going.”

  Tobin’s mother turned her camera on and pushed Tobin near Chad and Olga.

  “Yes, you are going, and you are gonna create a memory that you will have forever. You would regret it the rest of your life if you didn’t go to your senior prom, Tobin—you’ve been looking forward to this for years! C’mon, now, all of you stand together and say, PROM!”

  Tobin stood next to Olga and Chad. He had a vicious sneer on.

  “Prom!” Chad said with a smile.

  “Prom!” Olga said cheerfully, in her thick accent.

  “I’m not going,” Tobin said, looking like a five-year-old who was just told to clean his room.

  But, Tobin’s mother ignored him; with a click of her camera, she saved the moment forever: Chad, looking strapping in his tux; Olga, the giant, beautiful, Polish prom date; and Tobin, in his ridiculous pants, looking like he was ready to play in an old-timey baseball game.

  Three hours later, at the Grand Wellemore Hotel in the center of Boston, the prom for the senior class of Bridgton High was in full swing. The 168 students were celebrating the end of their high school days and reveling in one last, grand party, happily dancing in the flashing lights to the bumping music from the town’s best DJ.

  Tobin, however, was standing by himself, leaning against the banquet hall bar, and sip
ping from a drink. He was miserable.

  A group of classmates walked by, led by one of the most popular students in Tobin’s class, Joey Stern. Joey and the others giggled and pointed at Tobin’s pants.

  “Yeah, laugh it up, Joey,” Tobin called out. “That’s great. Remember when you crapped your pants in first grade in Music class? ‘Cuz I do!”

  Chad approached the bar.

  “C’mon, Tobin. Get out there. You can’t stand here all night by yourself.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  “So your pants are too small. Big deal. Don’t let it ruin your whole night. Jen keeps asking where you are.”

  “Sure she does.”

  Tobin looked to the dance floor; a circle of students had opened up, and Jennifer’s prom date—the dark-haired, handsome, incredibly charming Tommy Evans—was standing in the middle. After he performed an amazing break dance routine that could have won him first prize on any dancing reality show, the entire student body erupted into applause. Tommy—proud, but also a little embarrassed—walked out of the circle and toward Jennifer. She jumped on him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him and laughing, very impressed with his skills.

  Tobin and Chad watched Tommy from afar.

  “God,” Chad said, in all sincerity, “that guy’s cool.”

  Tobin turned to the bartender and pointed to his glass of Coke.