Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  Destination

  The Fog Bastards, Part 2

  © 2013 Bill Robinson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  Call me Simon, Simon Packer. Eight months ago, a man who lives only in my dreams offered me superpowers in exchange for my life, a three year long window to save the world which would close with my death. I accepted the offer, not out of bravery, and even now I wonder if I ever really had a choice. I think Fog Dude, as I call him, might just have tricked me into it. Either way, it's way too late to go back.

  For five months, I did nothing that went right. I damaged everything, destroyed roads and buildings, got a couple drug dealers killed. Desperate, I went to reserve officer training from the Los Angeles Police Department, thinking I might learn something, get connected to homicide or narcotics and have a way to start fixing things. Instead, much to my disappointment, they assigned me to patrol the frakking airport.

  Karma is a bitch. A beautiful young officer named Kiana Perez became my mentor, and right before my eyes she uncovered a terrorist plot to flood the Los Angeles basin with nerve gas. Working together, we cut down the options of a terrorist named Ali, forcing him into a desperate attempt to attack the Rose Bowl game in a helicopter filled with gas and explosives.

  That attack ended with me intercepting the helo 200 feet above the game, in full HD clarity, and feeding Ali to the fish off of Santa Monica. It also ended my plan to keep working out of sight for at least another eight months. The whole planet now knows I exist, and some of what I can do.

  Perez knows my secret, only because I had to save her from one of my bad ideas. No one else has a clue, except my cat Halloween. My girlfriend, Jen Wareman, and I have been having issues, but I'm trying my best to work through them. I don't really love her, but I also know I'm never going to find someone better. She and Perez have become friends, which complicates things too. In fact, Jen cheated on me with Perez, who I discovered is gay.

  What else do you need to know? I'm a first officer (co-pilot) for Mountain Pacific Airlines, where my dad is the boss. My normal flight run is to Kona, Hawai'i. I have every Thursday off, and I spend that patrolling LAX, the Los Angeles International Airport, as a reserve officer.

  I'm also a dumbass.

  Perez and I are sitting in my apartment in Long Beach, it's nine hours since I made my public debut, and I'm thinking I need to go for my morning run. We've watched every news channel I knew was on my cable box, and a couple I didn't, showing the video from every angle and listening to the anchors pretend to explain what they are seeing. He, meaning me, but in my superpowered form, doesn't need to sleep, but I do. Half my brain wants to run, half wants to sleep.

  My phone rings. It's Jen, mom, and dad who Perez and I convinced to leave town without explaining why, but now they have a pretty good idea. I explain to them that I was sitting at home, while Perez was in the command center saving the world. I don't tell them she's sitting here, and I agree to give her their best, and remind her that she is expected for dinner next Sunday. She's become a part of my family, her's lives in San Francisco.

  It's my day off, but Perez is supposed to work. She calls in, and Sergeant Johnson, her supervisor, tells her to take both today and tomorrow off, something all three of us know she won't do.

  At nine, Special Agent Rona Flaherty, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, makes her television debut, flanked by the mayor and Captain Spears, the big boss at LAX whose assistant was in league with the terrorists and was murdered by them. There's a big wooden podium with the FBI logo, on a stage in front of a sheet with the LAPD and LAX logos. A whole lot of blue.

  "I want to start," she says, "by thanking the people who first spotted the terrorists and alerted the FBI and Homeland Security."

  I hit Perez on her arm. "Now you're going to be rich and famous." She smiles a crooked smile.

  "To my right is Captain Archibald Spears, commander of the Los Angeles International Airport unit of the Los Angeles Police Department, whose outstanding officers cracked this case and allowed us to limit the threat that the terrorist presented."

  Perez and I look at each other, then back at the screen. "How the frak," I ask no one, "can he be getting the credit for this?"

  "LAPD identified eight individuals who were smuggling nerve gas components into the United States from Russia. As we tracked those individuals, someone, we assume the person or persons in the helicopter, eliminated them. Four are confirmed dead in a Los Angeles hotel, and the other four are missing and presumed dead. The helicopter used in the attack was stolen from Santa Monica Airport. LAPD action eliminated a key smuggled component, preventing the terrorists from using the helicopter as a spraying device, saving millions of lives."

  That should have been Perez identified eight individuals, with Spears trying his hardest to get her to stop. She and I eliminated the key smuggled component, a brass fitting used to combine chemicals under heat and pressure into the nerve gas.

  "The FBI and Homeland Security have begun an analysis of the wreckage from the helicopter crash, and are working with the Coast Guard to identify and salvage as much of the vehicle and its contents as possible."

  "Initial analysis confirms that VT, a potent nerve agent, was present in large quantities in the helicopter. While deadly, this toxin is rapidly destroyed in salt water, and is currently undetectable off the coast anywhere in the vicinity of the crash site."

  "Homeland Security has opened a dialogue with its Russian counterparts to assure that this incident does not reoccur, and to identify and eliminate the channels through which the gas components were obtained."

  "Of the individual who intercepted and eliminated the helicopter, we know nothing. He has the thanks of the FBI, and on that note, I turn to the mayor of Los Angeles, the Honorable Arturo Hernandez." Flaherty backs away, and the mayor fills the podium, tall and imposing, like the city he runs.

  "Hundreds of thousands of lives were saved last night by the intervention of a man with remarkable abilities. The entire city of Los Angeles, and our surrounding communities, thank him, and, if he is watching this morning, hope that he will come to visit us, and let us get to know him."

  And then its over. The reporters have questions, but no one has any answers. Perez and I watch the video, and listen to the commentators try to explain me. Given that I can't explain myself, it's not surprising that they can come to no conclusions.

  I look at Perez and invite her to run. She gets her gym clothes out of her Mustang, and for the first time I am not alone as I run the beach, past the hotels, and around the lighthouse. We talk of nothing of significa
nce, and get back to my place, sweaty and spent. She goes upstairs only long enough to get her car keys, and head home to shower and change. We meet for lunch, talk about options, walk the mall looking for clothing choices for him (he's a lot bigger than me), while discussing options, and then pick up Jen at the airport. The three of us go for Italian, and we introduce Perez to Sal, our favorite waiter at our favorite restaurant.

  All day long, everywhere we go, I am the topic of conversation. If I thought I had spawned many conspiracy theories before I was mistaken, there has been an exponential expansion overnight. I am from outer space. I am a government genetic experiment. I am an optical illusion. I was wearing a body suit built by someone, the government or Apple Computers. Fuck me, I'm the iPad 12.

  It's all damn funny, except that Perez hits me on the arm every time we hear something new. I'm going to need to change tonight just to fix the bruises again (any injury I have heals when I become him). Jen is no different than all the others, and she spends the evening going through her theories of him, not realizing I am two feet away from her. As we're getting ready to leave, Jen heads for the ladies room. Perez, surprisingly, does not go with her, instead she takes me aside.

  "Air Force, it's tonight or never. You have got to tell her now, or she'll never forgive you. Do I need to glue a couple cojones on you?" Air Force is my LAPD radio code, something to do with me being a pilot. Perez has been trying to get me to talk to Jen, tell her that I'm him, and that I'm going to die.

  "No." I nod and look serious, as best I can. "You're right, you've been right all along. It's not fair for her not to know, it's disrespectful."

  "Good boy." She stops as Jen reappears. We came in Perez's Mustang, and she drops us at Starbuck (my car, named after the Battlestar Galactica character) who has been waiting patiently at the mall.

  "See you Thursday," she says to me, "See you Friday," she says to Jen, and disappears into the night.

  It's 11:30 when we get back to my apartment. Jen takes me by the hand and sits me down on the couch. Something's up, but I have no idea what.

  "Simon, we need to talk," which is exactly what I was going to say.

  "There's something going on with me that you need to know," which is exactly what I was going to say.

  "I know you don't love me. I know you care, I know I'm important to you, but I am not the one you want to spend forever with," not what I was going to say. She stops looking at me, and drops her eyes to the floor.

  "I've been seeing someone else for the past four months." Fuck me, that explains a lot.

  "He's not as smart as you, or as funny, or a lot of things, but he's in love, and that makes up for so much. He and I might have what I've waited for this past year with you. It's not fair for me to hold on to you, when I know that we are as good as we're ever going to get." She's crying now, and still won't look at me.

  "I told your mom and dad this weekend, and they say they understand, but they probably don't. You need to talk to them. I'm sorry."

  She stands up, putting her hands on my shoulders to keep me from joining her. She looks me in the eye, still crying, shakes her head, and walks out the door.

  I change into him, no feeling at all in the transformation, walk out to my balcony, and cry until it's time to leave for the airport.

  Chapter 2

  Perez is in the office the next day when I pop my head in on the way to the gate to fly to Hawai'i. She looks up from a stack of paperwork, gives me a sad face, and says, "She called this morning. I'm sorry Air Force."

  "Me too. I knew this would happen eventually, I've always known she wasn't the one, but we were good together. If I never find the one, I've given away the best."

  "Do something for fun on your trip, and we'll talk when you get back. You're still planning on coming in Thursday?"

  "I'll be here. And," I point my finger at her, "you shouldn't give up on being her friend just because she and I split. I know how important good friends are."

  She smiles, and I go on my way.

  Captain Robert Amos, my flying mentor and friend who's assigned with me today, is almost as depressed by the story as I am, he being among the millions of people who thought Jen was the perfect woman. He spends five hours giving me advice on how to get her back. I try to explain that it would take love to win her heart, and I for whatever dumbass reason have never been able to find it.

  Instead of doing something new and different, I do someone new and different. The captain and I take two of the flight attendants golfing after we arrive, and I take one of them to bed when we get back to the hotel. She stops me part way through, asks me what's wrong, and we spend an hour or so talking about men and women, then we go ahead and finish. When you don't understand yourself, how can you possibly ever understand someone else? She leaves when we're done, letting me know that I should call her if I ever get my shit together. Given that I have 887 days or less, that's not likely to happen.

  I look for Jen when I get back to dispatch Wednesday night, despite knowing she won't be there. I drive to Anaheim where I hide my car next to a hotel whose parking lot does not have cameras, walk behind the Chinese restaurant next door, strip to my black, stretchy, cool looking underwear, and change. Since that day eight months ago, the light has lived inside me. If I grab hold of it and say a word, any word with intention, I change into him. The transition is usually exciting, almost better than sex. When I'm done, I use my feet to grab some molecules, take their energy, and fly off northeast toward downtown LA.

  It's been a week since I blew out 100 windows rescuing Perez from Ali and I want to revisit the scene of the crime, or crimes. There is a plywood jungle holding the buildings together, not quite every other window covered by a sheet of the brown gnarly stuff. My fault, but under the circumstances, I'd do it all over again.

  Floating above the city, I consider whether I could realistically do anything to aid the repairs, but quickly conclude that answer is no, on top of the fact that now that people know I exist, it won't be long before they start trying to sue me to fix the windows that they assume I have broken. Better not to take the blame or credit or whatever.

  Despite it being January, it was a warm day in LA, warm enough to rival Kona, though I don't feel it in my altered state. Unless he's a couple thousand degrees hot, everything just feels cool. Gently, so as not to disturb the plywood or any windows that might be thinking about dashing themselves on the pavement below, I turn and push eastward.

  My two favorite bank buildings loom ahead, both sporting lots of brand new glass as well on my account, though it has been a while since I damaged either one. I have the being watched feeling, now a normal part of my repertoire for downtown, but with a slight edge, and it's coming from the BofA building. There's someone on the roof, watching and waving at me, my normal human eyes telling me little else from this distance in the dark.

  Probably should have turned and burned the other way, but without the need for secrecy, I am curious to learn why this person gives me that extra little tingle. When I get within 100 feet, I know exactly why. It's Celeste Nortin, sportscaster of my dreams, intelligent, tall, blonde, beautiful, well built, Celeste Nortin, she of the sidelines and the object of my early morning television lust.

  Fuck me. Why couldn't I have worn my entire cool looking flying gear? Why couldn't I have made the boots work? (I bought motorcycle outfits to use as supersuits, only to discover that they burn up at high speed, and shoes block my ability to fly). Why am I once again about to screw up a once in a lifetime event? I try to land cool.

  For eight months, I have had the power to fly, and yet it never occurred to me that I should have set up a big mirror somewhere to practice looking cool when I land. Perez thought I looked cool staring down the helicopter, and maybe I did, but that was accidental cool, no way to practice it. I've landed a thousand times, by now I should be an ace at making it cool.

  At least I finish on my feet, bare though they may be, and not on my ass. She walks to me, better looking in
person than on television, leaner, firmer in all the right places, wearing a bright yellow top and a short black skirt. She has no camera, and I don't see anyone else, but that doesn't mean it's not out there. She's taller than I thought too, only a few inches shorter than him, maybe even taller than me. The first question leaves her mouth when she stops no more than two feet in front of me.

  "What's your name?"

  I must have my usual stupid look on my face, though I get an answer out quickly, she is looking at me like I'm an idiot.

  "Not telling. Even you."

  "So you're just the mysterious flying man."

  "That's me, MFM, the Mysterious Flying Man."

  "OK, are you from outer space?" She's got a laughing look on her face when she asks that one, so I'm sure she doesn't believe it.

  "No, born and raised on planet Earth, though I'm not saying where."

  She steps closer to me, a foot away now, so close I could see every imperfection in her face, but there aren't any. No doubt in my mind, she's that close to try and make me breathe hard and it's working. Just have to remember to keep my answers short and say nothing. No matter how much I might want to make her like me.