A bullet tore through the roof several feet away, and Wu tensed, then made himself keep still. The roof would creak if he moved. Two more shots came through, one uncomfortably close, and the shooting stopped. Wu glanced left, toward the doorway. The man would go outside, stand well back from the building, and shoot him from there. He ought to be coming through the doorway right about…
Wu sprang, twisted in midair, grabbed the edge of the roof above the doorway, and swung down feet-first. The door was just starting to move, and he drove one foot into the boards just above the doorknob. The door slammed shut, his foot burst through, and he felt his sole strike flesh. A man grunted, Wu landed on his back, and he spent a bad moment getting his foot free.
Luckily neither of the remaining cowboys looked back. They were walking slowly toward Dan, guns levelled.
Dan would need help shortly. Wu rolled to his feet and sprang through a window, landing hands-first on the floor and rolling. He crashed into a stool, knocked it over, and came to his feet in time to see the cowboy, one hand pressed to his side, drawing a bead with his pistol.
In a single fluid motion Wu dropped backward and lashed out with his foot. He caught the leg of the stool with his instep and flipped it up an instant before he landed on his back on the floor.
The stool sailed up, a bullet clipped the seat, and the stool crashed into the man at knee height. He cried out and doubled over, and by the time he straightened up Wu was in mid-air. A foot took the man in the middle of the chest, and he crashed backward into the wall.
Wu stepped to the doorway, ignoring the fallen man. It was a solid kick. That man was out of the fight.
Outside, the two cowboys were shooting at Dan. The walking suit had a steel chest plate, and Dan had his arms up to protect his face. Bullets bounced and ricocheted, and the man on Wu’s left swore as a near miss kicked up dust beside his boot. His gun clicked empty and he fumbled cartridges from his belt.
Wu saw his chance and sprang through the doorway, lunging for the man on the right. The man spun just in time to take a kick to the stomach. Wu followed with an elbow strike, then turned.
The last man was backpedalling frantically across the grass, dropping cartridges as he went, dodging Dan’s thrashing metal arms. Dan’s blueprints had crude hands on the ends of the arms, but the machine he wore had blunt steel bars without even elbows. The steam-powered shoulder joints let Dan thrash the arms left and right, and that was more than enough to keep the cowboy retreating. At last he dropped his pistol, turned, and ran toward the shantytown, perhaps thinking he could hide. Wu heard Zhao Bo let out a cry like a hunting wolf. Several men echoed the cry, and Wu smiled as he heard fists striking flesh.
The attack on the shantytown was over.
* * *
“I’m not sure I really did anything,” Dan said later that evening.
“You save me,” Wu told him. “But suit needs weapons.”
Dan nodded. “That thought did cross my mind. I have a few ideas.” He chuckled at the absurdity of the conversation. Still, you never knew what the future might hold. “Maybe we’ll start by rebuilding the suit. From scratch, in a proper workshop.” He gestured at the window behind him, beyond which stood the bulk of the walking suit. “You’ve done a brilliant job working out the basics. Now we’ve got something to build from.”
Wu reddened and smiled.
“The reward money should get your friends through the winter,” Dan said. At least two of the cowboys had prices on their heads, and a third man might have been a notorious American bank robber known as the Montana Kid. A squad of North-West Mounted Police was on its way to collect the prisoners and distribute reward monies.
Life wouldn’t be easy for the Chinese, but the world was in the biggest state of flux it had ever known, and change meant opportunities. They would find a place in the new world that was emerging.
“What about us?” Dan mused aloud. “What will our place be in this new world?” He shook his head. “I was so focused for so long on building this railroad. Making my way all the way west to Gastown. You too, I guess.”
Wu nodded.
“Well,” said Dan, “we could press on to Gastown anyway.” He leaned back in his chair. “It won’t be easy. I’ll have to leave this nice comfortable railcar behind.” He looked at Wu. “It won’t be easy for you, either. You’ll have to help me into and out of a lot of wagons and steamboats and stagecoaches. But we’ll get there.”
Wu nodded again, looking undaunted by the challenge.
Dan smiled. He’d get to the coast, not by rail like he’d imagined, but overland, seeing every inch of the country. Let other travellers drift over the Rockies in airships. Dan was going to see Canada the way a man should. From the ground.
As for when he reached Gastown… well, the acts of greedy and evil men weren’t restricted to the wilderness. He might find a role to play in the big city for a steam-powered walking machine and a kung fu warrior.
* * *
Brent Nichols is a writer based in Calgary.
Black Sheep
Jason Sharp
As escape plans go, it was pretty disgusting.
Before I’d even been sent to the Special Handling Unit of the Joliette Institution for Women, the Feds had known they’d need to keep me away from water. They’d gone to the trouble of building a new wing all for me. It had climate control to keep the interior humidity low. The toilet was a composter with a long drain pipe. I got damp cloth for sponge baths and hand-cleaning rather than a sink or trips to a bathroom. There wasn’t even a sprinkler system for fire suppression— something I’d had my lawyer tackle, but the government had cited some special anti-terrorist law that let them get away with it.
Even my drinking water was rationed out. Every two hours during waking hours, a plastic bottle with a quarter-litre of water was pushed through the slot in my cell door. If I drank it and pushed the bottle back through, it’d arrive again, refilled, in two hours. If I didn’t… they’d wait until I did.
So it took a while to work out how I was going to do it.
Timing was another issue. I had minimal contact with the outside world— TV, newspapers, books from the prison library. My lawyer dropped by every few weeks. Rarely — very, very rarely — I received snail mail from my thirteen-year-old cousin; the envelopes were always pre-opened and, I had found on one occasion, actively censored. But Lucie had, nonetheless, told me — quite accidently, I’m sure — when to break out.
It was the last Saturday of July: the tail end of Québec’s construction holiday, when projects across the province shut down for two weeks and all the workers go on vacation. I had uncles and cousins on jobsites doing electrical work, plumbing, and brickwork, so this was one of three weekends when they could all get together. Lucie had written that Aunt Hélène and Uncle Serge would be hosting a family reunion at their place in Montréal.
Thus, on the last Friday of July, I made point of not using the composting toilet before lights-out. It didn’t make for a comfortable sleep; by the time the lights came back on at six in the morning, the pressure in my bladder was something fierce. I thought dry thoughts and took a stab at the crossword in the previous day’s Gazette, watching the clock.
At 6:57, I finally shuffled over to the composting toilet.
At 6:59, I heard the faint footsteps of the guard bringing my breakfast. I pulled up my jumper and scurried over to my bunk.
At 7:00, the footsteps stopped. “Stand clear of the door,” the guard’s muffled voice barked, and then, “What—” and then came the simultaneous sounds of vomiting and urination. I reached out and called the liquid through the door slot— then combined it with the urine I’d kept clinging to the bowl of the toilet. Darted forward to pop the top off the water bottle and added its contents. Flash-dehydrated my breakfast. Wicked the moisture off the skin and clothes of the heaving guard.
I now had a pool of about 1.8 liters of bile, urine, and water on the floor of my cell. I pulled the solution up in a
thin column and fired a narrow high-velocity stream into the narrow gap between the door and the wall. The liquid cut through the locks in a matter of seconds, and I slammed myself against the door.
It jammed against the guard’s spasming body, but there was enough of a gap for me to squeeze through. Another door opened, and I propelled my captive liquid across the room; the guard coming through the door slipped and fell, and then he puked and pissed himself as well.
In a matter of minutes, I’d incapacitated eight guards and had close to ten liters at hand. Once I was outside, I sucked the humidity out of the air and formed a fog cloud to conceal me from snipers as I cut through the outer fence and fled into the stand of trees beyond.
* * *
I’d shed my orange jumper, so I emerged from the forest lining the back fence of a townhouse lot wearing nothing but a grey cotton bra and matching panties. I clambered over the chain link, poking myself in a few places, and fell down into the yard of an end unit. A quick sprint across freshly mowed grass brought me to a side gate. I continued out, across a street, through a narrow line of bush, and into the back lot of a big box store.
I spied a middle-aged woman in the parking lot loading groceries into the trunk of a little silver Toyota and jogged up to her. “Good morning!”
“Good morning!” she replied, her expression turning quizzical as she took in my near-nudity.
“Any chance you could help me out?” I asked.
Sweat was already beading on her skin. “Um… Maybe… Is there a problem?”
“Well, I’ve lost my purse, and so I don’t have my phone or keys,” I explained as the woman’s T-shirt and jeans darkened with moisture and her face grew pale. “I was wondering if… hey, are you okay?”
Her head wobbled. “I’m… I’m feeling…”
“Dizzy? Here, let’s sit you down before you fall.” I eased her down to the asphalt, leaning her against the metallic green SUV parked next to her car.
“What’s going on?” she mumbled. “I was fine until just a… just a minute ago…”
“I think you’re dehydrated, dear,” I said with a sympathetic smile.
* * *
The Sûreté du Québec cruiser followed me onto the shoulder of the road.
I put the Toyota in park and flipped the lid off the travel mug sitting in the cup holder.
I watched through the driver’s mirror as the cop approached with one hand on a holster. I lowered the window, placed both hands on the wheel, and waited.
“Good morning, Madame,” he said, taking in my state of undress and standing about two metres away from the door.
“Morning, officer,” I replied. “What’s wrong? I thought I was doing the speed limit.”
“Is this your car, Madame?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Well, mine and my husband’s.”
“Can I see your licence and registration, please?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, reaching for the glove compartment. I fished around for something that looked official. “Okay, here’s the registration,” I said, transferring the piece of paper to my left hand.
The cop stepped forward to take the paper. A jet of lukewarm coffee shot from the travel mug, past my face, through the open window, and directly into his nostrils. He doubled over, hacking and choking, and I put the car in drive again.
* * *
Perhaps the three fishermen in the rowboat didn’t see a lot of half-naked women out on the river. Or perhaps they did but didn’t care that I was middle-aged and out of shape. Either way, they waved and whistled as I cruised past, so I smiled and waved back.
At some point, one of them would probably comment on how quiet my outboard was and the other two would tell him to shut up and fish. Truth be told, I hadn’t used the outboard since I’d stolen the boat from a backyard dock in Lavaltrie. I simply parted the water around the bow, pushed it in around the stern, and moved forward.
This trip up the St. Lawrence was blissful. The kind of zen I couldn’t find in Joliette. The heat of the sun was glorious on my skin. The presence of all the water around me was reassuring. The sound of the boat cutting through the water and the calling of gulls was soothing.
As I was cruising past Île Marie, a Sûreté du Québec powerboat passed in the other direction. I waved, one of the occupants waved back. I wasn’t surprised to see a police presence on the water, nor was I particularly surprised when the powerboat made a 180-degree turn. Lights came on, and a garbled voice shouted something about killing the motor.
I chuckled at the irony and pulled the water out from under them. The powerboat fell into the bowl-shaped trough until the gunwales were below the level of the river, and then I released the water looming around the boat.
* * *
It took the rest of the morning and the early part of the morning to finish what had to be done: Get to Montréal, ditch the boat, dehydrate the creepy dude watching me come ashore and steal his pants, liberate some cash from a bank machine, buy an outfit, and hail a cab.
It dropped me off at Aunt Hélène’s house at quarter to two.
Muffled music, voices, and splashing were audible from the backyard, but the front was deserted. Nobody out smoking on the porch, no kids playing hockey on the hot asphalt driveway. The nearest visible person was a woman kneeling at a flower garden four houses down.
I exhaled sharply, jabbed the doorbell, and waited.
The door opened to reveal a pudgy woman with short, curly black hair not unlike my own. She stared blankly for several seconds before finally saying, “Martine…”
“Hi, Auntie,” I said.
“We … I didn’t know you were coming.”
I shrugged. “Not watching the news, I take it?”
“No…” Aunt Hélène hesitated. “I suppose… I suppose I should let you in.”
She stepped back to admit me into the old house. It was cold inside, the air-conditioning sucking a small fortune in hydroelectricity off the grid. “Thanks,” I said. “Shoes on or off?”
“Leave them on,” she said, turning away before bellowing, “Louise!”
My mother’s voice came from out back. “What?”
“It’s for you!” Auntie answered. “Just wait here,” she said to me before disappearing into the kitchen.
Mom appeared momentarily, wearing a sundress and flip-flops. Her sunburned face shifted from curiosity to shock, and then she marched forward until she was practically nose to nose with me. “What are you doing here?” she growled.
“I’m here for the party,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I got out.”
“Got out, or got let out?” she demanded, folding her arms in front of her chest.
“Does it matter?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I got let out,” I said.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes, I am.”
She sighed, her head kind of wobbled about, and then she threw her hands up. “What do I do with you? Do I call the police?”
“They’ll be here soon enough,” I said. “There won’t be a scene, I promise.” Well, more accurately, I’d try not to create one. Couldn’t really speak for the law on that one. I’d embarrassed and inconvenienced a fair number of their buddies already today.
“At least you’re not wearing prison clothes. Where’d you get those?” she asked, pointing at my T-shirt and blue jeans. “Did you steal them?”
“I bought them. Although the money was stolen,” I answered. “Look, I haven’t got a lot of time. Are we gonna spend it all on the usual crap, or can I see my family?”
Her glare would’ve melted a weaker person. “Behave,” she said in a voice colder than the air-conditioning.
I nodded, and she let me slip around her. I pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the deck.
The party deflated as my presence registered. Uncle Serge, flipping burgers on the barbeque to my left, let a patty fall to the deck; be
side him, my brother Maurice glared at me. Aunts, uncles, and cousins sitting in deckchairs or standing around the pool turned and stared. A few unfamiliar faces — the older ones perhaps neighbors, the younger ones perhaps new boyfriends or girlfriends — followed suit, confused. Even the kids in the pool seemed to notice something was amiss, though it didn’t stop their murderball game.
My brother darted forward and hissed, “You’ve got a lotta nerve.”
“Nice to see you too, Mo,” I said.
“Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for Mom just having you here?”
“For her or for you?”
“For both of us, then,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You guys had nothing to do with it. Anybody who wants to blame you is stupid. Now, where’s Nana?”
“Sleeping.” I pivoted on my left heel, but Maurice quick-stepped around me to block the way inside. “She needs the rest,” he said. “She’ll be up again soon enough.”
“Sooner I see her, the sooner I leave,” I said.
“She won’t even recognize you. She’s that bad,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I want to see her.”
“Then I’ll talk to Mom and Hélène. See if we can rouse her for a bit. But if you push your luck, superpowers or not, I will kick your ass. Got it?”
He was practically nose to nose, just like Mom had been minutes earlier. I stared back at him for a bit, then said, “I understand what you’re saying. Lucie here? I don’t see her either.”
“No, I heard she’s got food poisoning or something.”
“Damn,” I said.
“She told you, I take it,” he sighed. “Makes sense. She seems convinced that you’re innocent of everything.”
“You gonna tell her parents?”
“They should know,” Mo said. “Go grab some lunch or something— but stay the fuck away from my kids.”
He withdrew to the barbeque as I ambled toward a picnic table draped in a checkered vinyl cloth and covered with bowls and dishes of various sizes. My cousin Jocelyne and her husband Sammy noticed my approach as they were filling their paper plates and shied away.
Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen Page 19
