XGeneration, Books 1-3: You Don't Know Me, The Watchers, and Silent Generation

by Brad Magnarella

  “He ain’t here…” He wheezed for air. “They took him.”

  “Who took him?” Tyler asked.

  “Came stormin’ in here … bulky suits and helmets… Trips couldn’t fend ’em off.” Split Lobe’s face was turning plum-colored from being upside down. He continued swinging the knife even though Janis and Tyler were well beyond his reach. “Didn’t see it happen, but Graves … he said they shot him with a … with a laser. Loaded him up … hauled him away. Took some of the others, too.”

  “When?” Janis asked.

  “Couple weeks ago… Haven’t seen ’em since.”

  Janis mouthed Agent Steel toward Tyler, and he nodded.

  “All right,” Janis said. Using her abilities, she pried the knife from Split Lobe’s mashed fingers and set him on the floor. He stared up at her, eyes watery and fearful, as the knife floated into her grasp.

  “Wh-who are you?” he asked.

  “All you need to know is that we’re bad news to people like you,” Janis answered. “If we hear of you hurting anybody ever again, we’ll be back. And next time it won’t be to toss you around. We’ll bring the whole damn hotel down on your heads. Do you understand me?”

  Split Lobe nodded quickly.

  “So you won’t be needing this,” Janis said. Gripping the knife’s hilt, she touched the serrated blade to the floor and stepped on it. The blade bent, then snapped like kindling. She tossed the pieces away.

  “Be good now,” she called over her shoulder as she and Tyler headed for the dining room. She had managed to retain control of herself during that confrontation, but she had to admit something: dragging Split Lobe the length of the lobby, suspending him in the air, lecturing him — it had all felt wonderful. Who knew? Maybe she had the makings of a superhero after all.

  But on her terms.

  * * *

  “This is gonna sting a little,” Janis said, thinking, A little meaning a lot.

  The wound on the back of Tyler’s head hadn’t been too bad. More blood than broken skin, easily cleaned, but the back of his neck was another story. Wild Smile’s nails had flayed him to his shoulder blades. And lord only knew what kind of germs those claws were harboring.

  From her seat on the open tailgate of Tyler’s truck, Janis gave the bottle of peroxide another shake. They had parked in the shade around the side of a Gresham’s Drug Store, and Janis had run inside. Now boxes of Band-Aids, bandages, medical tape, and antibiotics cluttered the space on the truck bed beside her. Janis Graystone, EMT, she thought.

  “Hit me with your best shot,” Tyler said, tucking his chin. He was standing with his back to her, his blood-stained shirt balled up in his right fist.

  Janis squeezed the bottle, directing a thin line of peroxide along the top of the wounds. The raw flesh foamed white. Janis winced, waiting for Tyler to cuss or cry out. The ridges of muscles between his shoulders tensed briefly, but that was all. Janis held a wad of gauze underneath the wounds to catch the pink runoff. When she was done, she dabbed the area dry.

  “I’m gonna use butterfly strips on these,” she said. “But you’ll need stitches. You just need to come up with a good story.”

  “Panther attack?”

  She detected a small smile in his voice. “I was actually thinking bigfoot. Or how about just a falling rake.”

  “Yeah, the rake story works.”

  Gently pinching the sides of each wound, Janis applied the butterfly strips in a line. Then she lathered the wounds with antibiotic cream and affixed some bandaging over them.

  “Not good as new,” she said, “but it’ll get you home.”

  “Thanks.” Tyler drew his work shirt up to his shoulders and turned to face her. “What about you?”

  He stopped buttoning his shirt and, taking her chin, turned her head slightly. With the soft pads of his fingers, he tested the tender spot above her ear. His brow furrowed as though he were examining a delicate piece of pottery. Something in the intensity of his concern touched her, especially coming from someone so raw. She caught herself thinking about the poem he had written until she realized that he was standing between her knees. She coughed and began gathering the medical supplies, heat rushing to her cheeks.

  “I’ll, ah, I’ll be fine,” she said. “Really.”

  27

  Back on the interstate, the old truck settled into its rattling rhythm. The scent of gasoline, which Tyler had found a little noxious the first few times he’d taken the truck out, was now oddly pleasant. Same with the summer air gusting through the plastic vents. But maybe that had more to do with the fact that Janis was beside him.

  He still couldn’t get over how she’d handled herself with those freaks at the hotel. And the way she’d patched up his back? Not too many girls would’ve had the stomach — not to mention the badassery — for either.

  He peeked over and found her gazing out the window, one knee hugged to her chest.

  “So what do you think Kilmer wants with him?” he asked.

  “With Trips?” She eased her leg down. “I’ve come up with two reasons. Either he couldn’t risk us talking to an ex-Champion, or the Program just learned of his presence and wants to tap his abilities. Given the timing, though, I’m leaning strongly toward number one.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “It only makes them look guiltier,” she said.

  “As long as Trips is beyond our reach, they’ve done their job. That’s all they care about. Like with my dad.”

  Janis turned. “Your dad?”

  Tyler rubbed his fingers against his lips. “I buried my dad in the backyard on the night … you know … my powers got out of control. And then I tried to forget about it. The police came around a couple of times, asked us questions. But they knew my dad, knew about the hard drinking. They figured he’d either mouthed off to the wrong person or left town. Either way, they weren’t too concerned. One less screw-up to deal with, you know? Anyway, a few weeks ago, I thought I’d outsmart the Program. Thought I’d remove the remains, put them someplace no one would find them. I’d be in the clear, right? No longer bound to the Program, free to make my own decisions. Only the remains weren’t there.”

  “They took him?”

  “Just like they took Trips. They’ve got everything on us now, and we’ve got nothing on them.”

  “But what can they really do to you?” Sunlight inflamed Janis’s hair as she sat straighter. “Assuming they’d ever go to the police, what would they say? The minute they bring up electricity and supernatural abilities, they’re going to be laughed out of the station.”

  “But that’s not how he died.”

  Vertical lines grew between Janis’s brows. “Wait, I thought you said…”

  “That’s how I remembered him dying. For years. But the other night when I started refilling the hole, I remembered something else.” A familiar flush of acid seared Tyler’s stomach and he swallowed. “Three and a half years ago, my father moved in the bottom of that hole. He spoke to me. He was…” Tyler glanced over at her. “He was asking for my help.”

  “You don’t think you imagined it?”

  Tyler shook his head. “His voice was weak, just a croak, but I heard him.”

  Janis was silent for a moment. “Listen, Tyler. If you don’t want to tell me any more, you don’t have to.”

  But he had to. He couldn’t keep it crammed inside himself anymore.

  “My dad was asking for my help, but I just wanted him to stop talking. It wasn’t that he sounded mad, or even in pain. He just sounded weak. Helpless like. That’s what scared me the most. Before I knew what I was doing, I was shoveling dirt into the hole. Fast as I could. That’s how he died.”

  Tyler stared ahead, squinting at the millions of glints in the highway’s asphalt.

  “Can I tell you something?” Janis asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Only a couple of weeks ago you were surrounded by a lot of gray, a lot of blah. And now it’s…” Her head moved slightly. �
�Thinner. I can see through it. And I don’t see that twelve-year-old boy anymore. I just see you.”

  He felt her lips against his cheek.

  “Thanks for your honesty,” she said, sitting back.

  He nodded, not sure what to say.

  “No one would ever blame you for what you did. Not under those circumstances.”

  Tyler had told himself the same thing but had never quite been able to convince himself of its truth. But to hear it coming from Janis gave the idea solidity, something he could stand on.

  “You know,” she said, “I’m starting to think they don’t have as much on us as they want us to believe. And maybe we don’t need to go chasing past Champions to find the information we need, not when it’s already in Oakwood.”

  “In Oakwood? Where?”

  “Director Kilmer.”

  “But doesn’t he have that chip?”

  “How far can you project one of your electrical spheres?”

  Tyler saw where Janis was going with this. Did he mention how much he dug her?

  “Gonna set up another meeting?” he asked.

  “The minute we get back.”

  28

  Arlington, Virginia

  Late January, 1961

  Waiting required patience. Something Reginald possessed precious little of. He took on the identity Halstead had left for him: a middle-aged white male. He made regular visits to the Humboldt banks around D.C. to withdraw funds and check for messages; he bought a camera. Afternoons, he would wander the monuments, snapping photographs, monitoring his surroundings for tails. He made it as easy as possible for the killer to track and find him.

  After a week, nothing.

  Nights were the hardest. Sitting in a corner of his motel room in the dark, pistol in his lap, watching the door and windows. He was used to being in motion, used to doing.

  On the third night, he began talking to Madelyn. Hesitantly at first, testing his emotions, like someone might test an ice-covered pond in early spring. He described the moment he first saw her in the Champions compound. The way time reared to a stop. How he knew she’d be the only woman he’d ever love. He asked if she remembered the time they snuck off to Perry’s for malt shakes, neither of them daring to call it a date. And what about their first kiss? It had happened during their third campaign, when Madelyn’s psionic blast had spared him further mauling at the hands of an Artificial. On the jet ride home, she had visited him in the injured bay. A fervent embrace had led to an even more fervent kiss.

  As he talked in the corner of the motel room, the occasional specter of headlights washing over the curtains, Reginald pretended Madelyn was stretched out on the bed beside him, listening, but too sleepy to respond.

  The idea soothed him.

  “All the time I thought you had something for Henry Tillman,” Reginald murmured in his three a.m. voice. It was the seventh night of his vigil, January twenty-fourth, and each night he found the words coming more easily. The fears and insecurities he’d never shared with Madelyn in life — never dared to — were becoming his confessions.

  “The Titan. I mean, the guy was in a league of his own. Tossing cars, taking down buildings. Not to mention his all-American good looks. And he was always flirting with you. How in the hell can I compete with that? I’m thinking.”

  He started to chuckle before picturing small waves lapping over Henry’s bloated face. The rest of the dead Champions cycled through his mind’s eye, jerking to a halt with Madelyn.

  For the first time during his late night talks with her, he turned to face the empty bed. Tears blurred the white and brown-striped coverlet. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, not bothering to wipe his eyes. “I should have listened to you. I never should have left that morn—”

  Shhh.

  The sound was a caress in his mind, so subtle he might have imagined it. But he hadn’t.

  He stood. “Maddie?”

  A soft echo: Here.

  “Where?” He sniffled and turned a slow circle. The blanket that had been warming him in place of the room’s faulty radiator fell from his shoulders and puddled around his feet. His gaze roamed the dark room.

  In the rapport we share.

  “But I’ve tried, and I haven’t been able…”

  He stopped speaking and turned inward. At first he saw nothing, felt nothing, but then, like light falling through water, the dimensions of their old space began to shimmer into his awareness. Except it wasn’t their old space. It was dimmer, the memories stored there fleeting apparitions.

  “I can’t see you,” he said.

  Can you feel me?

  For the first time that night, his hands were not ice cold. They pulsed with gentle warmth. He cracked his eyelids, surprised not to see a nebula of white-blond hair, not to find her hands inside his.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I feel you.”

  Good.

  “But how is this possible? Are you present or just a memory?”

  I am both, Reginald. Our memories are microcosms of ourselves. They possess consciousness. The shock of death scattered them, but they’ve consolidated. I can speak to you while they hold.

  “Are you all right? Do … do you hurt?”

  I am in a place beyond pain.

  “Who was it?”

  I’ve not come for vengeance.

  “Please, Maddie… Who?”

  A pause. One like us.

  “A Special?”

  The air stirred, and he imagined her head nodding, eyes dark and serious.

  “Where do I find him?”

  You’ve already…

  Her voice slipped away, as though through a seam between their worlds. The dimensions of their shared rapport thinned, and Reginald feared they were going to disappear from his awareness entirely.

  “Madelyn!” he cried.

  After what felt like a struggle, the space returned to form again.

  I am here, Reginald, but it’s hard. The memories will only sustain me for a time. You must listen. She sounded hollow and distant, like on the night Reginald had been cuffed to the bed, Wally standing over him.

  I see your existence in all directions, like a map. The possibilities branch onward and outward. Now you seek my killer. As long as you persist on this course, every outcome will end in death.

  “I’m all right with that, Maddie. I’ve got no future here. Not without you.”

  They will need you.

  “Who?”

  The next ones.

  “The next ones?”

  In a flash, he saw them. One had fiery red hair. Another wore glasses. Children like he and Madelyn had once been, struggling to understand abilities that alienated them from their peers, from the rest of humanity. The love he felt for them was sudden and inexplicable, like the love he would have felt toward his own children. There were others, but before Reginald could focus on their features, the images vanished back into whatever future existence Madelyn had tapped.

  Gather here what will help them and then disappear.

  Reginald thought about what Director Halstead had said about Specials being a generational phenomenon. What was he supposed to do for the next twenty years?

  Become patient, she whispered, as though hearing his thoughts.

  “Patient,” he repeated. He remembered the morning he had left her alone at the safe house. “You told me not to go,” he whispered into the vibrating air. “You told me to wait.”

  Shhh, love. You could not have helped me. But you can help the next ones.

  “What about our son?” he asked. “Is he…?”

  A caress descended the length of his arm and found his hand. She pressed his palm, then held it to the warm swell of a stomach. The movement beneath Reginald’s palm felt like a celestial tide, strong and rhythmic.

  Remember this, Reginald. Nothing is lost.

  “That’s our son?” he asked in amazement.

  It’s our love.

  “God, Madelyn.” His lips trembled. “I miss you so,
so much.”

  Something brushed his cheek as the contours of their rapport thinned and glimmered out. Reginald opened his eyes. The motel room was empty. A cold blanket encircled his feet.

  He stepped from the blanket and walked to the bathroom. Hands propped on the counter, he stared into the rust-streaked mirror at the glowing whites of his eyes. Madelyn was gone, as was the rapport they had once shared. But the sensation of a faraway tide continued to move through him.

  Nothing is lost.

  “I’ll listen to you, Maddie,” he told the mirror. “I’ll find the next ones. I promise.”

  For the first time in weeks, something like peace enveloped his heart. By the time he climbed into bed, he had an idea what would help the future Champions: the answer to what had happened to the former Champions.

  One like us.

  Tomorrow he would revisit an old friend, someone who might have told him more than Reginald had realized at the time. Much more.

  * * *

  Reginald experienced a moment of déjà vu as he pounded on the door, his face assuming the lines and liver spots of the aging black man who had spent a week at the same address.

  “Who is it?” a harsh voice called from the other side.

  “The police,” Reginald answered.

  “I done told you everything I know.”

  The instant the door cracked open, Reginald threw his shoulder into it. His former landlord stumbled backward, robed arms flapping like a giant bird’s, and landed in a pile of brown shopping bags. He sputtered and blinked his yellowing eyes. When he saw Reginald standing over him, his mouth flew open.

  Reginald aimed his pistol. “Not a word.”

  “I-I knew you was crazy,” he babbled. “Telling people to stay out your room and — and away from your bodies.”

  “Your tongue is making a real tempting target.”

  The landlord clamped his mouth closed.

  Reginald’s gaze roamed the room, which looked even more miserable in the light of day. A riff-raff of greasy newspapers, magazines, and stuffed brown bags lined the walls. A rotten odor rose from the kitchen, where caked dishes crowded the sink and fat roaches wallowed in grease. Beside the window, a wingback chair leaked orange stuffing. Reginald’s gaze returned to the landlord.