Storm Forged

by Patrick Dugan

  I checked the cell phone Reaper had kindly provided. I switched off the GPS; Marcel would be so proud. I dialed the dead drop we had agreed on and left the safe message. Five minutes later, the phone rang from a blocked number.

  “The swan flies low over the pond.” Marcel’s voice came over the phone.

  “Make sure to duck or you’ll get goosed.” Jon rolled his eyes, but no one would ever guess that passphrase.

  I quickly caught Marcel up on what had happened. I told him Pepper had told us to seek out Jinx. I could hear his fingers flying over the keyboard as we spoke. The phone chirped in my ear.

  “There’s her address,” he said. “Give me your cross streets.”

  I ran over to the street sign. “Mint and Stonewall.”

  The tapping continued for a minute. “Go across the street to the stadium and find the ATM.”

  I jogged across the deserted street. I passed the Panthers’ ring of honor, the statues of John Kasey, Sam Mills, and Steve Smith watched as I searched the grounds. I turned a corner and there it was, the promised ATM.

  “Okay, I’m here.”

  “Wait for it…”

  The ATM beeped several times before it presented a pile of twenty-dollar bills. “The camera is off so hurry up before someone sees you.”

  I stuffed the money in my pocket. Having a whiz kid at home base was certainly handy.

  “Thanks, man. You’re the best!” I could tell Marcel had a smug grin on his face even over the phone.

  “Throw that phone into a storm grate. Just because the GPS is off doesn’t mean they can’t find it.”

  “Will do,” I said. “Tell Wendi I’ll see her soon.”

  “You had better, Bruh.” He let out a huge, exasperated sigh. “Her moping around is driving us nuts. Catch ya later.”

  I hung up. She was moping over me. Maybe today would be a good day.

  I called a cab before dumping the phone and went to a low-price hotel nearby. The vending machine got raided. We hadn’t eaten since before we’d boarded the Squid. With Abby and Jon needing to heal, food became a much greater concern. Healing minor injuries at Dresden emptied the refrigerator after sparing; Jon’s injuries would take a grocery store. Everyone got cleaned up while Jon argued the entire time about needing to replace his knife. Gladiator assured him Jinx could provide a more than suitable replacement. Even after he quit bitching, the sulking continued.

  When everyone had finished, we called, from the hotel phone, a cab from a different company. We stopped at a hospital supply store for a new wheelchair on the way to Jinx’s house since Gladiator couldn’t carry Alyx around without attracting notice.

  The small suburban community we drove into was dotted with cars parked in driveways and kids on skateboards yelling and laughing. I watched them with envy. This was the life I had missed out on. Hanging with my friends, eating dinner with my parents. Instead, I had schizophrenic lunatics trying to sell me and my dad’s murder being broadcast on TV.

  The cab pulled up to a small white house with a huge maple tree in the front yard. The walkway was lined with shrubs, and a Carolina Panthers flag flew from the column of the porch. We got out of the mini-van taxi, and Gladiator helped Alyx into his new chair as I paid the driver and asked him to wait, just in case.

  I went up and rang the doorbell while the others followed at a distance. The door opened, and a short, very dark, very angry woman stood in front of me. “I don’t want any,” she said in a huff. “You kids think I have nothing better to do than buy overpriced magazines or waxy chocolate bars so you can go on some band trip, well, forget it.”

  The door slammed in my face. So much for Plan A. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a Plan B.

  31

  So, Plan B turned out to be the same as Plan A. I rang the doorbell again and awaited the swirling mass of energy that was Jinx.

  The door opened. Jinx stood there, arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently. “Did you not understand me the first time?” she said, her voice rising in anger. She looked past me to see Alyx being wheeled around the corner. “Now you’re bringing cripples to sell your crap? Well, if I haven’t seen everything before now, I certainly have now. I can’t believe the tactics you kids will go to so you can get away from your parents. I should call the cops on you.”

  “Pepper Spray should be called snow spray.” I cut her off before she actually called the cops.

  She stopped dead, the energy completely contained behind her eyes. “Come again?”

  “Pepper Spray told me to tell you she should have been called snow spray.” I realized I was more scared of her now than when she was ranting at me.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Gladiator halted the wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. “Jinx, Pepper told him.”

  “Gladiator?” she said, her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Alyx, what happened to you? Lord Almighty, get in here before one of my nosy ass neighbors see you standin’ out here.”

  Gladiator waved off the driver, who peeled out like the cops were on his tail. I cringed. So much for not attracting attention. We pushed-pulled Alyx up the trio of stairs and into the house. I understood now why people scream about handicap-enabled buildings, and we only went up three stairs. We shoved him over the raised door frame with a heavy thump. The foyer held a staircase and a couple plants with a Jesus Bless Our Home plaque hung over the entry into the living room in front of us.

  Jinx turned to Gladiator. “Okay, I’m happy to see you boys, but what in the hell are you doing on my doorstep?”

  Gladiator jerked his chin toward me. “Thomas can answer your questions far better than I can.”

  I gulped. I’d get one chance to talk her into helping us with my plan. “Miss Jinx,” I started, only to be interrupted.

  “My name is Alicia, or Mrs. Reynolds if you feel the need to remind me how old I am.” Agitation was clear in her voice. “Jinx vanished a long time ago. Start with how a youngster like you knows Pepper Spray and a joke I haven’t heard since the day she died.”

  “Sorry,” I said slowly, trying to process everything since she spoke so fast. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Honey, I’ve got all day, but we can at least sit down while you talk.” She ushered us into the living room, indicating we should sit on the deep red couches as she settled on the edge of a recliner. Gladiator stood behind Alyx’s wheelchair.

  So, I told her about Reaper bringing us to Washington D.C. to meet the Underground. How he betrayed us and his plan to sell us to the Protectorate. I told her how Pepper Spray said she was trapped in Reaper and told me to find Jinx and tell her the joke and how we got to her house.

  “Wow!” Clearly, we impressed her, and hearing it out loud, I felt a bit impressed too. Not bad for three kids from Redemption. Abby and Jon grinned as well. We had gotten away from a guy who had killed twelve guards escaping from The Block.

  “You look parched.” She left the room and returned shortly carrying a tray of filled glasses. I hopped up and held the tray while she passed the drinks out. I set the tray on the table and took mine back to my seat. It seemed like years since we’d had anything other than water to drink. I sipped my tea like normal before almost spitting it out. It contained enough sugar to kill an elephant.

  Abby and Jon had similar reactions. Jinx laughed. “First time drinkin’ sweet tea? Welcome to the South.” She settled into the recliner, out of place with the stylish decor of the room, but what it lacked in style, it appeared to make up for in comfort.

  Alicia took a sip of her iced tea. “So, the question is what are you going to do now?”

  “Well, we went to D.C. to recruit help to free Cyclone Ranger,” I said a bit hesitantly. I felt like a fool for having trusted Reaper, and the voice of self-doubt wormed its way into my brain. I could barely control my abilities, let alone take down the elite guards who would be all over Dad during the move. What if Marcel was wrong about the timetable of when they moved him to Vegas? Could we pul
l it off without help?

  “And?”

  “Well, I was hoping that you could help us.”

  She laughed a long loud laugh. “Now that’s rich. And just why would I want to? Cyclone Ranger never did anything for me.”

  A loud crash sounded from around the corner, stopping me from answering her question. Alicia jumped up, running toward the sound. Gladiator jumped to his feet, standing protectively in front of Alyx.

  “We have company, Harold.” Alicia’s voice came from the other room. “Yes, sweetheart, you can come meet them.”

  Alicia stepped back into the room, holding the arm of an older man, his salt and pepper hair thinning badly, but his beard grew wild, almost reaching his chest. He wore a slightly vacant expression as if he were seeing things hidden from the rest of us. His hand reached out to hold something in front of him like a small child showing an item to their parents.

  “Mr. Fix-it?” Gladiator said, shock etched on his face. “We thought he was taken by the Protectorate.”

  Alicia huffed. “He’s my husband, and it is very hard to keep things from me when I really want them,” she said, the last portion accompanied with a glare that cut through me.

  My wound from the glare didn’t last long. I stood in the same room as a legend. Mr. Fix-it designed and built most of the gear and safe houses for all of the Gifted teams, as well as the enhanced teams like Stryke Force.

  Harold returned from wherever he had been. “Gladiator? Alyx? Did the suits not work?” he said, his voice thick with grogginess as if he had been woken up from a deep sleep. “Oh, my. Alyx. What happened to your legs?”

  Alyx didn’t respond. He floated in a drug-induced, deep catatonic state, the shot given during the escape only a temporary reprieve.

  “That wheelchair is awful,” Harold continued, not realizing he hadn’t been answered. “Let me go downstairs to the workshop. I have a prototype you can try.” He wandered off the way he had come.

  A mixture embarrassment and grief warred across Alicia’s face as she watched him shamble off. She turned back to face us, almost daring us to mention anything about Harold.

  Gladiator cleared his throat. “Jinx, what has happened to Mr. Fix-it?”

  Tears welled in her eyes but never left them. “This is what our ‘Gifts’ bring us.” She pointed back to where Harold had left. “That man created some of the most amazing things this world has ever seen, and it has stolen his mind in the process. Nothing, and I mean nothing, comes without a price in this life. His abilities have consumed him to the point where he doesn’t even recognize me anymore.”

  Gladiator hung his head, embarrassed. “I am truly sorry, Jinx. I suffer to think of the pain you must endure.” He glanced over at the sleeping Alyx.

  She turned to Abby, Jon, and I. “You kids think these abilities are great to have? You are stronger, faster, and smarter than all the Norms? Let me tell you, they are a curse. If I could give mine up, I would in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m sorry we’ve intruded,” I started. A siren wailed outside the house, the sounds of screeching tires and men running could be heard from outside.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” she snarled. “Those are Reclaimers out there; we need to get you hidden.”

  Gladiator’s hand strayed to his hip as if he wanted to pull a sword and wade into battle, but we hadn’t gone to the sword shop on the way.

  “Grab your glasses and follow me, quickly,” she said. Gladiator flipped Alyx over his shoulder and moved to obey. I folded the wheelchair while Jon and Abby grabbed up the glasses to follow. Jon even thought to wipe the table with his sleeve to get rid of the water marks.

  “No evidence,” he said with a smirk when he saw I had noticed.

  “Smart.”

  Alicia held the door that led down to the basement. “Follow the stairs to the bottom and stay in the workshop until I come get you.”

  “Attention, the house!” a man’s voice boomed through a megaphone. “Step out with your hands over your head now, or we will enter by force.”

  “Won’t they take you to The Block?” I worried she would pay the price for us showing up on her doorstep.

  She barked out a laugh. “Honey, machines don’t work on me. A bit of Jinx Juice and they’ll swear I’m as normal as any Reclaimer soldier.”

  I followed the rest down, the wheelchair held awkwardly in my arms. I heard a pneumatic hiss and saw a slab settle over the top landing sealing us in. The walls were sheets of steel, as were the stairs. Obviously, this wasn’t the standard track home add-on.

  I left the wheelchair at the bottom of the stairwell against the far wall. There in the center of the room sat a new wheelchair, computer panels welded to the back, wires running to the wheels, and control panels zip tied to the arms. Gladiator set the sleeping Alyx in the new chair, gently stroking his face as Alyx’s head lulled to the side.

  If Santa’s workshop exploded, it would look like this. Wires, computer boards, and tools warred over the horizontal spaces that scarcely could be called tables. Some were disintegrating particleboard on old wooden sawhorses and others, I kid you not, things like Waxenby’s force fields floating mid-air, and everything in between. This is the room where organization went to die. My mom would have hated it; I loved it. Chaos and magic reigned supreme here.

  Harold stood facing an empty whiteboard. His mouth moved, but nothing audible could be heard. His hands clenched and unclenched as he stood there. Abby bumped a stack of computer cases. A piece rattled loudly when it fell to the ground. Harold turned toward us, his eyes glazed over. They slowly focused. “Gladiator? Alyx? Did the suits not work?”

  “They worked fine, Mr. Fix-it,” Gladiator replied smoothly. He made no mention he had already asked upstairs.

  “Oh, good.” He noticed Alyx in the new wheelchair. “Oh, I made a prototype wheelchair. I hope Alyx can use it.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure he will appreciate it greatly.”

  “Good.” He turned back to his whiteboard again.

  “What the hell are we going to do now?” Jon looked irritated. “This was a waste of time. We should have gone back to meet up with the others.”

  “We need help to free Cyclone Ranger,” I reminded him.

  Jon rolled his eyes. “We’ve got them. We have enough firepower to free one dude.”

  “What we need are weapons,” Abby said. “Without an edge, it will be tough to do anything other than hide.”

  “It is too bad Mr. Fix-it is ill,” Gladiator said as he shook his head, his rawhide bound ponytail swaying behind his head. “He would have been a great asset.”

  They were right. We needed to get an edge, and Marcel could work wonders with existing pieces but couldn’t create from scratch the way Harold did. If we could get gear, even if it didn’t work, Marcel should be able to get it running.

  “Jon, do you still have your watch?”

  “Yeah, but the clasp is wrecked.”

  “Give it to me and find some duct tape.”

  He practically threw the watch to me, the knife and rust-colored marks visible from where he had cut off the band. Abby and Jon scurried around looking for duct tape.

  “Man, the world would fall apart without this stuff,” Abby said, raising the gray roll over her head in triumph.

  I shot her a smile. “Excellent.” I caught the roll she had thrown to me.

  Harold was oblivious to me as I approached with the watch and tape. Taking his left wrist, I placed the watch on it, taping it in place and activating it. I stepped back, waiting for his eyes to refocus as the watch suppressed his Gift. Without his abilities, he should return to being plain old Harold.

  The minutes passed, but nothing happened. A hand settled on my shoulder. “Thomas, it was a valiant effort, but it may be Mr. Fix-it is really sick, and the watch can’t cure that.”

  I nodded, but there were days when even your best isn’t good enough. Failure had become my sidekick, always there when I didn’t need it. The day would
come when they realized how useless I am and left me, assuming I didn’t get them killed before then. Their blood would be on my hands.

  32

  Hours passed, sitting idly in the workshop while who knows what had happened upstairs with the Reclaimers. Alicia said she would be fine, but as the day rolled into night, I wondered if it was true. A buzzer beeped at eleven, and Harold robotically walked to a control panel and pressed a button. A George Jettison bed slid out of the wall. He got in, pulled the covers up, and fell asleep, gently snoring within minutes.

  All those hours and he’d not changed at all. I’d have to get the watch back in the morning. I should have done it once we knew it hadn’t worked, but I didn’t have the heart to admit defeat. One by one, everyone else found a semi-comfortable place and drifted off to sleep.

  I couldn’t sleep. My time to rescue Dad grew shorter with each passing day, and I was no closer than the day we left Dresden. We had three Gifted who could fight. Wendi’s speed would come in handy, but not when the fighting broke out. Waxenby, by his own admission, was a lightweight. Gladiator would be helpful, but Alyx’s magic fluctuated with his mental state. Now Jinx refused to help, and Mr. Fix-it drifted beyond reach. In the westerns, the cavalry always showed up to save the day. Where was Clint Eastwood when you needed him?

  “In the holy name of God, what is that?” Alicia’s voice woke me abruptly. From the shocked looks around the room, I wasn’t the only one. I followed her pointing arm to Harold, the duct-taped watch visible from across the room. I groaned; I should have removed it last night.

  Gladiator intervened on the rampaging Alicia. Even though she barely reached his shoulder, I’m not sure I would have gotten in her way. “Jinx, calm down.”

  “Don’t Jinx, calm down me,” she said trying to push past the mountain of muscle. “What the hell is on his wrist? I save your bacon, and you are down here messing with my helpless husband.”

  “It’s my fault.” My face was flaming red with embarrassment. “Marcel reprogrammed the chips from our collars so they suppressed our Gifts if we needed to. I thought it might help Mr. Reynolds to get better.”