No Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  But it doesn’t come.

  The Progeny kicks free of Ilsa’s body, kicks free of the corpse. It is moving. Still whole. My shot didn’t have the angle of Kayla’s sword blade. It didn’t hit hindbrain, where the thing nests, squirms, and roots. It didn’t get it when it was corporeal, when it was nesting. I killed the host but not the Progeny. I set it free.

  18

  I open fire again but my bullets fly through the Progeny’s transparent body. It’s like shooting at air.

  Olsted howls again. His eyes scan the devastation of his home. He looks at me, at the gun I hold. There’s murder there. Of course there’s murder there. He just witnessed murder. I just murdered his daughter. Oh shit. I just murdered... Oh shit.

  Before Olsted can react, before he can spit me on some pole of magical spite, the Progeny moves. It lances through the air toward the old man. The speed is incongruous from its fat body. The tendrils spear forward. It heads straight for Olsted’s skull.

  The old man flings up an arm and there is a crack like a lightning strike. Every hair on my body stands on end. I can feel warm air blowing over me, as if an oven door has been opened.

  The Progeny stops. It hangs in midair, mouth tendrils and tail thrashing. Olsted stands, his hand outstretched, as if holding it in place.

  No, that’s wrong. Actually holding it in place.

  Beside me, the remaining beast snarls. It turns. It leers at the small white creature. It flexes scissor-blade claws. Then it moves.

  The Progeny does too. Suddenly jagging left. The beast and Progeny careen toward each other.

  “No!” Clyde screams, but I can’t see what he’s frightened of. All our enemies are fighting each other.

  And then the Progeny glides through the outstretched claw of the beast and slams straight into its chest.

  The beast stops moving. Shudders.

  The cat. The cat is still in there. In the heart of it. The cat has a brain. Has a hindbrain. Has a place for the Progeny to nest.

  “Run!” screams Clyde.

  Which seems like such a remarkably good idea, I’m already doing it.

  The massive metallic cat hurls itself at Olsted as I hurl myself at the door. The grimoire is lying on the floor, discarded in the chaos. I reach down, grab it, as the infected beast slams into some invisible wall between it and Olsted. Its claws scrape down the air as if against a chalkboard. Olsted flings out another hand. Something explodes. The beast wheels away, claws dicing the air.

  I’m down, running crouched over. Like a roadie at a rock concert. The grimoire is clutched to my chest. A steel foot mashes down on the floor beside me. I fling myself back. I spin. I run.

  I am upside down, or sideways, or falling. Coffee tables are exploding into splinters. Somehow I’m in the kitchen now, behind a counter, now a line of cabinets. There is a snarling gnashing from the middle of the room. I pop up, fire randomly, hit nothing. I see Clyde running for the doorway. I run after him.

  Out in the hallway. Look left. Look right. A sound like a train disaster behind us. Left. Right. The elevators. We run. Feet pounding over the carpet.

  And the elevator doors are opening as Clyde and I sprint toward them. They slide apart. The doorman is standing there. Concerned. Confusion on his face. He sees us. Reaches for a gun.

  My fist flies out before his catches the handle. Adrenaline has taken over. I’m holding the pistol. Cold-cock him right on the side of the head. My hand sings with pain. He staggers back, into a wall. I grab him by the collar. Knee to groin. Hurl his doubled-up body out into the hallway. The elevator doors slide shut.

  My breath comes in ragged bursts. Clyde is on his knees whimpering.

  Kurt Russell is a terrible, terrible role model.

  The sounds of chaos fade above us.

  Going down.

  19

  “A complete and utter shambles.”

  It’s not depressing to hear the words because we failed but because we failed again.

  “A disaster.”

  Shaw is shaking her head. Tabitha, Clyde, and I are lined up in front of her. Another bollocking. Only Kayla is missing this time. Can’t blame her.

  “Now,” Shaw paces back and forth, “the idea was that, by taking Kayla off the team you three would learn to work better together, correct?”

  The silence is long and awkward. Finally we all seem to realize she actually wants an answer.

  “Yes,” Clyde mumbles. Tabitha and I mm-hm our responses.

  “How would you say that went?”

  She’s not as pissed as I expected, just tired-looking. Disappointed.

  “Not as well as hoped,” I finally say into the gaping silence.

  Shaw nods solemnly. “Yes,” she says. “Punching Clyde in the face was probably a good sign you’d derailed.”

  Part of me wants to argue about how unfair that is. Part of me wants to say that the plan had already gone awry at that point. That no, it wasn’t probably the best decision, but I was dealing with an evolving situation. Except, I was meant to be in charge. I’m where the buck stops.

  “We got the book,” I say. It sounded like a repudiation in my head, it sounded like a whine out in the wild.

  “Yes.” Shaw nods. “The minimum bar for success, but you did do that.” Again she sounds tired. She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know.” She looks up at us. Smiles. Grimaces. Shakes her head. “Just find out what it tells us,” she says. “Make this worthwhile.”

  Tabitha and Clyde scurry away, Clyde snatching the grimoire off the table. Shaw and I are alone in the room. She looks at her watch.

  “Not as well as hoped?” She shakes her head again. She looks at her watch. “We’ll talk about this later,” she says. “I have to be somewhere.” And then she leaves and I’m alone.

  I stand for thirty more seconds, stare into space, then find a chair and sag. Head to table. This again. Here again. Messing everything up again. Wasn’t I a competent policeman a few days ago? Wasn’t I good at my job?

  Yes. Yes I was. That perks me up a bit. I was good at something once.

  I am not good at this. This is stumbling from disaster to disaster. And I know the life of a little girl is on the line, I know that. But I think the really responsible thing to do is to put those lives in the hands of someone who can actually do something to save them.

  I don’t need to wait to have a talk with Shaw. I need to just quit.

  There’s something liberating in the thought. Which in turn makes me feel guilty. But knowing someone else will be dealing with this makes me happy. Some competent military intelligence ninja bastard, to quote Swann. It’ll be nice to go back to working with her.

  It takes me a while to get to Shaw’s office because, I realize only after embarking on my journey to it, I don’t actually know where it is. Yet another indication that quitting is the right idea. And I open doors onto a lot of empty and dusty rooms, and even find out where the library is, before I finally find a door labeled “Section Director.”

  It’s open slightly, and I hear voices, but I’m so excited by the idea of getting out of here that I don’t want to delay. Anyway, resigning shouldn’t take long, and the quicker the better. Then, my palm about an inch from the wood, I hear my name.

  “—really even need this Wallace guy? The local police force is screaming that someone in the government stole their man without even asking.”

  It is not Shaw’s voice. It is a whiny, nasal voice. Too close to nails scratching a chalkboard to be comfortable to listen to.

  “Is this a joke, Robert?” The tiredness in Shaw’s voice has been ratcheted up a notch even from the conference room.

  “No, it’s not a joke, Felicity,” says the whiner, Robert. “You know full well your department is out of favor. The government has ambitious plans and it is looking to cut. And after the stunt on Cowley Road you are looking like a good place to find a little spare change. So, is Wallace necessary?” “There are creatures, Robert—” Shaw
sounds like she’s burning through her last gallon of gas “—looking to destroy the entirety of creation. To stop this, I have three agents I can send out into the field. Two are glorified researchers, a chemist from Cambridge with a surprising aptitude for thaumaturgy and a serious case of nerves.” I don’t feel good matching Clyde to that description but it seems to fit. “The other is just as smart but more eloquent with her middle finger than with anything else.” Tabitha. “And the third, while she fell into our hands with superhuman abilities, has several serious psychoses you tell me I can’t afford to have treated.” Kayla’s easy to spot. But this diatribe doesn’t make me feel good about what I’m going to hear about myself. “And now, I finally manage to get half a grip on someone who actually seems competent, someone who knows how to run an investigation, someone who may be able to save the life of a girl who you know has saved many lives herself, someone who I can actually trust to herd the cats I have running around out there, someone who was quick-witted enough to actually get a new grimoire into the agency out from under the nose of an actual Progeny, and you want to take him off my hands? So I repeat, are you having a joke at my expense, Robert?”

  I just stand there. Because... No, I still need a minute.

  I did good? After all that...

  Holy shit. I did good. I got the grimoire. When Shaw’s telling it, I’m the hero of the piece.

  And maybe I owe Kurt Russell an apology

  My hand still hangs in front of the door. In the office, silence hangs.

  Then, Robert’s nasal whine cuts through whatever moment it is we’re having.

  “So, if Wallace is in, who can we cut?”

  Shaw sighs deep and loud and long. I slowly back away from the door.

  TEN MINUTES LATER

  I sit in an empty conference room and try and work out what I’m doing. My watch says ten in the a.m. Clyde and Tabitha are researching ancient tomes, and I don’t know what I can do to help. Shaw is... I don’t know what Shaw is doing.

  I need to get my head straight. I’m either in this game or I’m not. And it sounds like... God, it sounds like I’m in. No easy way out. No making this someone else’s problem. No working with Swann. I’ve got a little girl to save.

  And if I’m going to save her, I really need to be in this game. I need to know what I’m doing. I need to understand this world I’m in. I need to stop just reacting. I need to commit. Learn this world. Learn its minutia.

  Except it’s a whole new world to learn. Where do you learn about a new world?

  Basics. I need to start with the basics. I need to start with the girl I’m meant to save.

  A BRIEF ELEVATOR RIDE LATER

  The saltwater smell of their pool hits me as soon as I step off the elevator. In the glare of the pool lights, the shadows of cephalopods play on the room’s ceiling.

  “Hello, Detective Wallace,” calls a voice.

  “Agent Wallace,” corrects the other. The acoustics of the room make the words bounce hollowly around.

  “I know.” There is laughter and splashing.

  “Hello, girls.” I kneel by the edge of the pool. They swim over. Quick efficient strokes. Beaming faces surface.

  “Hello,” says one, Ephie maybe. “Agent Wallace,” she adds. Both girls dissolve into giggles, submerging beneath a web of wriggling tentacles. Still not used to that.

  They surface with little gasps of breath. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” asks the one who may be Ophelia. She performs a small, aquatic curtsey.

  And what is there to say? What do I ask them? How can I ask the best way to stop one of them from dying?

  “Erm...” I say. I stare at them. “I suppose,” I say, “I was wondering... Is there an easy way to tell you apart?”

  “Of course,” says the maybe-Ephie.

  “Our names!” says the other.

  More laughing. More splashing. I laugh too. It’s nice to know there are still laughs on this job.

  “Seriously,” I say when they finally settle down. “Is there?”

  “Yes,” says one.

  “Freckles,” says the other.

  “Two,” says the first pointing to two brown specks on the right corner of her jawline.

  “Three,” says the other, pointing to the same spot. And sure enough there is a rough triangle of three freckles there.

  “Ophelia,” says the first.

  “Ephemera,” says the second.

  Which of course means I had them backwards. But that’s why I’m doing this. Learning. Understanding the basics. Easier to save them when I know who they are.

  “It’s OK,” says Ophelia, abruptly serious. “We think you’re doing a good job.”

  I look at them both. The giggles are gone. Two serious little girls. Old beyond their time. But there is a stillness to them, a confidence.

  “So does Shaw,” says Ephie. “Don’t worry so much.”

  I look at them. And it’s right there—they do trust me. Which is an insane responsibility. It’s a responsibility like a weight on me. But at the same time... someone here has confidence in me. They may only be ten, but, still, they trust me.

  “Twelve,” says Ephie.

  “What?”

  “We’re twelve,” she says.

  I smile. I shake my head. It doesn’t stop. But here and now, for the first time, I really think I can handle it.

  “How come,” I ask, “you two aren’t the prune-iest two people in the world? Seriously, you should both look like Mother Teresa by now the length of time you’ve been in there.” And then there’s laughter again, and splashing, and I don’t know if they really feel better about things or not, but I actually do.

  I check my watch again as I head up in the elevator. Still not lunchtime. And I feel like doing something. I feel like my feet are on the ground again. Like I can achieve something.

  What would Kurt Russell do?

  A stupid thing to think, but it brings a grin to my face.

  I think I’ll swing by Olsted’s place. Just in the car. Scope things out. There’s not much of a chance of learning much, but I don’t see how it can hurt anything.

  THIRTY MINUTES AND TWO MILES LATER

  I see the smoke from a mile away, a dusty dispersing cloud. My stomach starts sinking about half a mile away. A quarter of a mile and I almost turn the car around just so I don’t see what happened, but I keep going in the blind hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a pizza place right next to Olsted’s building and they just happen to have left the oven on too long.

  As it turns out, confidence and coincidences are not going hand in hand today.

  I pull up where the police tape marks off the end of Olsted’s street and stare up at the smoking ruin that is the top floor of the building.

  It wasn’t us. It almost seems unfair. This really wasn’t our fault. When we left the place was whole. This was that damned Progeny. And Olsted. Damn him too.

  We got the book. But I’m beginning to worry we missed the ball.

  20

  It feels important I find out what happened here, but I want to avoid awkward questions with old co-workers. They’ll have too many questions I can’t answer. I’m about to turn the car around and try and catch Shaw before she checks the local news, when I spot a familiar blond head amongst the crowd. I pull out my cellphone. Press the number three.

  I’m sure Swann would be fine with the fact I put her on speed dial. She patted my hand. A whole number of times. And it’s not about that anyway. I just don’t have many people I call regularly. My parents in Australia—as infrequently as possible—and the front desk back at the force. That’s about it. That’s why she got number three. No other reason.

  I can see her pick up. “One street west, two minutes,” I say. She looks up, looks around and I duck back into the car. But, she watches me pull away. Because she’s a good policewoman.

  ONE STREET WEST AND TWO MINUTES LATER

  “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for this.” Swann’s expression i
s half smiling until she sees my expression.

  “Oh shit, Boss.”

  Apparently I still have to work on playing things cool.

  “No.” I hold my hands up. “Really. I promise. This wasn’t my fault.”

  “So it was an accident? Tell it to the judge, Boss.” She’s joking but the smile is getting smaller.

  “Last time I was here, this place was completely intact.”

  “When were you last here?” There’s an edge to her voice. She’s not quite interrogating me, but it’s close. This isn’t going quite how I wanted.

  “Last night.” I sound sheepish. I’m not making things better.

  “Talk to me, Boss,” she says.

  We exchange a look. I chew my lip, she chews hers. Then she laughs. “Come on, Arthur, Boss, please. Give me a break. I just... I don’t know what happened here. I know you can’t talk much about what you’re doing now, but can you give me something? You have an idea about how this happened?”

  I picture the scene when we left. The whole magician fighting an alien-possessed giant metal cat-monster thing. How do I explain that? Do they make straitjackets in my size?

  “What do our guys... your guys think caused it?” I say, dodging the question.

  “There was some sort of detonation,” she says, looking back over her shoulder toward the slowly drifting smoke haze. “Looks directed. Almost no damage going downwards. All out and up. Took off the roof of the place and flattened a chunk of the walls. No flame that we can tell of from the blast. Just the shockwave itself. Which makes no sense. But then, with the walls down you’ve got all sort of pipes exposed. Water, electricity, gas—bad combination. But the initial blast has us stumped.” She raises an eyebrow expectantly.

  “What about the guy who lived there?”

  “Come on!” Swann throws her hands up. “Give me something, Boss, Arthur. Come on, we’re friends. Answer a question.”

  “I want to tell you. I want to. I do.” I’m almost pleading. “I’m trying to find something.” I take a step toward her. I almost take her hand. “You are my friend. I don’t want to...” I almost say I don’t want to screw her, but my brain balks at that wording, too close to too many other things I don’t know how to say. “I don’t want to mess you around. I want to help. Help me help you.” It sounds like a line, like some bullshit a TV spy would tell someone before he shot them in the back. And I hate it. Because I can’t think of anything I could possibly tell her.