First Team

by Robbie MacNiven

  He could hear the sounds of running feet now. He glanced around the trailer’s flank and saw that the Purifier truck, momentarily impeded by another vehicle, had mounted the pavement at the bottom of the street. Cultists were spilling from it, one still standing in the back gesticulating furiously towards him as another raised a rifle and let off a burst of shots. They whipped well overhead, the report chattering back from the surrounding walls.

  Vic ducked back and looked down at Dan, horribly torn. Shouldn’t he stay and fight? Maybe he could buy enough time for both of them to get away? Cause a distraction? But he could tell from the pain in his father’s eyes that he wouldn’t be able to get far.

  There was no time to delay. Supporting Martha under one arm, he turned down the nearest side alley, looking back at his father. Dan caught his eye and simply nodded.

  “I’ll come back for you!” Vic shouted, before turning the corner.

  Chapter Eight

  The next few minutes were a blur. Vic half-carried, half-dragged Martha down the alleyway, his reptilian endurance helping to push him on. The immediate frenzy of the escape had given way to a colder, more calculating mindset. All that mattered was getting his mother to safety, and he now had an idea of how he could do that. He’d come up with it as the first police car had swept past, the sound of sirens spurring on his thoughts. He couldn’t risk going to the station or a hospital, not with the Purifiers roaming the streets and the police apparently unable – or unwilling – to stop them. But he knew somewhere he trusted to hole up, at least for the night.

  At the intersection with the next street Martha’s senses came back to her, and she demanded that they turn around and go back for Dan.

  “He can’t walk,” Vic said grimly as she forced him to a stop. “And they’ll already have him by now.”

  “We can’t just leave him,” Martha cried out. “He’s your father!”

  “He told me to get you out,” Vic said. “Do you think I wanted to leave him behind? We’ve got to keep going.”

  As though to emphasize his point, they heard shouting from the alleyway behind them. Vic hitched up the edge of his stolen robes and took his mother’s hand, running with her across the street just as a police car tore past, sirens wailing. Another pulled up at the edge of the alley. Four armed officers piled out, aiming down the narrow space, their back to the pair. It seemed Fairbury’s small police department had finally found the stomach and the numbers to confront the town’s invaders.

  “Maybe they’ll be able to free your father,” Martha said, a tremor in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t count on them, Mom,” Vic said. “Come on. We’ve got to keep going.”

  “Where?” Martha asked, hurrying to catch up. “Do you even know where you’re headed, Victor?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Just stick close and don’t look back.”

  They turned north after Danboro Street and took a right along Charles Avenue. People stopped and stared. Some called out. Vic ignored them. Right now, he didn’t know who he could trust, and besides, they had to keep going. He knew the best place to stop, and it wasn’t anywhere in town. He kept close to his mom, her hand still in his. She was frightened, he could tell. So was he. Showing it wouldn’t help. It was up to him to get them both out. Once Martha was safe, he could double back for Dan.

  Just as they stepped off Routledge Road, Vic heard a staccato burst, followed by a few individual pops from behind them. More gunfire, but distant. The police? The Purifiers? Maybe both. He picked up his pace, urging his mother to stay with him. She still seemed partially dazed, though he couldn’t tell if that was because of the speed of events or because of the head wound. He’d need to get a closer look at it, and soon.

  Keep going. They followed 38th Avenue north, then turned east. At one point he thought they were being followed, though he wasn’t sure. His every sense was on edge. His scalp still throbbed. He carried on along Franklin Lane and there, finally, were the trees.

  “We’re going in there?” Martha asked as Vic led her onto a forest track off the lane.

  “We are,” he said.

  “But that will take us–”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Martha looked like she was going to argue but thought better of it.

  “I’ve been trained by the X-Men, Mom,” Vic said, trying to reassure her.

  “I know,” she admitted with a small shrug. “It’s… difficult for me to accept that my little boy has been prepared to deal with emergencies like this. But I trust you. Always.”

  Vic gave her a short, firm hug, then carried on. The forest embraced them. It was warmer now, close and humid beneath the boughs. It made Vic’s robes stink even worse than before. They passed a man they knew, Mr Seller, out walking his dog. He called out in concern after them, but Vic just shouted back, telling him to stay out of town. Keep going, he told himself. Don’t stop. He knew that if he did, he might panic.

  The trail led them further east, then north. He kept looking right, searching the forest for a marker, worried that what he sought might no longer exist. He sensed that his mother was flagging. She was damp with sweat, and her breath was labored. She stumbled over the uneven, root-cut track on several occasions, and only Vic’s lightning reflexes saved her from falling.

  “Not far now, Mom,” he murmured, hoping he was right.

  There it was. The sign he’d been looking for. An old red rag, now little more than a faded strip of cloth, nailed high up on a yew tree overhanging the path. One of the gang had pinned it up there years ago, standing on a stepladder stolen from their father’s garage.

  “It’s this way,” Vic said. He steered Martha off the path and past the tree with the old piece of cloth.

  When they’d been kids, they had cut a different trail into the forest at the back of Vic’s house, one that led into the foliage from the other side. The smaller streets and lanes he had taken out of Fairbury had carried them in an arc north-east, bringing them back round to the forest from the north. This was what the gang had called their “emergency exit.” In all their childhood games playing X-Men, Vic had never imagined it would one day be put to real, urgent use.

  There were more rags on the trees, nailed high up to the trunks or fastened around the boughs. Vic led Martha on through the undergrowth, following the hidden route. On several occasions he had to pause to get his bearings – a few of the markers were gone or faded beyond recognition. He would crouch, taste the air with his tongue, reorient his senses. Martha kept any doubts she had to herself.

  After what felt like an age, they emerged into a point in the forest that Vic clearly recognized. Ahead was the black oak, its great branches standing resolute, untroubled by the desperate chaos that had befallen Fairbury. Vic led Martha around to the treehouse.

  “This was your plan?” she asked as she gazed up at the weathered little hut.

  “We need somewhere to stay until this all calms down,” Vic said. “And if I’m going back for Dad I need to leave you somewhere I can be confident that you won’t be found. We can’t trust anyone in town. The treehouse has shelter and food. You can stay for a day or more if you have to.”

  “How am I supposed to get up there?” was all Martha asked.

  Vic was already planting his hands on the bark. He scaled up to the platform and tossed the rope ladder down, testing that it was still capable of bearing weight with a few vicious tugs. He then clambered back down the side of the tree.

  “One step at a time,” he said to Martha as she gazed up at the ladder, a hand on her wounded scalp. “If you feel dizzy, I’ll be right beside you.”

  She took a second to collect herself and grasped the rope. Vic scaled the trunk again at a gentler pace this time, keeping at the same level as his mother as she placed her feet on the first rung and began to climb. It was slow but steady going, Vic constantly on edge, ready to throw out an
arm or, if necessary, his tongue to arrest a possible fall. Martha made it on her own, though, clambering over the edge and onto the platform outside the treehouse. It creaked but held as Vic hopped up onto it next to her.

  “Welcome to the X-Mansion,” he said with a tired smile. He showed Martha into the hut, helping her sit in one of the rickety old chairs.

  “So, this is where you used to sneak off to,” she said, looking around the dilapidated space. “If Dan had told me your gang hut was so squalid, I’d have thought twice about letting you come here after school.”

  “It wasn’t always like this,” Vic said, dragging off and gratefully discarding the stolen Purifier robes and mask. He pulled the hoodie that had been tied around his waist over his head before crouching in front of his mother. “And it’ll do for now. Hold still.”

  He leant in close to inspect his mother’s scalp. It had become badly crusted, caked brown with dried blood. He didn’t want to touch it, not until he had something to clean it with.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked. Martha gave him an are-you-serious look.

  “Like an ache, or a sting?” he elaborated.

  “An ache,” she said. “All the way through.”

  “Do you feel dizzy? Light-headed?”

  “I was,” she admitted. “Less so now.”

  “You might be concussed. We need to get it looked at as soon as we can.”

  Martha sat quietly for a while, and softly began to cry. The sight almost overcame Vic. He embraced her gently, letting her weep into his shoulder. Until that moment he’d been operating on his training alone, treating everything as a problem to be overcome. Only now did the enormity of what had just happened begin to hit him.

  “It was all so sudden,” Martha mumbled. “I was just about to see Dan off to work and we heard the engines outside. They broke in, with their guns and their masks.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all Vic could think to say, holding Martha close. “This is all my fault.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Martha sniffed, pulling away from him. Her face was ruddy and damp with tears, but her words were firm and earnest. “You’re guilty of nothing, my son. Don’t you forget that.”

  “But they came here for me,” Vic said, his voice almost cracking as he was forced to acknowledge the truth. “They must have followed me. I brought all this to Fairbury. You heard the gunshots in town. What if people have been hurt? Killed? What about Dad?”

  “You didn’t do any of that,” Martha reassured him. “That’s the work of horrible, bitter people.”

  “I need to go back to town,” Vic pressed. “I have to find Dad before they take him away. If they haven’t already.”

  “Your father won’t go quietly,” Martha said. “Even unarmed, he fought them when they broke in.”

  “I’ve got to go get him. We’ve no idea what those madmen will do to him.”

  “That’s probably exactly what they want,” Martha pointed out.

  “If you had the power to save him, would you?” Vic responded. “Don’t ask me to not go back out there.”

  Martha said nothing, though her expression remained troubled, her lips pursed. Vic shifted across the floor and pulled up the trap door. “We’ve got food, for now. I’ll need to go to the creek to fill these bottles.”

  “You had all this hoarded up here?” Martha asked as she peered into the treasure hole. “How old is it all? It can’t still be good!”

  “Nonperishables,” Vic said. “Mostly. It’ll be good for one day at least. You can rest up, and I can go back out safe in the knowledge that you’re secure up here.”

  A part of him was still in operation mode, still thinking like a team leader in a training exercise. His mind was already on the next stage. His mother was safe for now, albeit in need of medical attention. He had to find out what had happened to his father. And to do that, he knew he’d need help.

  Despite Martha’s protests, he stole back down the tree with the supply hole’s empty bottles and went east until he reached the creek. He returned and cleaned her wound, dressing it with a strip he tore off his hoodie sleeve with his claws. Then he went back out into the forest. He’d smelled something unmistakable while he’d been outside the hut, something he decided he had to see for himself.

  He took the trail back home. It wasn’t long before he smelled the burning again, this time accompanied by more sirens. The crackling, snarling fury of the blaze also became gradually audible. He realized that ash was falling softly, between the trees, adding a gray funeral pall to the summer’s day.

  As he cleared the last of the undergrowth before the backyard, his heart sank. Even though he’d expected it, been preparing for it, the sight of his home being consumed by flames tore at him. The fire was raging unchecked, firefighters withdrawing from the backyard, abandoning the house to its destruction. Flames were licking hungrily from the windows and from the partly collapsed roof. A pillar of gray-black smoke churned into the sky overhead, casting a cloud of ash that had already caked the forest at the edge of the yard in inches-thick gray desolation. Even standing well back amidst the foliage, the heat radiating off the blaze was intense. He found himself praying it didn’t spread and ignite the rest of the woodland.

  He crouched for a while and watched as his childhood was reduced to smoke and ash. He could see the fire flickering from his bedroom window. The curtains were long gone, and presumably everything inside wasn’t far behind. His old trophies and awards, schoolwork, clothes, books, posters, his baseball bat, his DVD and music collections, his autographed actor headshots. Everything was gone.

  Nearly everything. As he watched, entranced by the consuming work of the flames, he realized he was clutching something in his hoodie pocket. The little toy dinosaur. He pulled it out and looked at it, took in its snarling, ill-defined face and rubbery tail. The unwitting sole survivor of his past. It was at once miserable and fitting, like a savage joke. Two reptiles, outliving their extinctions.

  A crash disturbed his bitterness. He pocketed the toy and looked up in time to see a section of the house – including his room – give way in a bout of flames and heat so intense it forced him back a few paces. Well, that was that, he decided. A cold sense of finality settled over him. He’d struggled to accept that his life had moved on from Fairbury, from his home, from his childhood. Well, the world had intervened, and now he didn’t have a home or a childhood left to go back to. The only thing he could still save was the most important thing of all – his family. He turned his back on the pyre of his memories and headed into the forest.

  Chapter Nine

  It didn’t take Vic long to realize that he wasn’t alone any more. As he picked his way back along the trail back towards the treehouse, the crack of a twig and the overhead clatter of some disturbed woodland bird made him stop and crouch.

  He caught movement seconds later, a shift at odds with the overarching stillness of the forest. Black and white, advancing furtively. Vic immediately shifted location, crouching and moving carefully off the path.

  He tasted the air with his tongue, his other senses catching the hint of sweat and musty robes before his eyes picked up on them. Two Purifiers, perhaps fifteen paces apart, were picking their way through the undergrowth nearby. They were headed parallel to the lane, cutting across the track between the backyard and the black oak. They were carrying assault rifles.

  Trepidation and anger gripped Vic simultaneously. He hadn’t expected the cultists to comb through the woods. He hadn’t even expected them to still be in the area. How many of them were there? Had the police really still not contained them?

  He felt an overwhelming urge to attack the duo in front of him. They had hurt his mother and taken his father. These two looked isolated, vulnerable – while the sight of the sinister black robes, rifles and the grimacing silver masks all conjured up an almost primal fear, observing them unseen proved that they were j
ust humans. Their robes made walking in the woodland difficult – several times one or the other would pause to disentangle himself from a bush or branch – and the fact that they kept having to look rapidly from side to side reminded Vic how poor the vision was through the masks. They had bad trigger discipline and didn’t move with the confidence or purpose that he’d noted whenever he’d reviewed training videos or combat techniques at the Institute. They weren’t soldiers, and while that didn’t necessarily make them any less dangerous, it made Vic more confident that they weren’t omnipotent, demonic beings. Just zealots sweating in heavy robes and bad Halloween masks.

  He let the two pass, certain that the combination of the undergrowth and his chameleon skin would keep him concealed. He refused to give into the urge to stalk and bring them both down. It seemed as though wherever there were two there’d always be more. If something happened to him, who would help his mother? He felt his resolve harden further, decisions forming. He knew what he had to do.

  Vic let them stumble on through the wood and continued back along the path to the treehouse.

  “I think I saw one of them out there,” Martha said when he’d climbed back up into the hut. “He walked through the clearing, but he didn’t bother to look up.”

  “They were near the house too,” Vic said. “I went to check on it.”

  “Is it...” Martha trailed off, catching herself. Vic just shook his head.

  “Houses can be rebuilt,” she said softly, sniffing.

  “They can,” Vic agreed. “But right now, the most important thing is getting help. I need to contact the Institute.”

  “How?” Martha asked.

  “I need a phone. But for one of those I’ll need to head back into town. And I don’t trust many people in Fairbury right now.”

  “I’m sure anyone on our street would let us use their phone,” Martha said.

  “Perhaps, but what’re the chances the Purifiers are still watching them? I don’t want to put any of them in more danger. I won’t be the reason for more home burnings in Fairbury.”