“Looks like we’ve got a Kat-a-comb here,” Redbeard said in a low, whispered voice right into Kat’s ear as she woke up, catching his little pun as she stirred back to motion. She stiffened as she realized her danger, and he punched her in the back, a hard fist to the kidney that drove her face into the ground, bloodying her lip from the impact. “Ah ah ah.”
“Ow,” Kat said, a faint gasp in the dark. The light was occluded from above now, like clouds had moved over the sun, blotting out hope with it. She could feel warm, sticky blood on her forehead, at the beginning of her hairline and rolling down her temple as if syrup had been poured down her face.
“Did I hurt you?” Redbeard asked. He didn’t sound sorry. “Good. You should feel it.”
“What did I ever do to you?” Kat asked, her voice shaking more from pain than fear. She’d helped face down the world-ending threat of Sovereign and his hundred lackeys, after all. This guy was a punk with an aversion to shaving.
“What didn’t you do to me?” Redbeard asked, yanking her to her feet, twisting her arm and forcing her up painfully. “What didn’t you and your kind and your friends—what didn’t you do to me?” He spun her around and shoved an invisible hand through her throat. “You took everything, that’s all. You heroes. That’s what you think you are, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a hero,” Kat said, swallowing, as though she could feel the intangible presence of the fist that was passing through her skin as easily as if it had no mass at all, as if her throat were not even present to stop it. “I’m just a—”
“You’re right about the ‘not a hero’ part,” Redbeard said with a snort, his foul breath hitting her in the face. His face was a mess, blood dripping down and making dark spots in his beard and mustache. “But people think you are, don’t they? In World War II, you know how many celebrities joined the army? You couldn’t even count them all, and I’m not even talking about Audie Murphy. It’s not like that anymore, though, is it? You’re all cowards, safely lecturing behind your podiums in your air conditioned rooms and benefit galas and Twitter accounts, and if you go overseas to see how the rest of the world lives, it’s with a dozen bodyguards to protect you from the locals.” He sneered. “How many little girls are watching you now? How many want to be you? They look around the world and they don’t see Malala Yousafzai and look to her for example—they look at you, you hog. You sun-blocking cancer—”
“Sunblock prevents cancer,” Kat said evenly, unwilling to give Redbeard the satisfaction of thinking he had her in any way rattled.
“They think you and Kim Kardashian are the way, the truth, and the damned light!” Redbeard said, pushing her against the sloped wall of the tunnel. “You sell yourselves like whores, open up your lives and present what you do as some glorious version of reality when really, you’re selling them a bill of goods. You and Hollywood, you’re all false, liars, holding up ideals you don’t espouse, your perfect lens and your Photoshopped pictures making everyone think you’re flawless and great when really there are no heroes left out here in Hollywood—”
“Step away from her!” The shout echoed down the tunnel, and Kat turned her head to see Steven Clayton with a gun his hands, standing just down the tunnel, a million gallons of water over his head, a little dribbling down on him like he was filming a scene in the rain. His pants were covered in dust and behind him in the dark she could see a small mountain of debris where the tunnel had fallen in on the tracks. He must have climbed it, she thought.
“Steven,” Kat breathed a sigh. “Where did you come from?”
“MacArthur Station,” he said, taking careful aim at Redbeard. “Back away from her.”
“Lol.” Redbeard actually said, like it was a word. “Where’d you get that? The prop department?”
“I said step away,” Clayton edged a little closer.
“Or you’ll what?” Redbeard leered. “Shoot me?”
Clayton’s features were barely visible in the dark, but his lovely mouth was a hard line. “Yep.” He dipped the gun barrel low and fired a string of shots that made Kat jump in fear, the flashes lighting up the tunnel and echoing with deafening noise.
When the sound and light faded, Redbeard was on the ground, grunting in pain. “You … son of a …!” He was fumbling for the bottoms of his feet.
Steven fired again, one last time, a seventh shot, and Redbeard screamed in pain, his shoulder bleeding profusely.
Kat stared down at him, watching him writhe, the bottoms of his feet bleeding from circular-shaped wounds that tore right through the soles of his shoes. “How’d you know?” she asked Steven, but he was already snaking his way down the tunnel, taking a wide dogleg around Redbeard.
“Move away from him!” Steven said, beckoning her. He was moving steady, his gun still clutched in one hand, the slide racked back. It was a small one, smaller than the full-sized ones she had used when she was with the agency. He picked his way carefully over the rails and hurried down the tunnel. Kat followed him, not daring to be left behind with Redbeard, who was stretched across the tracks, writhing and crying softly in pain.
“Where did you get the gun?” Kat asked, catching up to him as he stopped in the middle of the tunnel.
“What?” Steven’s head snapped around and he glanced down at the pistol in his hand. “Oh. I don’t have bodyguards, and I got a stalker threat last year, so I got a permit.”
“That’s yours?” Kat looked at him in disbelief then turned to look back down the tunnel at Redbeard, who was on his knees now, hand pressed against his chest.
“Yeah, it’s a .380,” Steven said, kneeling down. “Doesn’t exactly have the knockdown of the 9mm, but I was worried about a crazy lady from Fresno who thought we were supposed to be together forever and couldn’t understand why I had a date with Taylor Swift. I didn’t think I’d be going up against a metahuman.” He fumbled in the dark, and she realized he was crouched over Sienna, running his hands over her. He stopped as he found what he was looking for. “This, on the other hand …” he squinted in the dark. “Ooh, CZ Shadow II. Fancy.” He stood and brandished Sienna’s gun, pointing it at Redbeard in the dark. “It’s even got the tritium sights. I’m surprised the government sprang for one of these; I was thinking about getting one after my next movie gets done, sort of a reward thing. You know if she rolls with hollow points?”
“What?” Kat stared at him with her mouth slightly agape.
“Hollow points,” Steven said, keeping the pistol leveled at Redbeard, who was now almost back to his feet, though he was still clutching at himself. “You know what? Never mind.”
“You know what?” Redbeard said with a rasp. “I never liked your films.”
“That’s a really chilling insult from a guy who goes around trying to murder women he doesn’t even know,” Steven said, looking down the sights with both eyes open. “That’s the sort of review that’s going to haunt me for hours. I’ll be taking a shower and it’ll be like a PTSD flashback—remember that time the guy with the crazy red ’stache and beard told me he didn’t like my movies? Way, way worse than that time my best friend died in a crab fishing accident.”
“I’m going to kill you now, too,” Redbeard said calmly.
“I’m gonna fill your feet with enough holes that you won’t be able to confuse them with the marks of crucifixion anymore,” Steven said sharply, “you ginger loser. Your martyr complex is so staggering that the old joke applies—you know what the difference is between you and God?”
“Shut up,” Redbeard warned, standing a little limply, the water still suspended over his head. Kat prayed for Scott to drop it, all at once, just to wash him away.
“God doesn’t think he’s you,” Steven finished. “And Jesus actually was persecuted, he didn’t just fantasize it. You just—I don’t know, maybe your mommy put your diaper on too tight.”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” Redbeard said, his voice sounding dangerously unhinged. Now there was sound coming from down the tunnel, beyond the shad
owed pile of rubble that lay just past him.
“I figured you were actually still wearing diapers,” Steven said. Redbeard took a threatening step forward, and Steven fired a shot, eliciting a grunt of pain from Redbeard, who paused and whimpered before steadying himself. “I have seventeen more rounds in this puppy. How much skin do you think you’ll have left by the time you get over here?”
“How fast do you think you can aim, smart guy?” Redbeard asked menacingly.
Steven fired twice more, bringing Redbeard back to his knees. A third shot seemed to do nothing at all, and Kat realized Steven had fired at Redbeard’s body, hoping to find it corporeal. No such luck. “This is an exquisitely designed target pistol,” Steven said, voice heavy with admiration. “I can fire it fast enough that you’ll be walking on bone if you take a few more steps.”
“I won’t stop,” Redbeard said, tired but with a thin reed of craziness run through it; Kat was sure he was telling the truth.
“Neither will I,” Steven said, and he moved his left hand, something else clutched in it where he’d had it pressed against the butt of the gun. “Want to see me do a combat reload? I’ve been practicing.”
“You’re an … actor,” Redbeard said, thin disbelief oozing out like the blood Kat could see him tracking with every step. “A play artist. A bro from California who couldn’t find his balls if they got served to you in the middle of a plate of foie gras.”
“I’m method, mofo,” Steven said, voice hard. “And I’m from Alaska … bro. I’ve skinned grizzlies twice your size, and they had less shit in their fur, too.”
The sound of faint rumbling in the distance was growing louder, and Kat eyed the water above uneasily. It was just hanging there, after all, and had been for long, painful minutes. Was Scott losing control? Was it going to come surging in any minute now, dropping down on them all?
No … this was coming from further down the tunnel, a low sound like metal on metal, like—
“Oh, God,” Kat said under her breath.
“Yesssss,” Redbeard said, the pain vanishing from his face in an instant, replaced by rough satisfaction, his canines bared like he was a vampire about to feast.
“What?” Steven asked, not taking his eyes off Redbeard, keeping his aim level and steady in the dark tunnel, unflinching. Because he doesn’t know, Kat realized. Because he can’t hear …
That somewhere in the near distance, a subway train was barreling down the tracks toward them.
34.
Scott
Scott was lost in the mist rolling off MacArthur Park Lake, coming off it in waves like the cloud of dust that had flown from the explosion earlier. This time, though, it was a steady rush of humidity, the heat of the Los Angeles day running through the damp air. It was surreal, dreamlike, reminding him of times he’d run through the misting machines that were designed to keep you cool on the hottest day. For him, they had always held an extra power; a dose of refreshment that he didn’t understand until he’d manifested his powers.
“Bro,” the voice from behind him said, “you’re wearing out. How much water you gonna move before you pass out?”
The world shook around him like someone was giving the world a heavy shake. “As much … as it takes …”
“Uh huh. Yeah. This little thing you’re doing here—it’s not going to be enough to impress her. You know that, right?”
The world swam in front of Scott’s eyes as he tried to stare down into the depths of the lake, but the mist was too thick. “Who … what?”
“Sienna. You know this won’t get her back, don’t you?”
The throbbing in his head was like a drumbeat, like someone had started pounding on it with one of those pedal drums, a steady cadence that caused his skull to expand and contract with each hard thump. “I don’t … know what you’re talking about …”
“Sure you do.” There was a flash, and suddenly Scott could see people in the water, like he was watching a docudrama projected in it.
It’s like you don’t even care anymore, his own voice said, dripping frustration the way the air was dripping moisture around him. It’s like you’ve given up on anything but doing the job, putting your head down and trying not to get called on the carpet.
What do you want from me, Scott? Sienna fired back. She was all done up, hair styled in a way that it never was. We have this same argument all the time, and I’m a little tired of it. You made your choice—
I chose to have a life! he shot back, hot indignation pouring out, hotter than any of the other times they’d argued about this. You, though, you’ve chosen to give all that up in order to—to what? Be the world’s meta policewoman?
Someone’s got to, she said bitterly, her arms folded in front of her as if to protect herself from his words.
It doesn’t have to be you, he said, the anger fleeing, replaced by fear, like this was the argument he couldn’t lose—couldn’t afford to lose.
She had a dead look in her eyes, empty of feeling. There’s no one else.
“Yeah, that’s the stuff,” the voice came again from behind him as the figures in the water vanished.
“I don’t know … what this is …” Scott muttered, the pain in his head overwhelming. The air was so thick with clouds that he couldn’t see anything, and the world had a red tinge to it, like blood was pouring out, mingling with the water vapor.
“It’s the past, idiot. It’s the place you’d be living—if you could remember it.”
With that, the clouds opened up below him and Scott could finally see into the gaping hole that had opened up when the bomb had blown up somewhere between the subway tunnel and the lakebed. It was long, like someone had reached in and rent the earth, displacing concrete and dirt, opening a cavity into the ground below. “It looks like an open grave,” he whispered to himself.
“It looks like a fine place to be put to rest, doesn’t it?” The speaker stepped up finally. Scott felt a cold tingle roll up his skin, and it wasn’t from the chill mist that infused the air.
The person who was speaking was himself, dressed in a suit and tie, the uniform he’d worn when he’d worked for the Directorate—and later, the agency.
“In fact,” the other him, the suited him, said, stepping up to the edge, “I think this is where I leave you.” He crossed his hands over his chest like he was in already in a casket, and fell backward into the darkness, disappearing below.
Scott fell to his knees at the edge of the abyss, the pain in his head finally too great to fight any longer. He dipped toward the darkness, losing his balance, tumbling in, just as the sound of something roaring and distant came rumbling along below like a train …
35.
Kat
The sound of squealing brakes was like a knife to Kat's ears, like a scream in the night, and it tore through her with all the resonance of a gunshot. It echoed down the tunnel, losing some of its power at the open area just before them where Redbeard stood, his arms spread wide, as insubstantial as the misty light around him, waiting for the train that was coming—
“Come on!” Steven said, yanking her by the arm and pushing her toward the darkness of the tunnel. He was already scooping up Sienna, lifting her in his arms like the movie star he was, running down the middle of the tracks without a care for Redbeard or what he was doing.
“See you later!” Redbeard screamed as the train bore down. “I’ll catch you! You know I will! Next time we’ll have an audience and you’ll—”
The sound of the train hitting the concrete and debris from the bomb site was unmistakable, metal smashing against tons of obstruction, the echo in the tunnel like a hammer banged against steel, again and again, raised by a meta hand and turned against something that wouldn’t yield.
Kat ran faster than Steven, her meta speed granting her the power to outpace him with greatest ease. She tore off down the tunnel in fear for her life, bare feet slamming against the hard concrete floor. Bullet wounds she could heal. Broken bones she could mend.
A train running her over, though? That was a career ender.
She sprinted even as the sound of the crash started to recede, the tangling sounds of metal splintering, of concrete breaking under impact, of glass shattering faded in the distance behind her. She ran like she had a fire at her back, like it was chasing her away, like there was a flying man following behind her meaning her harm.
She ran as though her life depended upon it, and she did not stop until she heard Steven Clayton telling her to do so from very far behind her.
“Stop!” His voice echoed. It was light, airy, so far away it was almost inaudible. The sounds of the crash had faded, lost somewhere behind the bend in the track. Kat stopped and turned. There were lights on the wall now, still lit, enabling her to see once more. She blinked at the circular tunnel, at the faintly illuminated tracks at her feet. She stared, perplexed, wondering how far she had gone.
Kat turned and looked back. Steven was at least the length of a football field behind her, just coming around the corner in the distance now. He looked tired, out of breath, struggling under the burden that was Sienna. He clutched her close to his chest, and with a last look back, he stopped, setting her down in the middle of the tracks.
Kat ran back, hesitantly at first. What if Redbeard was waiting? What if he’d changed his mind? What if he’d decided he wanted to finish her anyway, was coming back even now to do the job?
Well, then she probably wanted to be near the guy who had the gun, didn’t she?
She ran back to Steven, who was hunched over Sienna now. She felt it when his demeanor changed, when he realized that something was truly wrong. Kat increased her pace, broke into a nervous run, her bare feet slapping as she ran, a sting of pain in her toes. She was leaving a trail of blood behind; she’d run holes in her feet and hadn’t even noticed in the rush to get away.
Kat closed on him, was ten feet away when Steven put words to the struggle he was going through. He was shaking Sienna, roughly, jarring her, trying to wake her, putting his hands on her cheeks and—
Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change Page 15
