“What?” I ask as I push past some little emo kid and his instrument case while he whines to mommy about how the band doesn’t recognize his existence as having worth. With more than a little difficulty, I resist the urge to tell him that it only gets worse from here. Hell, one day he’s gonna be sitting in one of these shitty chairs, listening to a group of people dumber than thumbtacks telling him about chocolate sales while his kid cries about not being important. You know what? Knowing that is reward enough.
“We can’t have just one night?” Gina asks.
“I just wanted some quiet. Is that so bad?”
“You were flirting with Monica!”
“Nope. Getting her to shut people up. It was worth a few bucks.”
Her response is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Football Dad, planting himself in front of us and squaring his shoulders so he looks more intimidating. I can imagine that some pencil-necked little fourth grader might well have a problem dealing with him.
“Yeah?” I say. I sound a little impatient, mainly because I am.
He stares down at me, as if I’m going to psychically glean the information from his tiny brain. I sigh and nod as if he has passed on some sage wisdom, and then make to go around him. He side steps directly into my path, still looking at me as though he has some kind of authority over me. It would be so easy to just grab him by the collarbones and rip him open like a pack of cookies, but I did tell Gina I would behave.
“You wanna move, or did you come over here to hump my leg?” I ask.
“You some kinda sicko?” he asks in return.
“Nah, I ain’t sick. Just got a headache.”
“Not sick. A sicko. Like one of them predators from off the TV? I seen you give money to that girl. You one of them pred-a-philes?” he demands, stumbling over the last word.
“It’s just money, man. I’ve got more. In fact, I’ll give you a hundred just to fuck off out of my face right now.”
The intake of breath is audible even over the rest of the crowd noise. He reaches out a fat, calloused finger, obviously intending to do that thing big men like to do where they poke you in the chest. I can already see the incensed words about to be said, but the hand is moving. It seems to be drifting in slow motion as my senses kick into hyperdrive.
All the sound becomes a cacophonous blur. I can smell everyone in the room at once. The pheromonal taste of all of them invades my mouth and deposits itself on my tongue as he gets a few inches closer. I’m revved and jazzed, out on the pointy end before I even recognize the shift.
Stiffened fingers jab into his triceps and a quarter-second later, I’ve batted the arm away from me so that he is now pointing at some random person in the crowd. Before the pain can even register in his nerves I’m inside his reach. If he was anyone of any consequence it might get messy here. Eyes first, then maybe rip open the throat or tear off a lip. I’m not going to start a blitz at Georgina’s school, though, and certainly not for this mutt. I’m half tempted to jump away screaming that he kissed me. That’ll ruin his rep in a heartbeat, and at no real cost.
I know Gina is going to see what I do and it takes off the edge of my anger a little bit. I step aside and let momentum do the rest. Captain Football (retired) stumbles, his hand still reaching out and then recoiling as the sharp pain in his triceps hits home. His foot catches on my boot and he tumbles forward toward the floor. I whirl and snap out a hand, grasping a fistful of the overpriced shirt, and pull him up, arresting the downward plunge an eyeblink before he would hit the floor.
“Gotta watch it there,” I say. “That first step is a real bitch.”
I pull him back to his feet and leave him standing there, wondering what happened while everyone stares at him. Adding to his embarrassment, I wink aggressively at him before stepping away.
“C’mon,” I say to Gina. We start for the door once again. I can hear the exasperation in her voice when she tells me how I embarrassed her yet again. It never fails. I could have sent him home with his lungs in his lap and I wouldn’t have lost any sleep, but when I try to restrain myself I’m embarrassing.
I can still taste the foul reek of hundreds of kids when we get outside. I breathe the fresh night air in deep and spit to clear the filth from my mouth. When the senses are jacked up, it’s even worse. Do you know what kind of pheromones those little bastards generate?
Gina mutters something as we get to the truck. I pretend I didn’t hear it and pull open the dented door for her, gesturing into the cab. She rolls her eyes and climbs in, using the step rail to propel herself. The faint trace of tobacco smoke still clings to the fabric seats. To this day she wonders how I caught her. I suppose having a father with enhanced senses could be a bit of a bitch.
Those same senses are still running hot when I walk around the rear of the truck and approach my door. It’s harder to shut them down than to initiate them, but driving while jazzed is a little more intense than I need right now.
“So . . . Candy bars,” I say as we cut left at a light. The undercarriage creaks with an ominous sound that speaks of a U-joint about ten miles from going squish.
“Yeah.” The word is flat. Dead.
“The enthusiasm kills.”
“What do you want me to say, Dad? They’re candy bars. You know what happens. A month from now we realize we ate them all and we send in a check.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong, but past experience says she’s got it pretty much dead on. Might as well cut that check tonight. She’s ignoring me anyway, staring out the window and not even playing on her phone.
I pull a hard left, turning into the driveway of a Tacos Andale. She stonewalls me on the order long enough that I have to tell the attendant to give me a minute. She knows how much I hate that. How hard is it to order a taco? This is her way of getting back at me for being an embarrassment.
One bag of tacos and a Burrito Max Meal later, and we’re pulling into traffic again, with a shriek of brakes from behind us and a sudden wail of sirens telling me that I just cut off a cop.
“How come you were nice to him?” Gina asks ten minutes later as we pull back into traffic. “He gave you a ticket.”
“It’s only money. Guy’s just doing his job.”
If I wanted to get back at him, I knew all too well where the police station was. It would be easy to wade in and start tearing the place apart. It’s happened before, when Four-Arm Fred and his crew got tired of the heat. Like I said, though, he’s just doing his job.
“I thought you didn’t like cops.”
“I don’t like anyone,” I correct her. “It’s not just cops.”
“Oh.”
A left onto Holland and I’m stopping at The Split Liquor for a refill. I leave her texting some faraway friend and duck inside. I mean, at least I’m nice enough to leave the air conditioning on for her. I should get points.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” crows Harry from his stool behind the overloaded counter. I shake my head and wave before I step past the easy seller products and head straight for the whisky. I snatch up a giant bottle of something tasty, and then randomly pick an expensive beast of some sort. Scotch. That will work. Ooh, there’s tequila between me and the counter. That’s got to be a sign.
“Give this to the next homeless guy that comes begging,” I tell Harry, passing over the single malt. When his eyes widen, I chuckle.
“They’ve got it bad enough,” I tell him. “But then, one time, this one guy. Just one guy, y’know? Happens to ask the right person at the right time and boom. Eighteen year old single malt for free. It’s a once in a lifetime drink for him and anyone he shares it with.”
“You’re a weird dude,” Harry tells me. He takes my money, though. I laugh at some random joke he tells as he’s ringing things up. To be honest, I don’t have a clue what he’s saying. The pain in my head is flaring into a sun-hot agony, and I stagger against the counter, holding on to the edge to keep from falling over. I feel my teeth come together and slide acro
ss one another as I grit them. Harry’s voice drifts in like a distant breeze and the pain is gone. I blink a few times and stand up straight. My fingers pull away from the counter, where they have left small indentations.
“You okay?” Harry asks. I nod, squinting against the brightness of his lights.
“Got a migraine coming on,” I say.
“Oh hell, man. My old lady gets those. The trick is, you gotta . . .”
The rest of his words are a mix of old wives’ tales and home remedies that mean as much to me as the price of the liquor he’s put in the bag. I nod and stroll out the door. I guess it’s probably not polite, but I’m not known for tact, so why start now?
Gina looks at me with all the courtesy one would extend to a snail crawling on your ice cream as I wrench open the door.
“Some tequila in the bag if you want,” I offer, knowing the mere thought that I might actually let her drink it will keep her brain occupied. Is it a trap? Am I being honest? What’s the catch?
The sound is louder now, some kind of high-pitched whine like a dentist’s drill grating its way through a pile of quartz. I jam one of the tacos in my mouth and chew noisily, trying to drown it out.
“That’s illegal,” Gina says in a smug tone as I snap the top from the tequila and swallow a deep gulp to wash down the beef and corn. I jerk the old truck into reverse.
“I turned over an armored car last week,” I reply, giving the gas a little tap. “Not for the money. Just because.”
Her sigh is big enough to cover Rhode Island.
“Why can’t you be like everyone else?” she asks. “Normal job, normal hours, all that?”
“Why don’t you find me a job where no one cares if they’re working next to a monster?” I shoot back. The light at Flagler goes yellow and I jet through the intersection.
“Zookeeper?”
“Yeah. Ok. Let’s ignore the part where I just reminded you I’m a monster, which by the way scares all the animals. You gonna implant a biology degree in my head? Veterinary care? All that shit?”
“What about a cop?”
I laugh so hard I nearly slam us into one of those little hipster cars. Not that it wouldn’t have been an improvement, but I don’t need the hassle of standing out there while Muffy Man-Bun cries to the local bluecoats about how I traumatized him.
“Fine,” she says, going back to her phone. Her thumbs start twitching on those digital keys and it’s like watching Kid Kilometer on the treadmill. Damn things are a blur.
“Who you talking to?” I ask. I can feel the ice in her stare before she even opens her mouth.
“Just kids from school.”
It’s amazing how so few words can hold so much unspoken contempt. It’s that whole teen-code thing where I’m not supposed to ask what she’s doing, and the fact that I just did is some kind of mortal sin or something. Maybe I should swing by St. Michael’s and make a confession.
The sound comes back tenfold, like a rotary saw hitting metal. Makes my teeth ache. The sudden flare of pain in my head cuts off any snarky response I might have made to Gina. I make some kind of garbled snarling sound instead, and slam the heel of my right palm against my temple hard enough to rock me. The half second we spend in the oncoming lane reminds me that there are probably better ways to deal with things while I’m driving. I get us under control as the shrieking sound in my head reaches a new crescendo.
Eagle is coming up, which means we’re only a couple blocks from the house. I’ll dose up with a few dozen mils of paraphine; chase it with the bottle of tequila. Should get me through. One of these days I should probably talk to a doctor. There’s that whole thing with the Engelberg testing, though. I gotta remember to look and see if doctors are required to notify someone if their patient is a Gifted or not.
Gina makes a noise and I turn to offer her a grin. Got to let her know I’m okay, right? She’s not looking my way, which is not abnormal, but her eyes are fixed on the cement truck that is blasting out from the alley we’re about to pass. I hadn’t even noticed it. He’s about a tenth of a second from hitting the right front quarter panel when I realize she’s screaming.
Everything is in slow motion as expected. I’m so jazzed I can taste the atoms in the air. I’ve got a hand flying out to jerk Gina back. He can’t hit us hard enough to kill me, but she’s another story.
The impact is horrendous, blasting the motor free of its mounts and shearing off most of the engine compartment as ten tons or more slams into us with tsunami force. We spin, hard. It’s a sharp counter-clockwise motion that makes my eyes ache. I’m gripping the steering wheel with my left hand so hard I figure one of the two is going to break, but I’m not letting Gina go.
I read somewhere that trying to hold a person back like this in a crash is equivalent to holding back a slug from a .357 Magnum. Seems about right, judging from the pain in my shoulder. She’s got her belt on too, and that helps.
The back of the pickup smacks into the cement truck’s wheels and we’re thrown aside by the sheer force of the secondary impact. Sparks are flying everywhere from the tortured metal, and the world is a solid wall of sound.
What’s left of the truck goes airborne, metal protesting as we clip something and begin to roll. I’m pressing her into the seat as the side of the truck comes down with earth shattering force and my head crashes into the door pillar.
From start to landing, maybe two seconds?
I open my eyes. Left one is seeing red and the right one has dancing spots. The screaming in my head is gone, though, leaving a void like the sudden silence after a full on thrash metal concert.
“Gina?” I call, my voice even more raspy than usual.
She doesn’t answer, and I turn my head to see her. I’m actually looking up, as her side of the truck—well, what’s left of it—is sticking up in the air. Cubes of safety glass are still raining down.
She’s out cold, and for all I know I was too. There’s drool forming at the edge of her lips, but no blood that I can see. She’s gonna have a bruise shaped like my hand come tomorrow, but she didn’t go through the windshield, so that’s a plus.
Everything around is a sickening blur of mixed senses, sounds and smells blending so thick that I want to puke. Fighting hard to damp down the jazz, and I manage to take off the edge. I can at least see now, even though the left eye is still red. Bloody, I’ll wager. I wipe it with the back of a sleeve and confirm that.
The stupid seatbelt is locked and jacked up somehow so it won’t let me go. I snarl, tear the webbing in two and let my body slap into the side panel. Twisting around like some kind of deranged seal in the cramped cabin, I wind up squatting with my face up beside Gina’s. I can taste her breath, which does help ease the concern a bit. The smell of blood is everywhere, but it’s mostly mine. Trust me, as many fights as I’ve been in, I can tell my own.
Her belt actually disengages and I slide the web over her while supporting her with the other hand. I wrap an arm around her and clutch her tightly before driving a fist into her door. It screeches like a stepped-on cat as the metal protests, but even as dented and mangled as it is, it’s not going to stand up against that punch. It pops open and I stand all the way up, looking out through the doorway.
The smells of burnt rubber, fuel, coolant, and all of those various bodily fluids that vehicles discharge when they crash overlay one another in a miasma that has me hawking and spitting a bloody gobbet.
Cars are stopping and the shrieks of angry brakes and tires echo from the storefronts around us. People are getting out and running our way. I turn my head, which according to the hammering pain inside is an exercise in bad ideas, and lay eyes on the cement truck.
His left front looks like a biscuit can, but there’s no real appreciable damage anywhere else. Well, yet, anyway. I reach up and wrap my fingers around the door frame, pulling with one hand as I walk up the seat. The air seems cooler here. I don’t know why. There’s no windows left in the truck.
Some rando in
a suit and tie is at the side of the truck now, his arms out in front of him.
“I’ve got her,” he calls to me. I look down and he is sincere. The look in his eyes is pleading. Begging me to hand him my daughter. My own child. He thinks I’m going to just give her up?
“Please, Mister,” he begs, beckoning with thick fingers. He jerks his head back over a shoulder. “My wife, she’s calling 911. Let’s get you, get you and your little girl clear. The truck, it could explode.”
There are others running toward us now.
“My girl,” I snarl down at the man, and the look in his eyes tells me he can hear the Beast coming out a little. I lean down, holding Gina out to him and takes her in strong arms like she has no weight at all. If he slips, I’ll be on him before she can touch the street. But he holds her as gently as if she were his own, and I nod to him as I step off the side and land with a thump on the pavement. Everybody moves back a ways from the truck, and I follow along, my eyes never leaving Gina. There will be time to deal with the driver soon.
“She’s gonna be okay,” the man assures me. I manage a weak smile and hold out my arms.
“Sir, you should sit down,” urges another voice. It’s a woman, and she has a calm demeanor I’ve seen before. “There’s an ambulance coming. My name is Mara. I’m a paramedic. Can I take a look at you?”
I point to Gina and shake my head, which is apparently a brilliant maneuver when you want to see bright floating blue specks in your vision and have the sudden feeling that someone is using your skull as a kickball.
“Her,” I say, the word more a growl than anything else. I can see my hand trembling as it is outstretched.
“What’s her name?” Mara nods at my demand.
“Gina.”
Please, sir, just sit down. I’ll check her first, okay?”
She turns to Gina and begins to talk, calling her name to awaken her. She slides a small flashlight out of a pocket and begins to look in her eyes.
The Good Fight 4: Homefront Page 3
