by David Jobe
“Shut up!” Dirt Demon growled, trying to stand again, but finding Brian slamming his fist into his jaw, and knocking pieces of it away.
Brian laughed now, having figured out what it would take to get this monster taken out. He needed to break Dirt Demon apart, piece by piece. "What do you call yourself? Sandbox? Oh, how about The Amazing Dirt Nap?" He chuckled and ducked an angry swing.
"I am Golem," the walking dirt nap exclaimed.
"And you clowned my name? Are you seriously named after a Lord of the Rings character?" Another dodge and Brian swung and knocked away more dirt from the creature's leg.
"That's Gollum, you fuck-tard!"
"Look who has the potty mouth!" Another swing. "Guess that makes sense coming from a shit demon. Did you know you now owe Kevin Smith money?" His cockiness got the best of him. He stepped in to take another chunk out of Golem's face, and the monster swung in as it had anticipated Brian's next move. Brian got hit square in the face, and it sent him flying head over heels, slamming hard against the pavement by the back wheels of the bus. His vision swam as he lay there, watching Golem struggle to stand on his shattered knee.
What Brian saw that Golem didn’t was the petite woman walking up behind Golem with the craziest looking sniper rifle Brian had ever seen. “BFG,” he laughed as he watched the enraged woman snuck up behind the kneecapped Golem.
She place the barrel to the back of the creatures head. The woman fired without even taking a moment to stop walking. The bark of the gun made Brian’s head hurt even worse, but the violent spray of dirt that was the monster’s head made him take it with a smile. He looked over and saw a quarter sized hole in the concrete six inches from his shoulder. So close.
“You are one hardcore woman,” he told her, trying to push himself off the ground.
She moved across the pavement toward him, not even looking back to watch the body of Golem dissolve into a thousand clumps of dirt. “Can you get up?” she asked, leaning down to offer her hand.
“You going to shoot me?” He questioned.
She glared at him, in no mood to joke, her jaw clenching as she looked away from him, toward the overpass. “Maybe I should just give you a gun so you can do that to yourself,” she said, taking away her offered hand and walking on.
He laughed, “Yeah, I’m internet famous,” he said, before lying back down on the ground. His vision swam and every part of his body was in pain.
“It’s not that impressive,” she replied back over her shoulder, walking away from him. "And your superhero name is stupid."
"It's not my superhero name!" He yelled after her but wasn't sure she had heard. As he lay there, he started to think about the ramifications of that. Though, unlike most of the superheroes in the comics he had read, he did not choose his name, it was still being considered a superhero name. That gave him pause. His body told him that he should lay down and stop moving, but if he had a superhero name, shouldn't he act like an actual superhero?
Chapter Thirty
After what felt like an eternity, Mac opened his eyes. Above him, the overpass stood empty of the sniper.
He watched in horror as the fight between the zombie twins and the remaining red and black suited spooks reached a fever pitch. His position on the top of the car gave him a unique advantage of the fire fight. Both parties had taken cover, and were taking turns trying to get lucky shots on the other group.
The zombie twins were moving now, with only two red and black suits left, he imagined that they felt they had the ability to press their advantage. Somewhere beyond the bus, a thunder crack echoed, and he knew that Kitten was on the scene. He realized that it was her gun that he heard a minute before and mistook it as the sniper's shoot. He wondered if she had seen what happened to him. Had it been her that had stopped the sniper from firing that final round? He thought about calling it the lethal shot, but he suspected that he could not avoid. He just hoped she could make it to him before he passed out and died. As cliché as it sounded, he wanted to at least let her know how he felt about her before he lost the chance to ever say it.
The zombie twins inched closer, but before they could reach the red suits, a fireball blazed out from behind the bus, slamming into the area where the red suits were. The resulting explosion knocked the zombie twins on their asses. While the explosion had tossed the red suits around, it looked as if their suits were up to the job. Both marched out of the flaming debris, ready to open fire on Miss Fire as she stepped into view from behind the bus.
Before they could, the zombie twins fired, each having apparently had enough intelligence to pick a different target. Both red suits did the proverbial Hollywood Bullet Dance and bullet after bullet tore through their flame resistant gear. The red suits didn’t manage a single shot before both dropped to the ground like blood-soaked Swiss cheese.
Then as the zombie twins rose from their spots, nodding at Miss Fire, they were rewarded for their rescue attempts by being set ablaze by two of Miss Fire’s deadly fireballs. The fire made short work of the fragile creatures, setting them ablaze and roasting them in front of Mac. They barely had time to scream out, and what did escape their throats did not sound human at all.
Miss Fire laughed her humor dark, before turning to face Mac. “Enjoying the show, Fatboy?” she growled. “I bet it will take a much bigger fire to roast through all that fat,” she mused, walking forward with stalking confidence.
Mac knew he was dead either way, but he did not want to die in a fire. In fact, that had become his biggest fear since he had faced this woman before at the mall. “I am already dead.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Miss Fire sneered. “I want my pound of flesh for you humiliating me. And then I am going to find your god damn sniper friend and set them on fire.” She raised her hand, a fireball growing in threateningly. Just as she reared her hand back to cast it forward in a throwing motion, her hand vanished in a spray of blood. The fireball, now no longer held by Miss Fire’s sway, exploded instantly, removing Miss Fire’s arm down to the elbow.
“I am right here,” Kitten said, coming into view from behind the bus.
Miss Fire swiveled, eyes glowing red with rage. “You bitch!” She yelled, raising her other arm in an attempt to call another fireball.
Kitten had already slung the sniper rifle, and held two high-caliber pistols. Stolen from his father's gun collection. As Miss Fire raised her hand to call another fireball, Kitten began to empty both clips into the now one armed woman. Kitten, an excellent shot with whatever she wielded, landed every high powered shot. Miss Fire staggered back as each round punched holes in her, the safety rounds shredding inside her so as not to come out the back and possibly hit someone else, which was good because Miss Fire stood between her and Mac.
Miss Fire fell, half a dozen holes in her chest, but yet she still drew breath. Kitten walked up to stand over her, a look of such unchecked rage in her eyes that it scared even Mac. “That is the second time you have tried to kill my man,” Kitten said in a deep growl. “You won’t get a third.” And with that, she fired a round from each gun into Miss Fire’s eyes.
For what seemed like an eternity, Kitten just stood there, staring down as the now tattered corpse of Miss Fire.
Finally, Mac, figuring his time was short, spoke. “You called me your man.”
At that, Kitten dropped the guns and started to bawl. She rushed to him, sweeping him up on her arms as best she could. “Of course, you big fool. I have loved you for years now. How else could you have talked me into doing this?” She kissed him hard, before pulling back and saying, “And getting me to dress like this?” she waved a hand at her tight clinging and sexy outfit.
Mac laughed, still stunned by the passionate kiss. “Why didn’t you?” He was at a loss for words.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” moaned Kitten. “How many signs did I have to drop?” She laughed.
Mac went to say something, but the voice of another spoke interrupted. “This is cute and all. Hallmarkish as it i
s. But perhaps we should get him to a hospital?”
Mac looked over to see the teenager that had tried to kill himself on live television. He looked worse for wear, half his face already starting to swell into a horrible bruise. He had known that Bulletproof would be on the transport today, but he hadn't thought of the fact until now. “I am already a goner.”
“Kind of an Emo, aren’t you?” Bulletproof asked. “Perhaps we should at least try, and see what the professionals say?”
Kitten laughed, and Mac did too. “I am kind of heavy,” Mac admitted.
Brian shrugged, stepping forward. “I am kind of strong.” He moved over to scoop Mac up.
"Careful," cautioned Kitten.
"I have him."
Mac could feel his vision starting swim. The world of pain was returning and he thought he was going to pass out. Just before he passed out, he heard Kitten say "I will grab the Jeep. You just keep him safe."
Chapter Thirty-One
The news was on again. Julian could hear it before he knew he was awake. The past few days he had slipped in and out of consciousness, sleeping more than awake. The nurses had come by at regular intervals, checking everything from his blood pressure to his ability to recollect various things. They worried that he had taken a hit to the head far harder than he had expected and they were testing to make sure he didn't have a concussion. After a while, they had started easing back on his pain meds, letting him level out. Now,he slept more out of sheer tiredness than any drugs being pumped into his system.
This time, just as every other time, Father Holland relaxed in the chair by him. Their conversations had always been brief, Julian's ability to carry on a conversation was brief and intermittent. This time, the old man's eyes were glued to the television that decorated the wall across from Julian's bed.
Julian turned his attention to it and tried to piece together what he saw. It was a news broadcast of a live event being recorded from a helicopter. Down on some highway was what looked like a warzone. Fire erupted and the helicopter banked to avoid any debris that might fly up to them. The focus of the camera shifted without warning and Julian felt his stomach turn from with the threat of being nauseous. On the screen was a rather obese man that flew, without a jetpack as earlier claimed. He floated above the highway, level with an overpass, squaring off with some woman with what Julian could only guess was a sniper rifle. He had seen enough of them in games to know the general build, though he wasn't a Modern Warfare fan enough to be able to rattle of models like some of his friends. That kind of stuff just never interested him. Julian watched as the flying man swooped around to cut the woman off as she tried to escape. He wished for all the world that he could hear their exchange. Then the woman turned without warning and fired off a shot. Whoever she had aimed for was off screen, but the announcer informed them that she had shot one of the people who had gotten out of their cars to see what happened. The flying man, the news called him "The Cherub" swooped in to try and stop her, and she shot him point blank in the stomach on national television. The Cherub fell, slamming hard onto the top of a car. Something about the fact that man given an angels name resonated with Julian. It felt as if God himself had pointed at the fallen man and said, “Help him."
"Where is this?" Julian croaked, his hands already moving to remove the monitor cuff that kept tightening around his upper arm.
Father Holland turned to look at him, trying to muster a smile but fading. He opened his mouth to say something.
Just then the television announced that this street battle was took place in Julian's home town of Indianapolis, not far from where his own family lived. Julian saw now, and knew the exact spot where the battle took place. He had gone to a church that was less than half a block away. He gritted his teeth and worked to remove the needle in his arm.
"What are you doing?" Father Holland was up, already pressing the nurse button on the wired remote that sat on the edge of the hospital bed. "You are in no condition to get up."
"That man is trying to save lives and he might be dying. A man with an angel's name,” That last he said with a pointed look at Father Holland. "I have to do something."
"From here?" Father Holland asked, looking around for someone to help him. "You are hundreds of miles away."
Julian slipped from the bed, looking around for some clothes. "We both know I have done it before. Help me,” he looked at Father Holland. "Please. Just help me find my clothes. I have to do this."
Father Holland looked at him, frozen with what Julian expected was panic and concern. After a long moment of looking at him. "Your old clothes are gone. They were too bloody. There are some new ones under the end of the bed. Boy, are you sure about this? Do you even know how to do it? Or if you can do it?"
Julian stumbled over to the end of the bed and pulled out a brown paper bag that looked like it might have once contained groceries. Inside he found a pair of blue jeans with holes in the knees and a gray t-shirt that looked to have once held the logo of a church on it. "I don't, but that doesn't matter. I will trust in God to help me."
"Sorry about the clothes. I don't even know if that is the style anymore," Father Holland was fumbling, wringing his hands as he spoke.
Julian smiled, throwing the clothes on as fast as his body would allow. "They are fine. I will return them." He patted the old man on his shoulder and tried to give him a reassuring smile. "Say a prayer for me, Father Holland."
Father Holland frowned and admitted, "I haven't stopped doing that since you showed up in my church."
Julian smirked. "I have the feeling that God brought me to you for a reason."
"I hope so."
A nurse rushed into the room, looking panicked. She took one look at Julian and put her hands on her hips, her pink lips frowning at both him and Father Holland. "Angel, baby. What are you doing? And Father Holland, I thought I told you to –”
The world went bright white and Julian's whole body felt as if he was pushed through a wall of solid ice. When he could see again, he stood on a freeway where people were running away from the direction he faced. Up ahead he could see the overpass that was on the news. Up above he could hear the roar of the rotors from the helicopter. He gave a silent thanks to Jesus and began moving forward as fast as his body would allow. He slipped past a blue bus with the back open wide and a pile of dirt lumped nearby on the street. In front of him he could see someone staggering between the bus and what looked like a delivery truck.
He heard the report of a gun, louder than he had ever heard, even having been in theaters that boasted Dolby Surround sound. A few seconds later, he heard two more shots, quieter, but by no means quiet. They came in quick succession, overlapping. Julian tried to hurry up his movements, but his whole body screamed at him to stop moving. He felt wetness on his side, and when he looked down, he could see blood starting to stain the gray shirt. "I am going to owe Father Holland another shirt,” he told himself.
He slipped around the front of the bus finally, to see a grisly sight. A couple feet away several bodies burned and one woman lay sprawled in the street, an arm missing and her eyes gone. Julian tried to keep his stomach in check and was very glad that he had only graduated to Jell-O just yet.
"I have him,” he heard a young man say, who held The Cherub in his arms. The sheer bulk of the flying man should have been too much for the young teenager, but he seemed to be unfazed by the weight.
The Cherub looked to be unconscious and around where he had fallen a great deal of blood remained.
There was a woman clad in leather who as soon as she saw Julian had two pistols aimed at him.
Julian raised his hands. "I am here to help him." Julian had no idea about the other two, but he suspected that the good Samaritan teen was on the right side. The woman, he had his doubts. The fact that the dead woman near his feet had two bullet holes on her face made Julian suspect that the shooter was the leather-clad woman.
"How?" The woman and Samaritan asked in unison.
&nb
sp; "I think I can,” he paused. He had no idea what he should say. "Teleport him?" The word felt foreign to him. Is that what he would call it?
The woman seemed skeptical. "That is a little too coincidental. How is it you are here, now?"
Julian pointed to the helicopter recording their every move. "You are all over the news. I saw him," he pointed to the unconscious flying man, "get shot and got here as fast as I can."
The woman dropped her guns, and something Julian guessed was relief flooded her weary eyes. "If that is true, you are a godsend."
Julian smiled, "Through him, all things are possible."
Samaritan butted in, "You said you think."
"I have only jumped myself."
Samaritan laughed. "You might need to work on your terminology later."
Julian smiled but used the time to limp closer. "Just keep holding him, and I will try to get all three of us to a hospital."
"Three?" The woman asked.
"It would be foolish to try more than I have to."
The woman nodded. "Take him to North, if you can."
"Let's just get this apparition over with, Potter." Samaritan helped close the gap between them.
Julian smirked and place a hand on Samaritan's shoulder. "His hair is kind of like Ron's. I guess that makes you Hermione."
"Shu–”
Julian, the Samaritan and the man in his arms found themselves standing in the middle of a hospital emergency room. The wall of ice feeling less than before, but he could feel himself getting lightheaded. He had no idea if it was the teleporting or the blood loss.
