The DX Chronicles (Book 1): Not Against Flesh and Blood

by Brian Cody

  The college student’s build betrayed him—as the man surmised. The college student seemed athletic, with a 5'11" body of toned muscle, but not athletic enough to perform the feats the man had viewed, and he didn’t appear to be a diver, someone accustomed to submergence for several minutes at a time; but, as the man looked into the college student’s light brown eyes, he forced his face through an increasing numbness and grinned.

  “It’s all_”—the man paused as he faced the ceiling, his grin vanishing as he squinted his pale blue eyes. The college student lowered his hands. The man glanced to him, as if to ensure that he had his attention, before turning to the ceiling. “It’s all a game to them”, he began as he forced a stronger breath into his lungs. “Everything they’ve done; everything they’ve destroyed—that they’ve taken—they see as nothing more than pieces to a puzzle. We’re expendable, we’re worthless—vermin to them—we’re like…” He looked to the college student. “We’re like pawns…” The man then glanced to the ceiling, with a small grin once more inching across his face as his eyes closed. He inhaled, with his fists squeezing as his back arched and his breath reached full capacity. “From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs…” he whispered, his voice raspy and hoarse, “Account for moral, as for natural things…”

  The college student, anticipating explication of the man’s words, looked on as the man’s body slackened, as his chest sank, and as his arms fell. The college student then stepped to and felt the man’s neck, then his chest, and then his wrists, but found them still. He stepped back, his breaths accelerating as he looked at his hands, and, with a hard turn of his head, he sifted his fingers back through his hair, the moist straits standing to their two-inch heights. Before him, a miniscule object descended from the man’s loosening palm. The college student followed its descent and examined its shape as it bounced off of the cement.

  Inches long in uneven form, it was glasslike in its reflectance, but colored a glossy, pale white. One side was straight and slim to the point of appearing acicular, the other side was jagged and misshapen, as if that edge had been rent from a larger piece. He knelt to feel the piece, but stopped as nearing sirens rang in his ears. He looked around, but found no signs of emergency vehicles; instead, as he searched, he sighted white ships pushing towards the ruined bridge, while, from above, drawing helicopters hummed through the air. He glanced to the body, looked around the pillar to the watercraft, and glanced back to the overcast sky to confirm the location of the nearest aircraft; he then looked down, and, with a squeeze of his fists, nodded.

  A minute passed, and, with the dropping of the anchor, one of the River Rescue ships stopped alongside of the pillar; however, as the crew turned, they found only an outstretched corpse.

  ***

  Amongst the survivors on foot or within their vehicles moving from the bridge’s western side, none noticed the green Ford Escape with the New York plates driven along the shoulder, and none paid attention to the college student driving it, his eyes agape as he crept past the police line and continued into another bout of congestion.

  He stared, only looking away from the road to follow passing emergency lights. Five hours crept by before the bridge could move out of view; seven hours before he was able to return to a normal speed. By then, the sun had vanished, and he, despite yearning to return home or continue southerly, drove until midnight when, as he neared the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, he diverted to a one-story motel along the road and sought rest in a one-bedroom space. Walking to the far corner of his lodging, he ignored the stained walls and the torn linen atop his mattress, while the malodor of cigarette smoke proved only to jog memories of the bridge’s destruction.

  “Hey, sorry for waiting so long to call you”, he began, his cellphone held to his right ear as he sat along the floor, scanned the twin-sized bed, the adjacent dresser, the inactive television, and then the door—dead-bolted, locked, and barricaded with his luggage. “Yeah…” he spoke as his eyes remained on the door. “I was there…no…no, I’m fine…I”, he paused as he looked from the door and eyed the window, with the view of a figure passing by appearing at the gap between the blinds and the sill. He cleared his throat as the figure moved out of view, and he adjusted his phone and inhaled. “I used my powers.” Silence persisted for several moments before appeared the sound of a clearing throat and a closing door.

  “…David…”

  “Pops”, he sighed before inhaling again, “I remember what you said: ‘never, ever use your powers in public’; I remember, and I also know what happened the last time I did…but…” he shifted his legs and grabbed the bottom of his damp tee shirt to squeeze the remaining water from its rim. “There was so much of it; so much death… There were so many I could’ve saved…I had to…I had to do it!”

  “David_”

  “It was a family, dad; I just, I couldn’t let them die. There were kids, I couldn’t just let them die like that”, he blared as he rubbed his left hand along the maroon carpet. “I just…felt helpless in that chaos, and I didn’t want to feel that way. Even if it was small, I just wanted to make some difference. I wanted to keep someone else from dying and_”

  “David, I’m not upset at all; you did nothing wrong. In a better world, you would’ve been able to do so much more; maybe you would’ve even kept it from happening. What you did was the best thing to do, and I’m proud of you, but…”—for a moment, the voice sighed, while the college student tensed and closed his eyes—”if they ever find out that you acted…that you used your powers in public and outside of your home state; they’ll come after you.”

  “Should I come home?” he asked as he opened his eyes.

  “No; continue to school in the morning, don’t do anything that could get you into trouble, and don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  “Right.”

  “Call me if anything happens or anyone you don’t know tries to contact you; understood?”

  “Yeah”, he replied as he stood.

  “All right, I’ll tell your mother in the morning. Get some sleep; I love you, son.”

  “Love you, too; goodnight”, David finished as he lowered his phone.

  ***

  Chapter Three: Wednesday, 13 January

  “Nah!” one man coughed as he stepped from a black Mercedes, his flashlight shining along the license plate and adding to the dim light of the nearest street lamp.

  “Nah? What do you mean ‘nah’?” another man inquired as he pulled down the red bandana from his face and lugged his toolbox towards the first man while passing a row of parked vehicles—one of three arrangements making up the overflow lot partitioned by a line of oak trees from apartment buildings.

  “I don’t break into German cars; that s***’s got some Nazi voodoo on it”, the first man remarked while wiping his gloved hands along the edges of his pants.

  “What? You serious?” the second man inquired before turning to the entry of the overflow lot and looking to four other men, two standing alongside of a blue Ford Mustang, and the other two jimmying into a black jeep. “He serious!?”

  “It’s because he’s always watching the Historical Network!” one man called as he stood along the Mustang’s driver’s side, a lit cigarette in hand, and a pair of sunglasses on his face. “Ask him about how aliens discovered America.”

  “All I’m saying is they got artifacts”, the first man wailed.

  All right!” the man breaking into the driver’s side of the jeep called. “This is why I don’t hire brothas!”

  “Because you’re a Nazi”, the first man remarked.

  “Because they’re loud! And y’all are no better. Now let’s get a move on; I saw a parking lot near Wards I thought we could hit up, no cameras.”

  “Oh, nah”, the first man called, “I don’t go near Wards; too close to Igneous. Campus police pass through that area at night.”

  “Wrong again”, the second man remarked, “IUPD can only intervene outside of campus when it involves stu
dents, i.e. parties. That’s why I don’t sell to students.”

  “There aren’t enough students using to waste your time near any of the colleges around here”, the man beside the Mustang’s passenger side remarked. “Why are we even out here? Don’t any of y’all watch the news? There’s a shortage of police in the business district. Lynchburg PD is too busy out near Timberlake.”

  “Cameras”, the man breaking into the jeep remarked as he opened the driver’s door. “Those streets are covered in cameras.”

  “It’s the government watching our every move!” the first man proclaimed. “America gon’ be run by Nazis by the time we all old.”

  “Okay, if you’re gonna keep crashin’ at my crib, I’m cancelling my satellite”, the man beside the Mustang remarked.

  “If we can steal these f***in’ cars without getting caught, he can buy his own place!”

  “For carjackers, you sure are loud.”

  The men traced the remark, looking to an SUV on the opposite side of the lot, where an onlooker sat on the edge of its roof. The majority of the onlooker’s face was covered by an ovular, charcoal-grey hood, his left leg hung down the rear of the SUV, and his arms were crossed over the zippered length of his jacket.

  “I’ve begun to ask myself”, the hooded onlooker hummed, “Why are southern lawbreakers so loud, but, even more so, why are you guys so slow? If I were above the Mason-Dixon, the carjackers would’ve finished within half of the time, and, somehow, would’ve gotten away with two cars per person. Don’t ask how. I’m just trying to say that without having to initiate conversation or take sweet tea breaks, the northern criminals are owning you at the carjacking game. You should be lucky most of the Igneous students from out-of-state are rich snobs; otherwise, you’d have a turf war on your hands. Tensions would only worsen because the majority of northern carjackers have enough brain cells to know that sweet tea should only be used as reactor coolant.”

  “Who the f*** is this?” the man by the Mustang’s driver side inquired as he stepped towards the onlooker. The hooded onlooker jumped from the SUV and wiped the tops of his blue jeans before rearing up to his 5'8" prominence.

  “How the h*** would I know?” the man by the Mercedes replied. “Ask him.”

  “What, seriously?” the hooded onlooker scoffed. “Buddy, it was rhetorical.”

  “What’d you say!?”

  “I said, ‘buddy, it was rhetorical_’”

  “All right, my man; I see you acting big”, the man by the jeep’s driver’s side began as he sauntered across the lot, “I know you ain’t gonna call the police, and I know you’re not tryna’ start s***”, he noted as he examined the onlooker, whose upper body, though bearing some muscle—if his broad shoulders were a tell—appeared neither as large nor as tone as any of the six focusing on him, “go back to bed, change your tampon, and get ready for your Bible study tomorrow, and we’ll consider it even; aight?” he finished as he stopped two yards from the onlooker.

  “Oh, ‘change your tampon’—emasculation; it always works, right? Maybe I should’ve come about this a little nicer? Offered you gifts of sweet tea, and spitting tobacco, and DVDs of fake wrestling. I know!” The onlooker lifted his left and pointed. “I’ll make up some southern parable to convince you of your wrongs or something like that; sound good? WallMark’s open twenty-four hours. I can run there now, grab your teeth-decay serum; maybe say hi to your mom at the checkout.”

  “Oh, the ‘your mom’ jokes. You’re a clever Yankee. I’m assuming that you’re a Yankee due to your overuse of Southern stereotypes. ‘These guys must not have degrees’—that’s what you thought, but what you don’t realize is that Bobby, working on deactivating the jeep’s tracking system, is a doctoral candidate for Software Engineering.”

  “Huh?” the hooded onlooker grunted as he turned to the man within the jeep.

  “I thought it was Computer Science”, the man beside the Mercedes remarked.

  “Aye, I’m just trying to prove a point!” the man in front of the onlooker called.

  “Hey, Bobby, what’s you’re degree in again?”

  “Are we for real?” the onlooker murmured as he tilted his head.

  “Which one?” Bobby replied as he hopped out of the jeep and wiped his knees.

  “Guys, seriously?” the onlooker muttered as he leaned back.

  “The one you going for now!”

  “Okay, screw it.”

  The man in front of the onlooker turned but was thwarted and his eyesight diverted as a right fist drilled against his face. The man moaned through the clutches of his teeth as he felt his jaw crack and his eyes commence an upward pivot into their sockets, while the vanishing asphalt registered through the soles of his boots as his feet left the ground. He blinked as the onlooker’s fist followed through and as his body disconnected to move on an off-kilter flight; and he inhaled as his legs flung upward, causing him to backflip and causing him to fall towards the asphalt, stomach first. He hit the road in a recoiling bounce, lunging another foot before falling, bouncing three more times, and resting on his back, his eyes closed and his arms and legs convulsing.

  “Oh s***!”

  As the unconscious carjacker slowed from his five-yard flight, the remaining five dropped their tools and bolted for the onlooker. The onlooker, first opening his right fist to crack it, then grinned and flung his neck from left to right. He charged. Clearing the gap between him and his opponents, he slowed before the first Mercedes carjacker. The carjacker, holding his breath and pivoting aside, uppercut his left, but the onlooker, with a curt thrust, caught the strike in his left palm, pulled the carjacker in, and drilled his right into his gut. Back-flipped, the carjacker flung across the lot and atop the Mercedes. A-a-a-and you’re unconscious. The onlooker stepped back as a third carjacker lunged in front of him and hooked his right, and the onlooker lunged back, but, while leaping, scanned. One, two, three...where’s Robert? He looked down as two arms shot from under his armpits, wrapped over his shoulders, and clasped over the back of his neck. Oh, a double-team; points for Doctor Robert.

  “Come on!” Bobby proclaimed as the third carjacker fired two jabs into the onlooker’s gut.

  Oh, the pain, the onlooker humphed while rolling his eyes. The third carjacker, simultaneously, stepped back and shot a left haymaker for the onlooker’s face. Sorry; too much of a hassle to explain face injuries. The onlooker jabbed the back of his head into Bobby’s face and then stomped his feet to drive against Bobby’s hold. Moved for a foot, the onlooker evaded the third carjacker’s haymaker and then shoved his right side into Bobby’s ribcage, jostling him and driving him to kneel. The onlooker, also kneeling, then beamed his left foot against the third carjacker’s head, spinning him backwards and against the Mercedes’ left passenger window.

  Bobby, growling through his misaligned nostrils, bowed to drive his hands against the onlooker’s spine. Points for the full-nelson—the onlooker gritted his teeth and spread his legs, inhaled and bowed, and Bobby, though pulling against him, was hoisted off of the ground and onto the onlooker’s back. The onlooker exhaled and lunged, blasting both himself and Bobby ten feet off of the ground and throwing them into two back-flips. They plunged. Impacting with the onlooker’s weight against his sternum, Bobby loosened his grip. Finally—the onlooker spiraled rightward and out of Bobby’s arms and landed in a four-limbed bow. Bobby, though coughing, pivoted to his side, but the onlooker drilled his right into Bobby’s face to launch him on a bouncing trail.

  And next? The onlooker stood and turned to the fourth and fifth carjackers running to the blue Mustang. Fleeing; good idea. I’ll even give you a head_—the onlooker tensed at the flick of an unlocked safety, and he spun back to the Mercedes and to the second carjacker, whose face was striped with lacerations, and who aimed a Glock. “Crap.” The onlooker lifted his arms as the carjacker clasped the trigger, and he tightened his hands as the carjacker squeezed. The thunderous clap, the flash of smoke and gunpowder, and the slight jostlin
g of the onlooker’s form—they were registered in the carjacker’s mind alongside of an aberration: a second, sharper flash from around the onlooker which occurred an instant after the first.

  Though blinding, the flash was brief enough for the carjacker to forsake it. Lowering it his weapon, he looked to the onlooker, expecting collapse and sanguinary formation on his torso, but the hooded onlooker stood tall, his arms still crossed and his feet jostled by only a few inches. A clap followed. The carjacker spun to a puff of dust rising several yards to his right—the ricochet of his round. The carjacker, grunting, then spun back to the onlooker and raised his firearm, while the onlooker, peering through his crossed arms, grinned. The carjacker fired, and the onlooker charged, the round speeding at his chest but being stopped by an invisible bastion which surrounded him and which, in near-instantaneity, repulsed the bullet in another flash. The carjacker stepped back and fired as the onlooker came within ten feet, but the bullet was deflected; the carjacker stepped back and motioned his finger for another shot, but the onlooker flung his right towards the firearm—still beyond his grasp—and jerked his hand.

  In a charged flash, the pistol was torn from the carjacker’s fingers. Weaponless, the carjacker grabbed his bruised fingers and reared forward. As the onlooker decelerated a yard in front of him, the carjacker looked down to him kneeling with his left pulled back. The carjacker stepped back, and the onlooker lunged, uppercutting his left against the carjacker’s jaw and launching him onto a parked car’s windshield. The onlooker stepped back and cracked his fist as the windshield’s cracking glass filled his ears, but he then tensed as the vehicle’s alarm resounded with shrieking peals.

  “Dang it…”—the onlooker paused as the vehicle’s lights flashed in time with those discordant chimes. He then looked to the back of the vehicle and sighted its brand. “Honda…Japan”, he continued. “Dang it, Japan”, he repeated as a strengthening bellow, accompanied by the scrape of rubber, sounded to his right. As headlights flashed against him, the onlooker spun and tensed, while the Mustang accelerated and while the gaping expressions of its two passengers increased in detail—the beads of sweat slipping across their foreheads, the contraction of their pupils as they honed in on their target, and the simultaneous inhalations as they prepared for impact. Too close to clear! The onlooker knelt as the sports car came within fifteen feet, and he hopped, his knees bending as the vehicle’s hood shot underfoot, and his torso bowing as he fell towards the windshield. The onlooker blinked, and the right side of his body impacted, with cracking glass ringing in his ears as his vision spun towards the obsidian nocturne, the partitioning trees, and then the asphalt. The onlooker blinked again, and, in the same miniscule moment between his eyes closing and reopening, he struck the ground.