by Drew Hayes
Hershel wasn’t sure how well he could communicate verbally, so instead of trying again he looked around then raised his metal ensnared hands with a questioning look on his face.
“Ah, you want me to explain I take it?”
Hershel nodded emphatically.
“Well, Daniels, the short answer is actually pretty simple,” Coach George said with a reassuring smile. “You’re being kidnapped.”
145.
“Klidnrapped?” Hershel mumbled, his mind comprehending but his mouth still refusing its usual duties.
“Close enough,” Coach George agreed. “Though to be honest, you’re more being brought along because you were there. Wrong place, wrong time sort of thing. There was only one of you we actually wanted.”
Hershel’s eyes flicked to Mary.
“Obviously. Process of elimination when there are only two of you isn’t that tough,” Coach George confirmed.
“Wats on hler hlead?”
“Oh, you like? It’s a subsonic neutralization... aw fuck, this thing has a really technical name but I can never remember it all. It’s a gizmo that keeps people unconscious. Very useful, but very controlled and hard to come by. Hence why you aren’t sporting one. I mean, why bother?”
“Caush I wash jusht there,” Hershel managed to spit out.
“Yes, that,” Coach George agreed. “And the more obvious reason. Mary is one of the most powerful advanced minds in recorded history, let alone at her age. Containing her awake would be hellacious, to say the least. You, on the other hand, are a fat smart kid with self-esteem issues.”
“Roy,” was all Hershel managed to get out before Coach George laughed.
“Roy? I’m sorry, do you think I’m going to be giving you any whiskey? You can’t access Roy, and that means you’re of no more concern to me than any other regular human.”
Coach George paused for a moment and regarded his conscious captive.
“It’s kind of funny, you know; back when you were just Powered, you almost certainly would have shifted by now. But without a specific trigger you’re stuck there, utterly helpless. In a way you were actually stronger back before you had any control. Ain’t that a bitch?”
Hershel made a valiant effort to spit at Coach George, but the slippery tongue and untrustworthy mouth betrayed him once more, leading to little more than a stream of droll falling from his lips. Though his cheeks burned on instinct, his eyes continued to send daggers at Coach George’s rugged, unbearably smiling face.
* * *
“We have fifteen minutes,” Mr. Transport announced as he returned to the room. He had left with Mr. Numbers only seconds prior, but was returning as a solo act. “At that point we will go, pick up Mr. Numbers, find out Mary and Hershel’s location, drop you off, and return to meet the man coming to stop us from doing those very things.”
“You won’t stay and help?” Alice asked, a new dimension of fear entering her voice. Losing Nick had been worrying; losing the only two adults left in their party was an altogether terrifying development.
Mr. Transport shook his head. “Alice, try to understand. If Mr. Numbers and I are believed to have gone against company orders, then come next year not only is there zero chance of us still being here, but there will be vast repercussions for him and me both. If they just think you all got the drop on us, we might still be able to swing the same post here next year. Additionally we will be here to distract our... associate from finding you all too soon.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because his order will only be to recover you three; it won’t bear regard to your friends. And he will execute his orders. Trust me,” Mr. Transport said, a bit of the color slipping out of his face.
“We understand,” Vince said, standing up from the sofa where he’d been resting. “So we have fifteen minutes?”
“Fourteen and a half now,” Mr. Transport corrected. “Gather any tools or weapons you might favor, get dressed for combat, gather whatever you think will give you the best edge.” His eyes flicked briefly to the boys’ side door, which Nick had slammed ceremoniously behind himself directly after his and Alice’s altercation. Alice pretended not to notice.
“Guess I’m getting out of my dress, then,” she said, turning on a stiletto heel and gliding through the girls’ side door.
“Vince, I assume you’ll want to change out of slacks and a button-down,” Mr. Transport urged.
“Of course. There’s something else I need, though; something very important,” Vince said slowly.
“Then go get it! This deadline is non-negotiable.”
“I’ll need your help,” Vince explained. “It isn’t exactly close at hand.”
“Fine, fine; as long as we can get it in time to get back here for Alice’s pick up I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” Mr. Transport agreed.
Vince told him the location. Mr. Transport’s already pallid coloration whitened another shade.
* * *
Nick sat on his bed, staring off into space. Every now and then he would reach to adjust the sunglasses that were no longer there. Instead they rested on his desk as a pile of debris. It was no great loss; in truth he’d planned on smashing them himself once his time here at Lander had ended. He was still a bit miffed that it was that girl who had the pleasure of their destruction instead of him. Nick’s hand almost tightened in reflex to the thought of Alice and her sucker punch. He was slipping; he couldn’t believe he nearly allowed an emotion to manifest itself as a physical gesture. He’d have to put himself in some intense retraining when he got back to Vegas.
At least his planning wasn’t slipping. Nick had kept a go bag under his bed since his first day in Melbrook, a bag that was now propped up against his door. He could grab it when the rest left to go on their suicide mission and make his escape. He’d purchased and parked two vehicles other than the Bug in key locations on the Lander campus, vehicles with no record of being owned or driven by Nicholas Campbell, just in case. The windows were tinted to minimize recognition. There were toll passes to accommodate any route he might take stashed in his glove boxes.
Nick reran his mental checklist and confirmed what he already knew. That he was fore thinking, that he was intelligent, and that he planned for every possibility.
Almost.
146.
“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Mr. Transport asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the roar and crackle of the blaze.
“Honestly? Not really,” Vince admitted, his own tone at an equal volume.
The two stood about a mile away from the perimeter of a tremendous inferno, the forest fire that was currently assaulting southern California. Since that morning’s report, the ravaging flames had grown in proximity, defying the valiant attempts of local officials to bring it under control. The area had been evacuated hours ago, so Mr. Transport and Vince stood alone as they stared into the flickering heat steadily creeping toward them. Even from this distance Mr. Transport’s face was warm and his breath felt a touch smoky.
“Then perhaps we should conceive of a different plan,” Mr. Transport proposed.
Vince glanced down at his wrist watch. “We have ten minutes left. Any ideas for something we can put together and execute in that much time?”
“We could raid a camping store. You could pop the Sterno cans one by one to absorb their heat in more manageable chunks.”
Vince shook his head. “I somehow don’t think it would be quite the same effect.”
“And why exactly do you need this effect?” Mr. Transport asked. “I realize you are facing a significant challenge, but doesn’t this seem a bit like overkill?”
“None of us landed a single hit on Coach George when we fought him,” Vince told Mr. Transport. “Not even Mary or Chad. With only Alice, Nick, and me coming at him we have zero chance of winning, or even stalling long enough for one of us to recover our friends and escape.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were aware of the r
ealistic odds.”
“I am. I am also aware that I’m the only one of us left who was enrolled in the combat training. That means I’ll have to handle George on my own and trust the others to retrieve Mary and Hershel. As it stands I have minimal ability to battle against Coach George and no defense against Persephone. That only leaves me one viable option.”
“Do tell,” Mr. Transport encouraged.
A slow, half-mad smile spread across Vince’s face. The firelight’s reflection danced in his blue eyes as they seemed to drift off to some long ago place and time.
“Pure offense.”
“That seems like a poor strategy to win,” Mr. Transport told him. “Assuming you can even handle this much energy. I’ve read the reports on your activities, you know. You’ve spent all year focusing on minimizing how little you took into your body. You haven’t tried to find your limits in the slightest. For all we know this exceeds what you can contain.”
“It very well might,” Vince agreed.
“So, again I must ask, why are you so set on this course of action?”
“Because even if this has a ninety nine percent of killing me or not being enough, at least it gives us a shot. I’ll take one percent over zero any day.”
Mr. Transport let out a short laugh in spite of himself. “I think that’s more the mindset of a fool than a Hero.”
“My father once told me the best Heroes were the ones too stupid to care about the odds,” Vince replied. “So, thank you.” Vince drew in several deep breaths, saturating his lungs with oxygen. He knew once he entered the blaze he would have little time and less air to act with. A few moments lost choking on the smoke could break his concentration and cost him everything. He glanced down at his watch. Eight minutes left.
For all his brave words, the truth was Vince was scared to step forward. He wasn’t at all sure he could do this. And even if he did, he wasn’t sure he would be able to take back Hershel and Mary. He was afraid he would die in the process, of course, but that didn’t scare him nearly as much as the knowledge that there was only one chance to get them back. He, Alice, and Nick were that chance. Vince was terrified he wouldn’t be strong enough and he would let his friends down, but despite all that fear, he never questioned the fact that he had to try.
“I’m ready,” Vince said softly. Mr. Transport gave a curt nod and moved them through space. They reappeared at a central point in the fire, Mr. Transport lingering long enough only to be sure the heat didn’t render Vince unconscious. The boy stood stalwart, so Mr. Transport retreated to their previous position. Vince could survive such temperature though his ability, but Mr. Transport had no such protection. All he could do now was wait and try to have faith in the strange little silver-haired boy.
Vince didn’t breathe once he was dropped off. He’d had more than enough experience to know that in this environment the air would burn his lungs as it was already doing to his skin. Normally when he was absorbing, Vince had to reach out to connect to the energy, finding it amidst the ambient sources permeating the world around him. This time was different; from the moment he appeared, the heat was overpowering him, trying to choke and claw its way inside his fragile fleshy form. The heat wasn’t just knocking at the door, it was slamming its shoulder against it and screaming profanities in an effort to force its way in. Vince didn’t have to reach out this time. Instead he closed his eyes, steeled his nerves, and flung the door wide open, demanding every ounce of energy this fire could give.
For a sliver of an instant, nothing happened.
What followed next was captured on satellite imagery. The cause of it was debated for several years to come, with a wide variety of conspiracy theories centering around it and entire doctoral theses being written on the phenomenon. It wasn’t until Vince’s story was told and the dots were connected that the curious event finally made sense.
From the images, it initially seemed as though a glitch occurred in the system tracking the wildfire. It went from moving in standard pattern to turning inward, the direction of every path becoming a single uniform spot. The fire then began flowing in the direction of this spot. It moved at similar speeds to earlier at first, then steadily sped up in ever-increasing intervals. An image near the very end showed a circular pattern, as though the fire was swirling about like a hurricane as it was funneled down into a singularity. After that are two progressively smaller images of the fire before the final photo showing nothing.
Nothing except for miles of earth that had been scorched to the ground in mere minutes instead of the days it should have taken.
147.
The man’s skin was like coal dipped in midnight, his muscular body scarcely contained in his black suit. The lady across the table was quite the opposite, a middle-aged woman of small stature with just a few grey hairs woven amongst her blonde ones. She, too, wore a black suit, though she had eschewed the tie in favor of a more casual appearance.
“Numbers,” said the woman, her tone measured and even. “What a surprise. You must join us for tea.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Tracking, but I’m afraid my time constraints are somewhat pressing,” Mr. Numbers declined. He took a seat at their table, suppressing his urge to marvel at the glorious scenery their penthouse suite afforded them. Japan was always such a lovely place; Mr. Numbers intended to come back for a proper visit one day, just as he had intended for the better part of a decade.
“So I gathered. Transport did little more than a pop and drop. Quite rude,” Mrs. Tracking commented.
“I’m afraid it will be much the same when he picks me up. We have a lot to talk about and little time to work in,” Mr. Numbers replied. He glanced at the man, who sat so still one might believe he was little more than an exquisitely lifelike carving.
“I suppose I’ll take the cue,” the man said in a low, powerful baritone. He touched the hands of both Mr. Numbers and Mrs. Tracking. The world around them slowed to a crawl, then ceased to move at all from what they could discern.
“Thank you, Mr. Stop,” Mr. Numbers said. “What I need to discuss with you is off the record, off the books, and will most likely label me as off the reservation.”
“Oooh, sounds exciting,” Mrs. Tracking said, a bubble of vivaciousness welling up in her. “I do enjoy the occasional black bag operation.”
“What do you need?” Mr. Stop asked, vastly more stoic than his partner.
“Just a location,” Mr. Numbers replied. “Two of our current charges have been taken and they’ve disabled all the methods we had to pinpoint them.”
“That is hardly off the books. You’re doing your job,” Mrs. Tracking said, her voice rich in disappointment.
“No,” Mr. Numbers admitted. “I was given a direct order not to pursue.”
“I see,” Mrs. Tracking said. “That does change things.”
“I’m aware,” Mr. Numbers agreed.
“I believe I can fulfill your request, Numbers. All that’s left to determine is the price.” Mrs. Tracking flashed a grin that had signaled the end of many a man. “Let us negotiate.”
* * *
Alice stepped into the common room wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She wished she had an outfit that better screamed “Warrior” but the only thing that came close was her Lander uniform. She didn’t want to face the coaches dressed like a student; something about that just felt wrong.
Vince was already waiting, his own outfit similar to hers. He glanced up at her as she entered, giving her a quick nod. If he was feeling anything like her then his stomach would be twisting in knots of worry.
“Mr. Transport went to pick up Mr. Numbers,” Vince told her. “He’ll be back in a second.”
“Okay,” Alice said, sitting down next to him.
“Nervous?” Vince asked.
“God, yes.”
“Good,” Vince said. “We’re taking on a near-impossible task. It’s going to be hard enough with just the three of us.”
“Two of us, Vince. Nick isn’t coming.
”
“He’ll come,” Vince said.
“He won’t. It’s just two of us.”
“Three,” Vince corrected.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Three,” Nick said, the door to the boys’ side whispering shut behind him. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit, a deep purple shirt left open at the collar. His shoes were black, well-fitted to the foot and competent for all forms of movement. His jacket was buttoned only on its top button, holding the shape together without pulling it taut to his frame.
“You’re coming?” Alice asked.
“Of course he’s coming,” Vince said, standing from the couch. “Though I’m not sure why he’s dressed like that.”
Nick shrugged. “Up until this year I’ve always dressed this way. When we do this thing I don’t want to be dressed like the ineffectual smart ass. I want to feel like the version of me that can get things done.”
“Whatever works,” Vince said, patting his friend on the back.
Nick stared at Vince for a moment. “You never waver, do you, Silver?”
“Why would I waver on the things I know?”
“Heaven save me from honest men and lunatics,” Nick replied. He looked at Alice who had risen to her feet and was staring him down.
“What changed your mind?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure,” Nick admitted. “Let’s just chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t gotten to really cut loose in a while and this seems like a good outlet.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Nope, which is why I didn’t bother with the truth. No sense in wasting it when you won’t trust anything I say,” Nick replied.
“She’ll trust you to help our friends,” Vince assured him.
Mr. Transport and Mr. Numbers reappeared in the room, looking at the Melbrook residents.
“I have the place. Are you ready?”
The three looked at each other,
“Now or never,” Nick said.
“Then I pick now,” Alice said, forcing more courage than she felt into her voice.
