Outside, Pooja was immediately immersed in the crowded buildings of the slums where she made her home. Haphazardly built, some houses leaned crazily against their neighbors, while others stood squat and sturdy, painted in bright colors from the remains of paint left in cans after jobs were completed. She dashed through the narrow alleyways toward the river, raising a hand and calling out a greeting to those she knew but never slowing. The feeling that she needed to get to the river was urgent and growing.
The pressure in her ears began to ease as she neared the river, so she knew she was on the right track. At the banks of the river—a muddy spot where those of her caste were allowed to congregate—Pooja waited for whatever was coming next and watched the river. Swaths of foam marred the surface from a laundry somewhere upriver. The pale form of a body, the dark hair thankfully covering the face, floated past. Pooja mouthed a silent wish for peace for the unfortunate person.
Nothing came, but the pressure in her ears remained, if not as painfully strong as before. It had diminished as she neared the river, so perhaps the river wanted her to go in. Her eyes darted toward the passing body and a stab of fear went through her. Was this how the river called to people so that they drowned themselves? She hoped not, but it wasn’t for her to argue if it was.
Her toes and fingertips started to itch, and a low thrum like a slow heartbeat started pounding inside her head. It wasn’t painful, but it was urgent. Pooja glanced down at the muddy bank of the river, trash already littering it again even after it had all been cleared away just this morning. She took those last few steps and then, at the insistent pounding inside her head, dipped her toe into the water. Time slowed and her eyes grew wide as she met the world and heard its welcome. I am here.
Tasmania — Amanda’s eyes popped open, her dreams interrupted. She listened, but heard no repeat of the call. Outside her window, the clear blackness of the night sky was broken by a blanket of stars. She rolled up on her elbow and looked over the side of her bed at the floor. For some reason, she knew she needed to touch it. No, that wasn’t right. Not the floor, the ground. It was important—vital even—that she do it, and that she do it right then. She tossed back her covers with their pattern of princesses and climbed out of bed.
Bulgaria — The drone of Jordanka’s teacher’s voice became a background hum and she raised her head, no longer sleepy after a long day of boring classes. She looked out the classroom window and felt very certain she needed to go outside.
Iraq — Baghdad was burning again, but it was always burning. Huddled in the basement with her mother and brothers, Anah knew it would be another long evening of waiting. Suddenly, the pressure in her ears grew, the same way it did when a bomb or rocket went off nearby. But there was no sound to go with it. She edged her way toward the stairs that led up to the street, her mother’s sharp call to return dim in her ears. Anah only knew that she needed to get outside.
In China, Tonga, Greenland, Norway, Peru, Hawaii, North Korea, Wales, and a thousand other places, all over the world, the girls stirred. In their hundreds, they left their meals, their chores, their beds. They touched the water, the land, the ice, the trees.
And the world changed. For everyone.
Note from the Author
The world has billions of people in it and most of them didn’t grow up in a middle class house in America, so why are so many of our superheroes from circumstances like that? The world is brimming with special people. We just don’t always see it from far away. I was inspired by the heroic journey of Will Swardstrom and his beautiful—and very brave—son.
At my website, http://www.annchristy.com, you can contact me and find all my social network links as well as see what I’m up to next.
Hotbox Runner
By Paul K. Swardstrom & Will Swardstrom
Breathing a long sigh of relief, I sank into my seat and was asleep before I knew it. It had been a tedious and exhausting day at work and the ride home on the train never failed to lull me into a short, but much-needed nap. I must have slept nearly the entire ride back to the metropolis of Galeburgh.
Behind my eyelids, I noticed the ambient glow of the train car change as the train went underground, nearing our ultimate destination. I dared to open my eyes and face the world again, but all I saw was my reflection as the darkness of the tunnel in advance of Westinghouse Station contrasted with the light inside the car. I saw myself—Janie Walter, an ordinary working mom—at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. My mousy hair needed a brush, but it would have to wait until I made it home. I checked the time on my phone and realized the train was a little later than normal. I’d have to hurry to make it home in time to make dinner. If I was lucky Robert had already started on it. The streets of Galeburgh weren’t going to be kind at this time of day.
Another deep breath. Hold it together, Janie, I told myself, you can do it.
I know the stereotype was for most people to live in the suburbs and take the train into the city for work. I was the opposite. The city life suited my husband, Robert, and I didn’t mind the commute. Each day while the city worked to empty itself of its temporary residents, I was the salmon pushing against the stream. That might make it sound like I was the only one who followed that process, which I was assuredly not.
The train slowed to its eventual stop and I waited a few seconds before I stood up with the rest of the passengers. It was almost an Olympic event to reach the street outside the station. I was on a car near the middle of the train, which meant there was nearly a quarter-mile of walking before I would reach the door into the station itself. The train stopped, the doors opened, and a flood of people burst out from every car on the train onto the platform outside. It didn’t help that on the opposite side of the platform, another train sat empty, waiting for passengers who flooded the left-hand side of the concrete slab. I approached the threshold of the train door, saying to myself, Here we go, Janie.
Hiking my case a bit higher on my shoulder, I picked up the pace to walk down the long platform. There was still quite a ways to go and other connections to be made before I reached home. There were many more potential pitfalls to look forward to on the day’s journey.
Westinghouse Station during the rush hours can be packed with people and today was no exception. As a result, it was going to be nearly impossible to get anywhere quickly. All tracks appeared to be busy with trains coming or going at ten or fifteen minute intervals; getting past all the people packed in the terminal was like a sardine trying to squeeze past a few thousand other sardines in a tiny can.
Stepping into the station itself, I glanced to my right and was immediately blindsided by a large man in a suit. I was nearly knocked down, but caught myself before I hit the ground. Looking back at the man already five steps past me, I realized he hadn’t even muttered an apology. I clenched my jaw, but took a deep breath.
He isn’t worth it. Hold it together.
Instead of yelling at the rude man, I joined all of the other fish in the can and started weaving through the tightly-packed bodies around me, making my way towards the old station. I rounded the corner and stopped when I saw that people down the passage ahead of me were crowded by the entrance—the exit in my case. I was pretty sure I saw a few dark blue police hats over the top of everyone’s heads, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Maybe they would arrest the man who almost knocked me down. I shook my head, clearing the ridiculous thought out of my head.
I had to get home, police or not. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I didn’t have the time to be curious so I quickly turned and headed for a different route to get outside. I headed for the escalator which comes out on the east side of the building closest to the South Branch of the Galeburgh River. That would put me out close to Iris Boulevard, a block from the bus I typically took this time of the day.
I sure wasn’t the only one who had that idea.
An older lady, probably somewhere in her early eighties, was walking in front of me. Check th
at, not really walking so much as shuffling her feet to an almost imperceptible rhythm. She had grey hair, recently permed, and wore a bright pink coat. I remembered the pink coat distinctly. Who could forget it? She must’ve stuck it in a closet in the 70’s and had just brought it back out. Besides the color, the odor of stale mothballs lingered in my nostrils.
Anyway, with the thick crowds around me I could not get around her as I walked to my target escalator. I reached the escalator just behind Pink Coat Lady and stepped on right behind her. I was trying hard to hold my irritation in check; I really needed to get home and the speed bump in pink wasn’t helping any.
Keep it together, I repeated to myself. Doing this commute as long as I had, I realized long ago that letting annoyances slide off your back was the key to survival.
I had just leaned into the handrail to get a little weight off my feet for a moment when a loud rumble spread across the large walkway. The sounds were clearly coming from outside. I saw a few uncomfortable looks on people’s faces nearby, but I kept my face impassive. I immediately suspected what it might be and I did not have time for it.
After a few seconds of silence, the volume of the voices around me increased. There was worry, fear, excitement, curiosity—whatever they all felt, I didn’t have time for it. I was just concerned about getting past Pink Coat Lady and making it home to make dinner.
“Screw this, I’m going back,” a man’s voice rang out above the din.
I saw the same man who barreled into me a few minutes earlier hop the railing and head back down the stairs between the two sets of escalators. A few other people seemed to weigh the decision briefly, then followed the jerk. I didn’t even bother to consider it. Maybe it was because he had been a jerk, but there was no way I was going back. I needed to get home.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the man on the stairs get knocked on his back by a bright green blur. The blur wove its way up the stairs and out the exit sooner than we could register what had just happened. The blur was just barely visible to the naked eye and it wasn’t surprising the large man in the suit didn’t see it. He hadn’t seen me a few moments earlier, after all.
Maybe that blur wasn’t seen by all of us, but the air displacement was sure noticeable as a gust of air kicked up just after the blur passed by.
The Pink Coat Lady ahead of me cried out and lost her balance. I smelled the scent of perm solution mixing with the aroma of mothballs as she fell backwards into my chest. I had the presence of mind to brace my back leg behind me and I caught her as she fell back into me. I grabbed the railing and pushed her upright again.
All in all, she was very nice about it and was in the process of thanking me when the tall geeky kid behind me interrupted us and tapped me on the shoulder. “Was that who I think it was?”
“I guess,” I said, shrugging my shoulders back at the kid, who looked a tad slack-jawed at the moment. I didn’t have time for this. “It probably is.”
The comment broke the kid out of a reverie with a frown of his uni-eyebrow and a confused look on his face. “You mean you don’t know?”
Not to be rude, but those kinds of things have never interested me. Really, people in silly costumes, spandex and leather, dastardly plans or saving the day. I mean, grow up. Get a job—or raise some kids.
“Kid, it isn’t that I don’t know. I just don’t care.”
I got the same slack-jawed look I’d gotten before, but I wasn’t concerned with a teenager’s mood in Westinghouse Station. I guided Pink Coat Lady to the nearest bench. I waited a beat to make sure she was okay, but the door was in sight. I headed for the exit, but before I got there, another boom came from just outside the doors and shook the chandeliers hanging above us.
But the chandeliers weren’t just shaking. They were cracking, along with all the glass nearby, including the panes in the doors leading outside. As I continued trying to reach those doors, a surge started to push against me as people from the outside began streaming inside the station.
A single police officer, along with two of the Westinghouse Station security officers, was attempting to divert the traffic back down the opposite escalator—the very direction I did not want to go. The officer looked like he spent most of his time sitting behind a desk. He was wider than he was tall and sported a bristly salt and pepper mustache.
“Hey! Whadda think you’re doing?” Officer Mustache asked when I squeezed past the two security guards. I pretended like I didn’t hear him and he called out again. “Lady, I’m talking to you. It ain’t safe out there! We’re keeping everyone inside!”
I motioned to my ears as I reached the door handle. “No habla Ingles,” I said hastily, knowing he wasn’t going to chance a heart attack by chasing me. Not when the food court was just a few dozen feet away.
At this point, you might ask why I would do such a thing. Why would anyone go outside when things out there were so obviously questionable the authorities were trying to contain people? Why would simple little Janie, all five foot three inches of me, venture out into this particular frying pan?
The simple answer—someone was counting on me. I had to get home. There were no two ways about it. If I had to, I’d jog home, but I would rather try to find another bus or take a taxi if I had to.
As I slipped out the door onto the sidewalk, I tried to find cover from the eyes behind me as soon as possible. Quickly I jumped over a low wrought-iron fence and crept through a cafe’s outside seating area and towards the street.
Once I had a chance to really take in my surroundings, I noticed things were deserted, especially for this time of day.
It was odd for Galeburgh at rush hour, but remembering the bright green blur in addition to the booming and the shaking, I could only assume that this kind of thing was happening throughout the city. For a brief instant, I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to deal with the hordes of people leaving the Stock Market when I walked past today. But my relief was short-lived when the eastbound lanes of the bridge in front of me collapsed and fell into the river.
Sigh. Just a different type of commute.
The exit from the station comes out right next to a riverwalk that was usually filled with people. Right now there was nobody to be seen anywhere on it, especially since half the bridge had just disappeared before my eyes. Across the street, a couple of people ducked into the bank. I didn’t blame them after watching the bridge disintegrate. Jackson Street in front of me was lined with cabs, but there were no drivers to be seen. It looked like I had just stumbled into the shootout at the OK Corral, but at the time I had the poor sense not to recognize it.
The remaining half-bridge was still stable enough to cross, but I doubt I would have found a structural engineer who would have advised it. Good thing I didn’t have any of those handy.
I decided to hoof it—and fast.
I ran. There was a lot of noise behind me as I hurried across that bridge. I heard loud booming and the sound of crunching metal morphing into crashing metal and glass. I glanced back a few times, but whatever was happening must have been around some streetcorner out of sight. I managed to make it across the swaying bridge, and then I hurried to get through the gap between the two tall buildings on each side of the road on the other side of the river.
I reached Yellowtail Drive and plastered myself to the side of the building next to one of the many copies of a Hank’s Pharmacy before I carefully looked each way. To the left and up was a blocky building called the Richards Tower, the tallest building in the world. Okay, okay, you probably don’t call it the Richards Tower. Up until a few years ago, everyone called it Eagle Point Tower, but then that billionaire Jorge Richards swooped in and plastered his name all over it. Now there were huge letters up and down on all four sides spelling his name, as if anyone could forget it. He made the building an eyesore. I don’t know anyone who actually calls it Richards Tower, purely out of spite. There was another tower next to Eagle Point with a more modern design, but no one knew its name. I sure didn’t.
Anyway, I looked around the corner next to Hank’s and saw a lot of open space in front of me. Yellowtail was huge when the cars were off the roads—three lanes, a turning lane, a divider, and three more lanes. Both Eagle Point and the other building across the street were pretty far back from the curb.
I tried to plan my next course of action. After crossing the street, there would be a large wall to my left on the Eagle Point Tower side. The property across the street had a large courtyard in front, so there was no real protection from the events around me on that side.
Out of the corner of my eye on the right, I saw a car rise up in the air near the bus lane on River Road by the old station building. A man in purple was halfway visible around the corner facing the other direction. That would be Magne-something-or-other-Guy. Bad news. I remembered hearing about him on the news when Robert was watching Channel 8 some weeks back. This guy had what you might call “a strong magnetic personality” and wasn’t shy at all about displaying it.
I turned and looked the other way down Jackson, and it looked clear as far as I could see, which admittedly was only about two or three blocks. I decided that was good enough for me. I knew I could find a route home in that direction. Forget the bus with all this going on. Galeburgh Transit Company would shut it all down as soon as they could when the superpowers came out. Too much liability.
If some big baddies came out at this point I’d be pretty exposed. I didn’t like the idea of venturing out into that.
There wasn’t much evidence of recent human activity here, either. I looked south on Yellowtail, confirming my suspicions by noting a police barricade a few blocks away. This must’ve been going on for a little while now, and I just walked right into it. Smart.
The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection Page 12
