by Various
“We can find you another place,” Spinks said.
“Not so sure I want you all knowing where I am either, no offense.”
“Then I guess offering to bring you into the labs, see about fixing your aging problem is off the table?”
Jim shrugged. It was tempting.
How many times had he gone overlooked as a kid as he went into some porn den and smashed it to pieces, whereas an adult might’ve been questioned. How many kids had Pan saved from the kind of hell Tink had gone through with Ormond?
Maybe Father Eladio was right.
Maybe the Power came as it had for a reason.
“Up to you,” said Spinks, closing his case. “I’ll keep the Agency off you as best I can. I can’t speak for everybody. They’ll still come looking, eventually.”
“Who knows?” said Father Eladio. “Maybe these girls will pave the way for Pan.”
Spinks said nothing to that, but pursed his lips and gave Jim a don’t-count-on-it. The California Girls were sweethearts floating on cotton candy clouds. Pan was a rat catcher down in the muck.
“Try to keep your hands clean, Jim,” he said, touched his eyebrow, and went upstairs.
“Adios, Amon,” called Father Eladio. “I’ll wait by the mailbox for that check.”
“Might want to bring an umbrella,” Spinks called down before the door opened and shut.
“He’s right,” said the blind priest, when Jim stood up to go. “You ought to keep your hands clean. Qui cum canibus concumbunt cum pulicibus surgent.”
“That’s not Spanish.”
“Latin. When you lie down with dogs, you rise with fleas.”
“Is that in the Bible?”
“Poor Richard’s Almanac, I think. Did you have to kill Ormond?”
“No.”
"So, you did it because you wanted to. You ever think maybe he was once the kind of kid you fight to protect?”
“How many kids are abused, Father? They deal with it in different ways. To give him a pass would be an insult to all the ones who don’t do what he did.”
To Tink, he thought. He had tried. Tink hadn’t been perfect, but he had never hurt anybody but himself. That counted for something.
Jim put his foot on the stair and instinctively touched the light switch.
He paused and looked back at the priest sitting at the table frowning in his dark glasses.
“You want me to turn off the light?”
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” said Father Eladio with a grin.
Jim switched it off and spared a look at the priest. His lenses still caught the ambient light, and glinted in the black.
“You’re walking a high wire, kid. And it’s a steep drop.”
“It’s okay,” said Jim. “I can fly.””
He went stiffly up the stairs.
Avenger
G.N. Braun
ONE
The morning my life changed, I killed some Girl Guides.
They say shit happens, but fuck, that’s a new low. I’ve seen enough things go SNAFU to pray it never happens again. Especially around me.
I used to be a security guard. Simple days apprehending idiots, and simple nights sleeping the sleep of the just. I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. I was one of the good guys. Now, I just don’t know. I have no idea where I stand in the spectrum of Good versus Evil.
Killing little girls, that’s not a normal day, but it’s close enough. I don’t kill kids most days, but I do kill most days. The thing to remember here is that I don’t kill normal people. I kill things that are similar to people.
For most of humanity’s history, we’ve walked around with blinkers on. Until recently, we chose not to see what existed right under our noses. The thing is, I think if we could have seen what’s really out there, we’d all have run screaming off the nearest cliff. I know I feel like doing that, every single morning.
Chimerics. We all knew of them. We just didn’t know what some of these super-powered jokers were really up to. Aside from all the news reports, which was pretty much 24-7 for the last few years, especially the recent on-camera death of the Red Wraith, I think everyone nodded at, admired, feared, and kinda-sorta-believed without really, you know, believing. The point-of-no-return for me, the one moment when I saw what was really going on around us norms, began as just another typical day at my so-called work.
I was guarding South Pointe’s Steel River Square mall from terrorist emos and suicide-punks. The biggest threats I’d faced on a daily basis were shoplifters and drunken college kids. Didn’t mean I couldn’t handle myself, though. I could fight, for sure, and use a pistol or rifle, but I’d never had to fight for my life during this particular job. Sure, I’d had to knock the crap out of a group of drunks a few times, and I broke a gangbanger’s arm when he’d tried to hold up the Starbucks out front—what moron holds up a freaking coffee shop?—but, jeez, nothing like this.
This particular morning, I was walking through the car-park, not even on work time, when I noticed a van nearby. It was nothing special, nothing noteworthy, but the blood smeared on the side door caught my eye.
Fake, I thought. A movie prop, or some emo kid’s idea of decorating, but the van itself looked weathered and unkempt. Not the sort of vehicle someone would care about enough to bother with window dressing like a fake blood splatter spray-painted or stuck on. It looked like one of a million delivery vans in Motor Hills, the private kind with no logo or business name, but still busy as hell, which gave it the aged, older-than-it-actually-was feel.
I walked over, grabbing my canister of pepper spray I carried with me; I didn’t have a concealed-carry license, so my gun was locked in the case I held in one hand. I should have taken the time to get it out, but a sense of social niceties stopped me.
I reached the van and walked around it once. Nobody in the front, and the back was closed up. Tinted windows, shitty paint-job, and blood splattered all over the side door, dripping down onto the ground. It looked fresh. I pulled out my phone and called 911, and then went to have a closer look.
I heard movement inside, a muffled grunt, and some sobbing. Someone was inside, maybe in trouble. I thumped on the sliding door. “Hello? Anyone in there?”
Nothing.
I thumped again. I wanted to wait for the cops, but they could take an hour to get to a shooting, let alone a call about some blood-splattered vehicle with no sign of perp or victim.
Another grunt, some whimpering, then nothing.
Fuck it, I thought. I tried the handle. Locked. I went to the driver’s side front door. It opened. I looked for keys. Nothing. I noticed the separator between cab and back wasn’t solid, just a curtain. I stepped into the cab sneakily as I could, pepper spray ready, and reached forward to slide the curtain aside, shining daylight onto a nightmare.
Blood. Rivers of it, running down the channels in the floor, spread all over the wall, and especially on the body of what was probably once a pretty young girl. She was maybe eighteen, certainly no older than twenty. Even in agony, her eyes, looking back at me from a few inches away, held a certain innocence. A vigor only seen in the young. I couldn’t see anything else. My vision tunneled until I could only see her eyes. I should have died then, watching her die, unable to stop long enough to defend myself. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me, too, but he concentrated on her. I could hear the meaty sounds. Feel the blows as he hit her back. Blood spattered, her eyes grew wider; I watched the life leave those eyes. They glazed, she slumped, and then I could see what was really happening.
I wished I couldn’t.
Through the curtain, I saw a shape. It seemed like a normal man, but the glowing red eyes made me think I must have just gone mad. That I wasn’t here at all, but in a padded room somewhere, doped up and the center of attention for a group of research psychologists. Strapped to a table somewhere. Anywhere but here. Seeing anything but this.
I think I would have pinched mys
elf, but instead I staggered out of the van, fell to my knees, and threw up my breakfast. I was torn between continuing to heave up more bacon and eggs, or getting the hell out of there.
I couldn’t believe I’d seen what I thought I had, so I didn’t feel like running. I must have been imagining things. If I ran, I’d be admitting it was real, that I had actually seen what couldn't possibly be real. That’s what I kept telling myself as I heard the door slide open behind me, heard the sound of bare feet on the asphalt.
I knew whoever (whatever) he was, he was too close to me, so I moved. I dove into a roll, straight over the still-steaming remains of my breakfast. I felt the warm pool soak into my arm and shoulder, but I was too worried about who (what) was coming out of the van to worry about a bit of vomit on my uniform.
I came up facing what appeared to be a normal man. No sign of the glowing red eyes, no sign of claws and teeth. I was insane. He still posed a threat, though. I’d seen what he’d done to that poor girl.
I scooted back on my ass and brought up the can of pepper spray, letting loose a stream of noxious liquid, hitting him in the neck and chest. The guy flinched as the fumes rose up and hit him. Problem was, he kept coming. I stood up, ready to rectify that.
“You need to stop right there, pal,” I said, “and get on your knees.”
He kept moving toward me, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning who’d realized he had more presents than he deserved.
“I said on your fucking knees, dirtbag.” I scrambled to my feet and sprayed another burst of liquid ‘stop-right-where-the-fuck-you-are’ at him, but the stream petered out after a split second, not even making it halfway.
Cheap-ass security budget, I thought. I dropped the can and readied to pound this guy to a bloody pulp. I could take him. He was half my size, and I was fit and dangerous. Apart from the blood all over him, he looked like some college kid that should be home playing GTA V, not some douchebag in a mall car-park butchering young co-eds.
He moved in, faster and smoother than I thought he would, so I stepped up and push-kicked him in the gut. At least I tried to.
He moved to the side, so fast I could barely see, and grabbed my ankle before I could pull back. I was already over-extended, but now he had hold of my leg with both hands, so I leaned forward, placed all my weight onto his arms, and slammed a hammer-fist onto his collarbone. I felt it snap. He staggered back, still holding onto me and causing me to hop so I didn’t do the splits. He should have dropped my ankle and collapsed or, at the least, lost all use of the arm on the side of the break. But nothing.
I looked at the bastard, really looked at him, for one of those long split-seconds you get in fights, and his face didn’t even register pain.
Not right. I leaped from my left foot—the one still connected to the ground—and slammed into him, wrapping my arms around his head and twisting, using my weight to rip him to the side and swing him around to slam him to the tarmac.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Yeah, he lifted off the ground, but he let go of my leg and turned what should have been an uncontrolled flight into a calm and graceful roll. I let go as he did, and we both ended up on the same footing we’d started off. Me facing him from about three feet away, him looking calm and collected. Much more calm and collected than he should be with a broken collarbone. This time I was warier.
He lunged, and even though I wasn’t prepared for such a fast attack, I deflected and grabbed his arm. I brought my knee up and snapped his elbow. He howled—literally howled—then stumbled back a few steps and fell onto his ass.
I went to follow through, then saw a wall of black heading my way. Cars. Large, black cars, with a few large, black vans thrown in for good measure. I stepped back, checked out where the guy was (no longer a threat) and put my hands in the air.
These were not cops. The vehicles had a ‘government agency’ look. Great. Either paramilitary cops like the Department of Chimeric Defense or, even worse, Feds. These days, seemed both liked to shoot first and poke through the wreckage later; I sure as hell didn’t want them emptying their cannons in me.
The vehicles screamed to a stop in a semicircle. By now, a crowd had gathered to watch, and at least ten guys in black tactical overalls jumped out of two of the vans. They forced people back, while another four guys hustled toward me, guns up and aimed in my direction.
“On your knees, on your knees,” they screamed.
I dropped and kept my hands up. Six more rushed the guy I’d disabled, cuffing his feet and hands, and dragging him off toward the vans. He seemed close to unconscious, yet they still seemed wary of him.
I was grabbed by two of them and cuffed. No leg cuffs, though. Not like the other guy. They weren’t as worried about me as they were him. I was dragged to the back door of a large four-wheel-drive and thrown inside. And when I say they threw me, I mean threw me. I landed in the middle of the back seat, hands still cuffed behind me. Dark, slick leather. I struggled up to a sitting position, but the door slammed shut before I was balanced enough to turn and ask anything.
I slipped my hands under my ass, shuffled a bit, trying to do what I’d seen in so many films. It took me about three seconds to work out there was no way I’d ever get my legs through the hoop of cuffs and arms. Guess I’d have to leave that to the short-legged guys and contortionists.
In front of me, a solid, darkened screen stretched across the entire gap between front and back. No way out there. In cars like this, those screens were usually hardened glass. I focused on the doors. No handles on the inside. Nope, I wasn’t going anywhere. I got used to that idea and settled back to try and relax until they came back to let me know what the fuck they wanted. All the windows were tinted so deep they had to be illegal. I couldn’t see a thing. And I wasn’t going anywhere. Time to go with the flow.
I waited what felt like hours until I heard the front doors open. I kicked at the divider, but got no response as the car started moving. Next thing I heard was a hiss as what I suspected was gas flowed through the vents. That’s all I could manage thinking before I blacked out.
TWO
I woke up naked and alone. Normal for me, apart from not knowing where the hell I was, although that'd happened before, too. My eyes hurt and my head ached, and as I remembered some vague details, I guessed I was suffering symptoms of being gassed by a bunch of black ops assholes. I felt like shit and as I tried to sit up, the pounding in my head got worse.
Sucked to be me.
I tried real hard and managed to focus on my surroundings. Looked like someone’s daughter’s room. Frilly four-poster bed, trimmed all in pinks and purples; posters of Bieber and One Direction plastered the walls. White side-table. White guitar on a stand. A half-open closet that looked empty. I closed my eyes and tried to stop the pounding. I sat there for a second, trying to put what I remembered into a logical order, and then decided that was as bad an idea as the whole Bieber/One Direction thing. It just wasn’t gonna end well, for anyone involved.
I looked around for something to wear and saw a pile of clothes sitting on a nearby chair, something I’d missed when I looked the first time. My uniform and other odds and ends were there; no phone, of course. No smell of vomit. They’d been cleaned. I got dressed and looked around my prison. I think the posters amplified my headache more than anything else. I swore that sooner or later someone would pay for those posters. Some things could never be forgiven.
Three hours I sat there. Three hours staring at anything but the Bieber Direction. Finally, I heard a click that signaled a lock turning. I got up, moving to stand near the door so I could catch whoever it was unaware.
I waited a minute. Nothing happened.
“Mister Stoner, please stand away from the door.” A voice rang through the room, generic and loud. Hidden speaker. Judging by the comment there was a hidden camera, too. No use looking around for it, as it could be anywhere. I stepped back until the bed touched the back of my leg
s.
“Thank you.”
The door opened and two men stepped through, briskly stepping to either side of the door. One black, the other Hispanic, both soldiers, judging by their bearing and state of alertness. If it’s one thing I knew after fourteen years in the military, it was soldiers. Each carried a cattle-prod. The electric type. Not something I enjoyed being hit with, and before you ask, yes, I have been hit with those before.
“Please step out the door, turn to your right, and walk to the end of the corridor,” the voice said. “There, you will find a blue door. Enter it.”
I had nothing to gather, so I stepped forward, between Dumb and Dumber, and turned to the right. A long, white corridor, lit with fluorescent tubes that extended all the way along the centre of the ceiling, led to, you guessed it, a blue door. There were a few other doors, all different colors, but I kept going to the blue, as directed. I stopped, grabbed the handle, looked behind to where Dumb and Dumber were following me, and twisted the handle.
I walked into a large room with one window that was curtained off, dominated by a round conference table, where a small man sat. He reminded me a little of Niles Crane from that show Frasier. Thin more than slim, a pinched face. Balding blond hair so pale it was almost white. Hands steepled together. Just sitting there, looking at me with pale blue eyes, saying nothing.
I moved over to the table. Sat down opposite him. Said nothing, just looked. Not at him, but everywhere else. There was really nothing to look at, but I managed to avoid his eyes for what seemed a full five minutes. I glanced up to see him still staring at me, just sitting there. Looking at me. Guess I’d have to make the first move.
“So you’re a Bieber fan? A Belieber?”
“Are you always such a smartass?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Pretty much.”
“We all need a coping mechanism.” He turned away, pulled a remote from his jacket, and pressed a button. A smooth whirr filled the room as a screen slid down from the ceiling. “My name’s Mister White. I represent a group that knows the truth about the world we live in.”
