“And the Lord said, ‘Let there be light,’” Delroy says. He speaks with confidence but throws the main breaker with caution. His recognizes the limits of his skill as an electrician.
His self-doubt proves unfounded; the overhead fluorescent lights pop on without a flicker or flutter or, best of all, a spray of sparks and the stinging smell of wires melting. He scans the lights and smiles to himself.
“Looks like we have a few tubes out but we have enough light to see by,” Mick says.
“Sweet. Another item off the list.”
Delroy digs his checklist and a pen out of his pocket and crosses a line through the item RESTORE POWER. There are several tasks left to address, but most of the critical jobs have been dispensed with. Seal up broken windows to keep the worst of the cold out? Check. Acquire cots and blankets? Check. Set up living quarters? Check. The mezzanine doesn’t provide any privacy from one another, but it’s off the cold concrete floor. Get the water running again? Check. He reviews the remaining items and crosses off GET GAS BACK ON, firm in his belief none of them possess the ability to successfully jump a gas meter. He adds BUY SPACE HEATERS below GET REFRIGERATOR and GET STOVE. A fridge and a stove, those could be tricky. Removing the appliances from his house isn’t outside the realm of possibility but doing so could attract unwanted attention. So could going back to Home Depot to buy a fridge and a stove, for that matter, and that’s assuming he could afford them.
“How much money we got left?”
Mick, the only one Delroy trusts to hold the money, thumbs through a wad of bills that, several hours ago, was twice as thick. “Little over three hundred,” he reports.
“That’s it?”
“Don’t know what to tell you, man. Wasn’t like any of us had a fortune in our bank accounts.”
Delroy curses. “We’re going to burn through that in a couple days if we have to keep buying takeout for every meal.”
“Then we go out and get more money. Duh,” Van says. “Wasn’t that the whole point of this?”
“We need more time to train with the new equipment.”
“We don’t have more time, do we?”
“He’s not wrong,” Jonas says.
“No, he ain’t,” Delroy concedes.
Like it or not, he thinks, it’s time to get back to work.
FOURTEEN
On Wednesday, after Stuart and Missy take their uneventful ride-alongs, Chief Bronson contacts Concorde to tell him how pleased he is with us and to request that we make ourselves available for regular shifts — one of us each day, accompanying an officer on his or her patrol. If we do well, he might assign us to independent patrol duty, but for now, we’re to be partnered with a Kingsport cop.
Mindforce and Astrid are also attached to this special detail. Natalie, to her profound annoyance, is still on injured reserve and off the schedule for now. Concorde reached out to the Entity as a matter of protocol, but I doubt he’ll respond. I can’t picture him sitting in a patrol car making small talk with a cop.
Third shift was a good introduction, but the chief wants us for second shift — two in the afternoon until ten at night — which tends to be a busier time of day. It also works better for us; it’ll disrupt our school responsibilities and personal lives a lot less, which will be a novel experience. The chief hopes our presence won’t be needed for very long. He guesses, perhaps optimistically, enough of his people will be back on duty by the end of January that he can let us go back to doing our own thing.
Matt insists on taking the first official shift on Thursday. The rest of us are happy to let him. His parents? Not so much. Mr. Steiger calls me that night asking if Matt’s with me and then, after I say no, demands to know where he is. I say he’s out patrolling Kingsport, and that sparks what I’m sure is an epic rant. I can’t say for certain because I hang up after he shouts, “How long are you stupid kids going to keep this nonsense up?” in my ear. I delete his four subsequent voicemails without listening to them.
Matt doesn’t have that luxury. On the ride in to school the next morning, he tells me that after he got home, his dad laid into him hard.
“I’m getting good at tuning him out,” he says. “I don’t remember a single thing he screamed at me.”
“Things aren’t getting any better? At all?” I say.
“Nope. Not getting any worse, though, so there’s that.”
“Pft. I’d take not getting worse in a hot second; Grandma’s coming in tomorrow,” Stuart says. He twists around in the passenger’s seat and says in a dead-on impression of his father, complete with emphatic finger-pointing, “‘You aren’t listening to us, but by God, you’ll listen to her.’”
“I heard from Mom finally,” Missy says. “She’s staying with Grandma on Long Island.”
“Did she call you?” I ask.
Missy shakes her head. “Got a text. All it said was, ‘Staying with Mom.’ She didn’t say when she’s coming back.” She hits me with the hard pouty face she makes whenever she’s trying not to cry. “She didn’t even ask me how I was doing.”
“I’m sorry, Muppet.”
She shrugs.
“What about you?” Stuart asks. “Christina mellowed out at all?”
“I guess so. There’s still, like, a ton of tension between us — telling Ben about me sure didn’t help anything — but I feel like she’s getting used to it.”
No one responds. I fidget in my seat. I’m the girl boasting about nailing the big English test to all her friends who are staring at big red Fs.
Change the subject. That always works, right? There we were, in the Congo...
“How was the ride-along last night?” I ask Matt. “Anything interesting happen?”
Matt pulls into the school parking lot and eases his car into his usual space near the back. “It was, according to Officer DeCarlo, a very routine shift. He handed out some speeding tickets, made a couple passes through the mall to make sure holiday shoppers were parking in marked spaces, took a statement from Walmart loss prevention regarding a couple who walked out of the store with TVs under each arm...”
“Nothing too thrilling.”
“No. But that doesn’t mean any of you should get complacent,” Matt says, suddenly all businesslike. “You never know what might happen, so don’t let your guard down for one second. Stay sharp and stay safe.”
“Yessir, commander boss sir,” Stuart says, saluting.
“Hey! I’m not joking, Stuart, and you shouldn’t be either,” Matt snaps. “If you can’t take this seriously, you let me know now so I can find someone else to take your shift.”
Stuart says what we’re all thinking. “Dude, what the hell is your problem? Jeez, man, you’ve been acting like...I don’t know.”
“Like Concorde,” I say. “Back when he didn’t like us.”
“Oh, dude,” Stuart gasps, “she’s right. You are totally Concorde-ing us. What’s up with that?”
Matt steps out of the car, effectively ending the discussion.
“I am right, aren’t I?” I say. “Matt has been acting like old-school Concorde, hasn’t he?”
“He’s had his moments, yeah,” Stuart says.
“But why?” Missy says. “Did we do something?”
“Wish I knew, Muppet,” I say. “Wish I knew.”
***
It’s a traditional last day of school before a vacation week; neither the students nor the teachers want to do any intellectual heavy lifting, so classes are nothing but reviews and discussions about what we learned over the past quarter. What’s noteworthy is the fact that everything is back to normal. The classrooms are full again and the regular teachers have returned, which means most if not all of Kingsport’s evacuees have returned. Funny how quickly people can bounce back from something like an alien ship crash-landing on their proverbial doorstep.
The world at large could take a lesson from us. From what I’ve been hearing through Matt, Edison — or rather, Concorde — has been teleconferencing nonstop with
the White House to discuss, as it’s becoming known, “the Kingsport Landing.” People want to know if another invasion is imminent, or at least likely; how the planet could effectively fend off another “aggressive alien incursion” in the face of such superior firepower; whether we should attempt to enter into peaceful negotiations with “our extraterrestrial neighbors” or “prepare a display of our global unity and military strength,” which is utterly laughable considering we aren’t even capable of reaching Mars yet. If nothing else, I’ve learned that our government loves euphemisms.
Before I leave school, Ashlyn catches up to me and passes off her Christmas present for Carrie. I promise to make sure she gets it. She believes me and bounces off, blissful in her ignorance. I kind of envy her.
Matt drives me into town. I change in the back seat on the way, and man am I getting tired of wrestling in and out of my clothes in the back of his car. He pulls up in front of the police station, and as I climb out, he tells me to keep my eyes open and —
“Don’t let my guard down, I know,” I say.
“What I was going to say was, if you need backup, make sure to call me,” Matt says. “I’ll be at work until five and I plan to do some independent patrolling tonight.”
“Independent patrolling?”
“Driving around in my own car,” he clarifies.
“The chief okayed that already?” Matt’s silence speaks volumes. “Maybe you should stick to your scheduled shifts and not be such a workaholic. Go home and get some rest.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” he says.
“Yeah, you have a nice day too, Concorde Junior,” I mutter as he drives off.
I check in with dispatch. They send me to the conference room, where I find Sgt. Scotty waiting for me. “There she is,” she says.
“Sergeant, hi,” I say, pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing here? I thought you worked third shift.”
She sighs and gives me a weary smile. “I work whichever shift I’m needed for, and today I’m needed for second shift because Drew’s daughter brought home an ick from kindergarten and shared it with the family.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but not sorry.”
She laughs. “Let’s go.”
We head out to begin our initial patrol, a leisurely drive around central and southern Kingsport. Nothing much is going on anywhere, although I notice the center of town is busier than it should be for this time of day.
“Everyone’s slipping out of work early so they can get a jump on their holiday weekend,” Sgt. Scotty says. “Once it gets dark things will calm down a lot, except over at the mall. Place will be a zoo for the next few days. Hope you have all your Christmas shopping done.”
“I don’t have any of it done,” I say, only now realizing that. “No, that’s not true. I have stuff for my girlfriend but I got that weeks ago. I’ve been too busy to do any other shopping.”
“I hear you. Got any big plans?”
“...Not really.”
“I’m sorry, am I getting into a sensitive area?”
“Kind of. Mostly because my best friend isn’t around this year.”
“Why not?”
“Because she left Earth to fight alien terrorists.”
Sgt. Scotty does a double take. “Ohh. Something to do with the spaceship.”
“Uh-huh. Long story.”
“I bet.”
“But the end result is, Lightstorm is gone and I don’t know if she’s coming back.”
If? Why did I say if? When. It’s when, not if. God, Sara, don’t even go down that road.
“Keep the faith, partner,” Sgt. Scotty says. “Maybe you’ll get a Christmas miracle yet.”
Maybe. It’d be nice. Not going to hold my breath though.
We’re about to finish our first circuit when the call comes in: silent alarm at the Kingsport Credit Union. Sgt. Scotty flips on the lights and sirens before gunning the engine. The acceleration presses me into my seat. I dig my fingers into the passenger’s side door armrest as we rocket down Main Street. Cars squeeze against the curb to let us through.
“Don’t get too fired up. Could be a false alarm, and if it’s not, any suspects are likely to be long gone,” Sgt. Scotty says. “If we do walk into something? I don’t want you running in ahead of me. You follow my lead. I know you can handle yourself —”
She doesn’t finish the thought. As we roar up on the bank, a series of sharp pops punch through the wail of the siren. Dime-sized holes stitch across the far side of the windshield and the window near Sgt. Scotty. She cries out, her body jerking as if in the grip of a seizure. Her hands come off the wheel, and the cruiser veers hard to the left. I grab for the wheel, hoping I can regain control before we crash, but I move too quickly, and my seatbelt locks up. The cruiser jumps the curb and runs over a fire hydrant. The impact isn’t enough to trigger the airbags, but it does cause the seatbelt to bite into me and steal my breath away. The cruiser shudders to a stop with a squeal of grinding metal and a strange, low roar coming from somewhere beneath us.
I don’t get a chance to analyze it. A man jumps onto the hood of the cruiser and punches the windshield. It bows inward, cracks erupting across its width. A second punch knocks it free of the frame along the top edge. He rears back to finish the job. I gesture, visualizing the desired effect like Mindforce taught me. The windshield tears free of the cruiser and flies away, taking with it the guy on the hood.
I reach for the seatbelt buckle, twisting in place. That little bit of movement saves my life. A steel shaft as thick as my thumb pierces the passenger’s side window and grazes my shoulder. A scream catches in my throat. Near miss or no, it hurts like hell.
On instinct I throw my power at the door. It rips off its hinges and slams into the man standing behind it. They sail across the street and land with a bounce on the sidewalk.
Something slices through the frame of the cruiser like the proverbial hot knife through butter. I recoil from a brief spray of sparks and then retaliate without looking, without thinking. My telekinetic burst splits the frame, peeling back the corner of the roof, and nails my latest playmate. He drops out of sight.
That’s three close-range assaults countered, but the first attack was gunfire. That means there’s at least one more person to worry about. And there he is, standing at the entrance of the bank, gawking at his fallen friends. Why is he dressed like a —?
A construction worker. A guy dressed like a construction worker, knocking over the Kingsport Credit Union in broad daylight. It can’t be...
Worry about it later, Sara. Move. Get out of the cruiser. Draw the fight away from Sgt. Scotty.
I stumble out of the cruiser and step into a spreading puddle. Water gushes out from beneath the cruiser, from the stump of the fire hydrant, and slops over my boots. My movement catches the gunman’s attention. The Riveter, that’s what he called himself last time — assuming it’s the same guy, but I can’t imagine two different gangs would adopt the exact same lame motif, right down to the weapons. He brings his gun up and lays into the trigger. I ignore the burning sensation spreading from my wound, bring up a shield, and wait for the Riveter to empty his magazine. The gun falls silent after a few seconds. I take the opening and throw a force blast at him. The impact hurls him back through the bank door.
A large, muscular African-American man charges me. I catch a glimpse of a solid steel gauntlet covering his hand and forearm. This would be Hammertime. Hammerman? Something stupid like that. I bring up my shield. His punch doesn’t make contact, but I still feel it; the energy of the blow transfers enough to send me staggering. Damn you, basic physics.
Hammerman stays on me, windmilling punches into my shield, driving me back. I control my retreat as best as I can. I have to. If I trip now, I’m screwed.
Driller Killer gets back to his feet and joins his buddy. I spread my shield out. His arm-mounted drills skid off harmlessly, but now I have two — no, three opponents to worry about because here comes Chainsaw Charl
ie. He circles around behind me and lunges. I spread my shield to surround me completely. He smacks into it face-first, stumbles back, shakes it off, revs the chainsaw blades strapped to his arms, and comes in again.
Breathe. Block out the pain. Focus.
I inhale, bringing the shield in with my breath, then release a defiant roar. My shield explodes outward, flinging my attackers away. Then I drop to a knee, my head spinning from exertion, from blood loss, from days and days of exhaustion I have yet to recover from.
Dammit, get up. Finish them off.
A piercing wail stabs my ears, and for a blessed and too-brief instant, I feel a sense of relief wash over me. It’s a siren, I think. It’s another cruiser, en route to back me up — but it isn’t. Dear God, it isn’t.
“BACK OFF!” the Riveter bellows. The little boy tucked under his arm squirms and thrashes and screams. The Riveter yells at him to shut up and presses the barrel of his gun to the boy’s head. “BACK THE HELL OFF!”
“Okay! Okay, I’m standing down!” I say. I try to show the Riveter my hands, show him I’m complying, but my right arm doesn’t respond. I become distantly aware of something hot and wet creeping down my sleeve. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t hurt the kid, please.”
“I’ll do a whole lot worse than hurt the little snot if you try anything.” He glances around, checking on his friends. I drop my defenses and feel for them so I don’t have to redirect my attention, but I’m not picking up anything. That’s not possible. No one’s ever blocked my telepathy before.
No, that’s not true; two men have stymied my powers before. The King of Pain is one of them.
“You stay right there, honey,” the Riveter says. “You stay right there and take what’s coming to you.”
Sounds of movement behind me. The rustle of cloth. Footsteps crunching on the asphalt. The whir of drill bits spinning. The buzz of chainsaws coming to life.
A small boy’s whimper cuts through it all.
I curl my fingers. I can almost feel the kid’s shirt in my grasp. I jerk my hand back. My telekinesis wrenches the boy out of the Riveter’s grasp. I brace for the impact, knowing full well this is going to knock me on my ass. The boy sails into me, and sure enough, we go down. I wrap my good arm around him and roll over, putting my body between him and Damage Inc. as they swarm. I put my shield up and brace it against the ground. It helps, but not a lot. I feel every blow Damage Inc. rains down on me. It’s like someone’s dropping a dump truck full of bricks on me.
Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play Page 12
