In what he figured would be his last act of defiance, Paul ground out, “Go to hell.”
“You’re going first,” he heard a voice say.
Out of nowhere, Paul felt something hard smash down on his neck. He saw a flash of light. Sluggo… What a cheap shot artist he is.
His thoughts faded, but just before they did, he promised himself if he ever came face to face with that monstrosity again, he’d tear its head off. Consciousness only emerged when he smelled garbage and rotting food and piss and wine. Immediately, his stomach rebelled from the combination of the stench and his own injuries, and he turned over on his hands and knees and vomited, spitting out foul and bitter bile.
Once done, he coughed and sat back against a wall. “An alley… They tossed me into an alley,” he muttered, smelling his body waste. He didn’t have his highly developed sense of smell anymore, but it didn’t matter, as the stink came through even in the cold.
He tried to send a mental command to extend his claws but nothing happened. He had ordinary fingers now. Feeling around in his mouth, he didn’t have fangs, either—merely teeth. With his last bit of strength, he tried to get up and call for help, but realized Peterson had been right. The ordinary citizen wouldn’t want to know him, not as he was now.
A sense of overwhelming despair threatened to send him into the depths of insanity and for a second he thought it would, but he realized he had to live. “I have to live,” he said to no one as the tears began to flow. “I have to live.”
He crept farther into the depths of the buried refuse and burrowed under a few cardboard boxes. Soon, the cold set in, as did shock. With the shock came sleepiness, and in his last moments before blacking out, he prayed his friends would find him.
Chapter Nine
Re-emergence
A sudden gust of air entered Paul’s cardboard home, worked its way through his thin clothing then sent a spear of glacial cold down his spine. He awoke instantly, sat up and shivered. The alleyway was empty of any life, save for a few hardy cockroaches that had decided to crawl out of the relative warmth of the sewer in search of a meal.
Turning to the side, he felt stiff and sore all over. He gently ran his fingers over his head and face. Specks of dried blood and scabs came away in his hands. “So that’s what being normal is,” he muttered. He’d forgotten how it felt to experience real pain, but the memories flooded back, memories of the fights he’d been involved in when he was younger.
Funny thing about the brain… It had the capacity to remember the experience of an accident or fight, but not the pain associated with it. Call it a built-in safety measure by evolution. It protected the mind from snapping. In a way, he was grateful he couldn’t recall the exquisite stabbing of damaged nerves and torn muscles.
Half of a shattered hand-mirror lay a few feet away, and he picked it up. Wondering if he’d changed any, he closely examined his features and saw no difference, except he had less hair on his face and hands. He was still a wolf, but without any powers.
A sob burst from his throat. Peterson had been right all along. Now he had nothing to rely on—no powers and no strength. Heaving a sigh of resignation, he wiped his eyes and got up. “Better get going.” He stopped then, as he realized that he didn’t know where he was.
He stole a glance at the sky. Although it was still dark out, the first orange and purple fingers of dawn had begun to shove their way through the cover of night. He poked his head out of the alley. Seeing no one, he crept outside and walked down the block, hunching over and trying to hide his face as much as he could.
A newspaper box told him his location. The Chicago Weekly Post had the headline ‘Nightmare Crew Missing and Presumed Dead’. Another newspaper had the black and bold letters saying ‘Hundreds of Military Personnel in Omaha Massacred by Unknown Assailants’.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. “I’m in Chicago. Good news travels fast.”
As he shuffled past the shops, the wind assaulted him, and he wrapped his arms around his torso in an effort to keep warm. His stomach whined due to his previous bout with vomiting, yet he craved something to eat.
At the same time, he kept watch for anyone of the mugging type. Without powers, he was as vulnerable as the next person. In the past, he’d been able to stop bullets, withstand poisoning and do the impossible. Now, he was just the same as everyone else, so good luck in withstanding an attack.
A flash of light from a nearby shop got his attention. He stopped to watch a taped broadcast from the night before. Lacy Matthews was in Manhattan interviewing a number of people. While he could barely hear the sound, fortunately someone had turned on the hearing-impaired function, and he squinted at the subtitles, while listening carefully.
Lacy Matthews asked, “What are your feelings about the Nightmare Crew not doing its job, protecting the citizenry of this great country?”
Bystander number one, a middle-aged woman replied, “I don’t know. They’re kind of scary, but they help people…don’t they?”
Bystander number two, a fat young man with thinning hair added, “They’re vigilantes, doing it for the glory. They shouldn’t be working with the cops. They should have been arrested by the cops!”
Bystander number three, a young boy who stood alongside his mother said, “I think they’re kind of cool. Angela is pretty.”
The mother of the child quickly covered his mouth, and the camera cut back to Lacy, a smirk of immense proportions distorting her features into that of a grinning gargoyle. Which was worse, her or Peterson?
She spoke again. “And there you have it, the lack of confidence in these self-proclaimed mutants and monsters. Where are they now, and did they perpetrate this massacre in Omaha? The White House has declared a state of emergency and is sending out the National Guard as I speak.”
Continuing his walk, he saw a broadcast at another shop farther down the street. Chief of Police Atwater of the New York City police force was being interviewed.
A reporter asked, “In light of the recent failure of the Nightmare Crew to contain the threat in Omaha, how are you going to handle the mutants, should they come to New York?”
Chief Atwater replied, “We are mobilizing the police force as we speak, calling up reserve officers, and we will work in conjunction with the National Guard. Although I don’t like the idea of our armed forces entering our cities, it seems as though we have no choice.”
The reporter countered, “And what about allegations that the Nightmare Crew was working in league with these so-called mutants?”
At this point, Atwater paused. He seemed uncertain as to how to respond, but he stabbed his finger at the reporter and said, “We’re going to talk to them as soon as possible. We will ascertain their true intentions then take it from there.”
“Great, he doesn’t trust us, either,” muttered Paul, then checked his thoughts. He should have changed us to them. He wasn’t part of the group anymore. With a heavy heart, he turned away and trudged on. This was getting out of control. No, he took back that idea. It had already gotten out of control. What could he do, though? He was powerless.
Shivering, he walked along the quiet streets, wondering what his next move was. He felt something in his right pocket, reached in and took out a cell phone. He’d forgotten all about it and fortunately, so had Peterson and his gang of ghouls. Studying the panel, he sent a message to Ooze’s computer and hoped for a reply. Then the phone went dead.
“Out of power,” he muttered and tossed the phone into the nearest garbage can. Continuing on his journey to nowhere, naturally it began to snow, and he shivered in the cold. He had to find shelter and food in that order, not to mention a doctor.
“Hey, it’s him!”
The voice of a man, someone young, broke through his musings on the vagaries of the homeless lifestyle. Two black men, one tall and broad shouldered and the other, short and stocky, wearing coats a
nd warmly bundled up against the onslaught of the elements, stood across the street. They hustled over, and Paul summoned up every bit of courage he had. However, these guys didn’t look in the mood to fight. “We heard about what happened, man,” one of them said. “Why are you here?”
Attempting a look at nonchalance, Paul did his best to man up and not allow his teeth to chatter in the frigid air. “We, um, got a tip the enemy was in Chicago,” he said. “They sent me to check it out.”
“Uh-huh.” The tall man nodded. “Man, your face is all messed up. They were bad customers, right?”
What else could he say? Paul shrugged. “I’ve been through worse, but I need to get back to New York. I, uh, they shot me up with a drug. It took away my powers for a few hours. Are we near a bus terminal?”
The men looked at each other with disbelief. “This is pretty whack,” the shorter one said, then motioned with his hand. “C’mon.”
They led him to the bus terminal. “I don’t suppose you got any money on you?” asked the tall man.
“No.” Super-powered beings never seemed to carry any extra cash. They always flew or ran wherever they needed to. But he didn’t fit that category anymore.
The taller man nodded and dug into his pocket. Bringing out a handful of money, all one-dollar bills, he riffled through them and handed over the wad. “Use this. I don’t know about you or your crew, but I don’t like those whack jobs. And killing soldiers and other people like they done in Los Angeles? That’s just wrong. You feel me?”
“I hear you. Thanks.”
After gratefully accepting the money, Paul said, “I’ll get this back to you as soon as I—”
“Just get them,” the tall man said. “I don’t care about no money, not this time. Get them.”
He started to move off, but the shorter man stopped him. “Wait.” He stripped off his coat. Underneath he wore a hoodie and he took it off and proffered it to Paul. “You’re gonna need this.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, man. I can get another. You’ll need this.”
Wordlessly, Paul accepted the hoodie and slipped it on. Instantly, it provided a burst of warmth against the biting cold. “Thanks.”
The men smiled and melted into the early morning sunlight. Paul pulled the hoodie over his head, and it provided some more protection against the weather. He walked into the terminal and bought a one-way ticket to New York. The terminal was empty, save for a few people dozing off in the waiting area. Warily, he looked around, hoping no one would spot his furry hands or peek under the hood.
Once more, his luck held, and no one bothered looking in his direction. Fortune smiled again when the bus came along in a couple of minutes and he boarded it, finding a seat at the back. While the bus soon filled up, everyone ignored him. Just in case, he shoved his hands in his pockets and feigned sleep all the way home.
After arriving in downtown Manhattan, he checked his finances. He couldn’t even afford to take public transportation back to the Bowery. “Guess I’m walking.”
He was feeling dispirited, nevertheless, he pulled his socks up, metaphorically speaking, and started off. A few passersby glanced at him, but it was cold, and they didn’t linger. The streets were his for the moment.
A car’s horn broke through his musings, and he jerked his head around. A middle-aged Asian man pulled up in a dirty white and battered van with the words Lee’s Grocery Delivery Service on the side. “Hey, it’s cold out,” he said. “Do you need a…”
His voice trailed off when Paul looked at him. “Yeah, go ahead. I’m a freak, right?”
“I, um, didn’t realize it was you,” the man answered hastily then added, “I wasn’t going to say that.” He identified himself as Charles Lee, owner of the delivery service—and chief cook and bottle washer, too. “I was wondering why you were walking around in the daytime. Don’t you guys usually come out at night?”
Paul shrugged. “We go where we’re needed,” he decided to say. “Uh, can I ask you a favor?”
“Get in and tell me what you want to know,” Lee replied. “It’s cold, and I got to go to work.”
The guy looked harmless enough. At around five-eight, he seemed mild-mannered and friendly, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a pair of gray overalls. Paul didn’t get any bad vibes from him. “Thanks,” he said, and got in.
As luck would have it, Lee was going in the direction of the warehouse. “I deliver to a few restaurants there,” he explained. “Then I’m coming back to do another few pickups.”
“I’m fine with that.”
The trip didn’t take very long, and Lee didn’t ask any questions. Paul shivered and put his hands close to the hot air coming out of the air-conditioning vents. “I guess everyone gets cold in winter,” he said.
“Yeah,” Paul answered, not knowing what else to say. “We do.”
Shortly after, Lee dropped him off near the warehouse. “I guess you guys had some trouble in Omaha,” he said, his manner quiet. “I don’t know what went on, but why aren’t you with the girl and the others?”
Paul didn’t have the heart to tell him that not only had he gotten his butt kicked just a few hours previously, but he also didn’t know where the rest of his comrades had gone. He only hoped Stander had managed to make it back and Angela, Sandstorm and Quill were still alive. “They’re still on patrol,” he said. “I, um, have to check on the enemy’s movements.”
It seemed like the standard answer, and Lee gave a short hmmphing sound of appreciation. “I hope those other mutants don’t come here,” he said. “Good luck.”
His van roared off, and Paul felt a little better knowing at least three people out there were on his side—maybe. He clambered over the fence, dropped to the ground on the other side and fell flat on his face. Let’s hear it for graceful entrances.
Getting to his feet, he brushed himself off and went to the door. It was unlocked, and when he opened it, he came face to face with Angela. Ooze, Stander, Sandstorm. Quill hovered in the background, but his attention was on her, not them.
Concern mixed with shock flashed across her face, then her eyes widened in shock. “We woke up here,” she said then whispered, “What did they do to you?”
Emotions welled up inside him. “I’m not one of you anymore,” he managed to get out before breaking down. He hadn’t cried for the longest time, not since the news of his father dying and that had been almost a year ago. Angela grabbed him and held him close and whispered she loved him. “Sh-h…sh-h… Things will be okay,” she said, and her voice caressed him.
“Will they?”
After asking his question, he felt incapable of saying anything more. As he clung to her, hating his weakness yet needing her all the same, he knew things would never be all right. The good guys didn’t always win, the bad guys were psychotic and loved it and monsters existed. Worse, they were still out there, and he had the horrid feeling more people would die before all of this was over.
****
Ooze patched up his cuts and bruises as Stander stood guard near the entrance. “I don’t see anything out there,” he said, turning away from the door and locking it securely.
“You probably won’t,” Paul replied. He sat at the table, eating a few poached eggs, the only thing he could get down. “We saw how they were growing their monsters. It’s fast, like time-lapse photography. He said he can seed the ground and start the growth process wherever he chooses.”
Stander’s head whipped around when he heard that, and a look of alarm crossed his features. “If you’re correct, then he’d have to have one powerful remote to set them off.”
All of this made Paul’s head spin. It didn’t seem possible, yet he’d seen it all. “I can’t explain how he does it, but trust me when I say he’s got the science behind him. That’s all I know.”
“Well,” replied Stander as he walked ove
r, “we’re going to need a battle plan. If these things are as numerous as you say they are, we’ll have to mobilize everything we’ve got. Considering we’re at a disadvantage with you losing your powers, we’ll make it up in numbers and firepower, and—”
“We’ve got more trouble,” Ooze said, as he turned the computer around. “Look at this. Our news buddy Lacy is at it again.”
Quill made her way over to watch with him. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re back to normal, sort of, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t meant it as a jab, but it served to shut off any reply, so he simply grunted and turned away. As for being okay? No, he was far from it, but outside of Angela, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the newcomer all about his mental hang-ups. He had other, more important matters to think about, and the female shock-jock show host was one of them.
Matthews and crew had taken up a position in Times Square, ranting on about a lack of law and order. She stood on the corner of Forty-Fourth Street in front of crowd of people maybe five hundred strong, telling them what they wanted to hear. They seemed to groove on her every word as they sent up cheer after cheer. “And we have word the gang of monsters has just made a series of fresh demands.”
She pointed to a computer monitor showing Peterson in a lab somewhere. “And this country will soon become my country,” he was saying, satisfaction oozing from every word and speaking in the deep tones of a very hammy Shakespearean actor. “Should you want to live here, a number of conditions must first be met…”
With a wave of her hand, she had her assistant axe the feed, and the camera swung back to her. “They want to set up their own country, right here in the United States, and what is the so-called Nightmare Crew doing about it? Nothing is what!”
This could have easily become a mob scene, but like a veteran politician, she raised her hands and the crowd quieted down. “We’ll see what the authorities say after I get through with them!”
Integration Page 13
