Integration

by J. S. Frankel

  Angela sat next to him, staring out at the scene and breathing quietly. After making an effort to shut out the sight of the smashed cars, the rubble and the overall destruction Peterson and his gang of synthesized monsters had wrought, he gave up. Nothing would ever dim the power of those images or the memory.

  Even worse, when he tried to shut out the sight of the dead, it was impossible. The smell of blood entered his nostrils, making his stomach churn.

  Soon the wail of ambulance sirens cut through the night. Perhaps some of the victims would live. He wondered how many had been killed then decided not to think about it. It made him feel even worse than he already did.

  Sandstorm slithered over. A chunk of something was attached to his body, and he twisted his form around to sign One of the creatures sprayed something on me. It’s like glue. They just got a small part, though.

  “Are you going to be okay?” It had to be the dumbest and most obvious question, and it was only after he asked it did Paul realize how foolish it all was.

  I’ll make it.

  Sandstorm slithered off then disappeared around the corner. He’d make it, but someone else wouldn’t. Lacy Matthews lay face down twenty feet away, her body moving…barely. With an effort, every muscle in his body screaming in pain, Paul rose to his feet and made his way over to her, stepping past puddles of organic ooze and dead bodies. The smell of blood, human excrement and more hit his stomach hard, and he tried not to heave.

  “Hey,” he said, as he knelt down and gently turned her over. Blood trickled from her mouth. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. The ambulances are here.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered in a very faint voice. “So sorry…”

  He put his ear to her mouth to catch the words. “Don’t try to move,” he said. “We’ll get someone to work on you, and—”

  Her hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder. “No, it’s too late. I was only…trying to get a story. You’re… You’re the problem. I still…don’t like you.” With a sudden gasp, her eyes turned up in her head. Her body gave a brief spasm, then she went limp.

  Feeling depressed and saddened over her attitude, Paul made his way back to the curb to sit down next to his girlfriend. Why had Lacy been that way? Couldn’t she have seen things differently? No. He decided upon reflection that she’d always been that way and now? Now it was too late.

  “What do we do now?”

  The question came from Quill and interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, found her body unscathed by the attack, but her eyes held the kind of pain only those who’d been through hell would understand. It was the look of someone who’d experienced shock and loss, one who’d stared death right in the face and had somehow come away unharmed. She’d acquitted herself honorably during the battle, but it was all in vain. Peterson had been right. His army had been nearly invincible. Kill one of them and another took its place.

  Taking stock of the situation, only one conclusion could be made. They’d gotten their butts whipped, and Paul knew right then and there that any street cred they’d built up had disappeared in less than ten minutes. Ten minutes…with countless dead, a maniac still on the loose and nothing to show for it.

  “We go back and wait for another attack,” said Angela, rousing herself and shaking her head. “We plan. That’s what we do.”

  Quill nodded and sat down beside them. “I never thought…things could get so bad.”

  Chief of Police Atwater came over, shaken and sweating. An ugly gash ran from the top of his right eye down to his chin and blood dripped in a steady pattern to the ground. “What happened?” he asked.

  He would have to ask the obvious. Paul got up, testing his body. Exhausted and sore to the bone, he waved his hand at the carnage. “You saw what happened. You saw. What else could we do?”

  His answer obviously didn’t please the chief, as his face turned red and he exploded with, “You were supposed to protect the city! We put our trust in you, and this is what we got?”

  While Quill remained quiet, staring at the ground, Angela’s expression turned from determined to wrathful and determined. “And where were you? Your men didn’t have what it took to stop them. No one could have! Those things tore through your guys like they were nothing, and Quill and I were doing most of the fighting. Even Paul helped out, so don’t give me that crap!”

  Body shaking and face purpling from rage, Atwater’s hand strayed toward his gun belt. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “It won’t work.”

  “Not on you, maybe,” he replied and turned to face the remaining members of the trio. “It’ll work on the forest animal and your boyfriend. He’s not so super anymore, is he?”

  Involuntarily, Paul took a step back. “You’d shoot me?”

  “Make one false move, and I will,” Atwater replied in a hoarse voice. He waved his arm and a team of SWAT members, twenty in all, raced over. They carried upgraded Tasers, as well as automatic rifles. “I’m arresting you on charges of involuntary manslaughter, endangerment of the citizenry, destruction of private property and anything else I can think of.”

  Turning to Angela, he added, “I know you can fly, but your friends can’t. Think about it.”

  Her eyes instantly blazed an unearthly blue color, but she finally raised her hands in surrender. Her voice, though, indicated nothing more than sheer disgust at his hypocrisy. “Fine. I give up. Take us away. When they come again, don’t ask us to do anything.”

  By now, a group of frightened citizens had gathered and a few other officers kept them back. A police truck raced over, and two of the SWAT team members opened the back doors. “Inside,” Atwater ordered. “We’ve got a nice jail cell waiting for all of you.”

  ****

  A policeman showed Paul to a cell with six other men in it. All of them were large, tattooed on their faces and necks and extremely mean looking. “You’re going to wait here until we can get a lawyer to take your case. In the meantime, enjoy your stay,” the policeman said, with a mean smile.

  The door closed and Paul sat down on a nearby cot, feeling things were right on the edge of the pit of hopeless. The other prisoners eyed him with suspicion. Had he put them in jail before? He didn’t recall doing so, but then again, he’d knocked out a lot of people in the past. He’d never performed a citizen’s arrest, though. Instead, he’d taken them to the nearest police precinct and left them there or waited until the law arrived.

  Now he was in the arms of the law and in the same boat as these men. “Why are you here?” one of them asked.

  He replied, not without an undue amount of snark. In a situation like this, snark had to be employed. “You don’t watch much television, do you? We had a little war out there. We lost.”

  Tactless or unsubtle, Paul figured it to be sufficient. Immediately after he uttered it, though, he realized he was in the same position as the men here—a criminal—and thus he would be shown zero respect.

  “Huh,” said the man. He took a look through the bars, but no guard appeared, then he turned back, this time with a grin. “So, lemme get this straight. I got caught a couple of days ago for doing a B and E job. I can’t afford no lawyer, so I’ve been rotting here until the court gives me one. I heard about what happened in Omaha. That Lacy chick was telling us all about it on the television.”

  Paul gazed up at his questioner. The man, pale-skinned with a livid scar that ran from his left eye down to his mouth, grinned a little more. He had a tattoo of a woman performing an obscene act on a snake tattooed on his Adam’s apple and the image undulated as he spoke. “You’re supposed to be some kind of superhero and take down the bad guys.”

  “Not anymore,” Paul answered, hoping this wouldn’t get ugly. These guys not only outweighed and outsized him, but also outnumbered him. This was going to get ugly in a hurry, and his heart rate increased. Endeavoring to keep his voice level, he added, “The police
think we didn’t do our jobs. That’s why they arrested me and my friends.”

  With a smirk and another movement of his ink pattern, the pale-skinned dude moved off. Another man took his place, darker skinned and just as ugly. He wore only jeans and a simple pullover, but under his clothes, his muscles bulged and strained against the fabric. “You don’t know me, hero, but you nailed my cousin a few months ago. You remember that?”

  How was he supposed to remember everyone he’d ever taken down? Paul got up and sidled to the door, hoping a guard would show, but the oh-so-needed sound of footsteps didn’t come. “Buddy, I don’t remember every guy I took down, but I’m pretty sure he was breaking the law.”

  A gash of a smile crossed the man’s face as he balled his fists. This would not end well. “My cousin’s in prison right now. Guess it’s time for a little payback.”

  He swung, and Paul, using his training, managed to evade the first punch, and the man’s hand crashed against the bars. A loud crack rang out then he sank to his knees, holding his hand. Paul turned around and saw the faces of the other men. They didn’t wear smiles. Instead, they wore grim looks of those who felt entitled to dish out some punishment where none was needed.

  Perhaps acting was the way to go. They didn’t know he was powerless—yet—so putting on his best tough-guy voice, he said, “Guys, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  All the while he prayed for a guard to enter. His prayers went unanswered as two men rushed him, pinning him against the bars. So much for his acting abilities… He’d have to work on them in the future, if he had one. “You ain’t so strong, are you?” asked a third man, as he stood in front.

  “Don’t have to be,” Paul answered as he launched a kick to the man’s jaw. It connected and sent the man reeling. “Got anything else?”

  Bad choice of words, as the last two men waded in and started punishing him with shots to his body and face, grunting in hoarse voices. They loved their work and kept until the shout of a guard halted things.

  “Let him go,” the guard ordered. He had his pistol out and the hammer cocked. “Move away.”

  The men let go. Now barely conscious, Paul slumped to the ground and felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, dragging him out. Yeah, thanks for coming. This is justice, New York style.

  “Don’t die on us, you traitor,” the guard said. “You have to stand trial.”

  After that, the sound of the man’s voice and the world around him faded into nothingness.

  ****

  Awakening in near darkness with a throbbing ache in his ribs and right cheek, Paul groaned, sat up, then tried to ascertain where he was. After his eyes adjusted, he made out a bed, a toilet and a sink. Solitary confinement, he thought. Lucky me. I get to rot away from the rest of the pack.

  With an effort, he crawled over to the sink then pulled himself up. Straining his eyes, he saw the black eyes, the swollen lips and the other marks on his face. “I think they hit harder than Sluggo.”

  Slowly and painfully, he washed his face and took care to avoid the hurt spots. Trouble was, everything hurt, so he decided to man up and take the pain. “It can’t get much worse, can it?”

  Thinking about it, it could most conceivably get worse. He was an adult now, so if the judge decided to sentence him to prison, he probably wouldn’t last a day. Death was starting to look better and better all the time.

  An alarm sounded—a clanging, shrill sound—and it startled Paul out of his reverie. What was going on? He went to the door and pounded on it. Maybe it was a fire or maybe the enemy had decided to attack the precinct. “Hey, what’s happening?” he called out. “C’mon. Someone answer me!”

  His answer came a few seconds later when a scratching sound came at the door. It sounded like claws. He sniffed the air for any unusual scent, but found none, other than the staleness of the room. If it was Peterson back to finish the job and assume his demonic role, then he’d picked a great time to…

  Sand began to pour under the door and Paul backed away in amazement. Never rule out the power of positive thinking. “Hey,” he said, truly astonished, as well as gratified. “It’s nice to see you.”

  The sand rose up to form the words, Nice to see you, too. Hang on.

  A second later, the sand withdrew under the door and the sound of tumblers turning began. The door opened, and Angela and Quill stood there with Sandstorm in the shape of a small dog. The chunk of glue that remained resembled the coil of a rattler. Angela hugged Paul, her eyes wet. “Sandstorm came and got us out, but someone triggered the alarm. We have to move.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Bottom level,” she replied. “Stay behind us. You’re not invulnerable anymore, and it’s night.”

  Paul felt confident enough in her abilities to trust her. Quill had her barbs ready and waiting. Sandstorm trailed behind them, his glued tail clacking loudly on the floor. Cautiously, they moved up the stairs and encountered no cops or gunfire, but something came bouncing toward them before they reached the main level. “It’s a grenade,” Paul shouted, and they ducked.

  It didn’t explode, though. Instead, it started to emit smoke, then Paul and Quill started to cough. “Hang on to me,” Angela ordered, and after they got a hold of her arms, she flew straight up and smashed through the door that led to the first floor. Once she reached there, though, she stopped. A large contingent of no fewer than thirty armed police was waiting, guns drawn, including Atwater.

  “Hold your fire,” he said, and the men backed off, wary looks on their faces. To Angela he said, “I can’t allow you to leave.”

  Paul ducked behind a pillar and called out, “Sir, you’re wrong in arresting us. We’re all you’ve got to find Peterson and his gang.”

  Risking a peek, he saw Atwater take a step toward Angela, gun in hand, but it was pointing down—for now. “The guy who set these things loose isn’t here now. I know about his demands, but for the moment, let’s focus on you and what you failed to do. You had your chance to help out. Lacy Matthews is dead and so is her crew, not to mention about fifty citizens.”

  “You gave them orders to leave,” Angela protested in a ‘this isn’t happening’ voice. “How are we responsible for that?”

  Atwater ignored her plea. “In addition, almost five hundred of my force is dead. Most of the rest are badly injured and I doubt they can ever return to duty. Those people had wives and husbands, families. You let this happen.”

  He said those words with such conviction that it was understandable believed him. But this was total crap! “You were there,” Paul yelled. “You saw!”

  “I saw only the enemy,” Atwater responded in a raw, angry voice. “I saw those things shred my men. I heard their cries for help. I watched them die!”

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Angela replied, and this time her voice held a warning note. It said, Mess with the truth and suffer the consequences. “You know it, and you have to let us go.”

  Atwater brought his pistol up, but held up his hand and once again ordered his men to hold their fire. “Go where? I know you have powers, Angela, and the girl with you has powers, too, but if we let you out, what kind of assurance do I have that you won’t attack anyone?”

  “We’ve never done it before,” she answered in a deliberate, measured tone, in contrast to her earlier outburst. “You asked us to work with you. That’s what we tried to do. That’s all we’ve ever tried to do.”

  Paul was getting supremely tired of this runaround, and he wanted nothing more than to leave. A scratching sound caught his attention. It came from overhead. Looking up, a couple of officers crept up to a spot on the second floor landing, directly over top of Angela. They held…he couldn’t make it out…Tasers?

  “Angela,” he yelled, “up top! Look out!”

  The men fired, and Angela dodged just in time as two metal spears hit the ground, sparks flying. Qui
ll whirled and fired a couple of barbs at the men. They ducked and the barbs embedded themselves in the wall.

  “Sandstorm,” Angela cried, and a wall of dirt came out of nowhere and blanketed Atwater’s men, blinding them. They fired wildly but couldn’t hit any targets.

  Angela grabbed Quill, ran behind the pillar, then snatched Paul around his waist. “Sandstorm, come with us!”

  In a swift motion, she flew past the men out the door and into the night. “Where are we going?” asked Quill. “I hate flying.”

  “Not much choice,” answered Angela. “And don’t throw up. It’s a long flight.”

  She flew in a course due west, steady and true. As Paul hung on, he started to hope they wouldn’t encounter any more problems. He had a date with destiny and he didn’t want to be late.

  Chapter Twelve

  Road Trip

  Angela flew as long as she could, but even super-powered beings got tired. They’d gotten as far as Ohio when she announced she had to land. “It’s getting late,” she called out over the sound of the wind rushing by. “We took off at around three in the morning. Dawn’s coming, and I have to sack out.”

  Relief spread across Quill’s face. The look of relief turned into a moment of stomach relief when they landed. She fell to the ground and promptly threw up. While Paul listened to her retch, he was also scanning the area. They’d landed in the alleyway of a city, and cold weather or not, the stench was strong in this place. An overturned box revealed a couple of rotting cabbages while a pile of fresh dog turds sat a couple of feet away. Combined, their stink was enough to turn off the hardiest nose.

  While still dark, the first fingers of deep purple and orange had begun to poke their way out of the night shroud. With the coming of the morn, there would be people, and right now being around people was on the no-can-do list. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Cleveland,” answered Angela. “It’s my download. I can calculate distance in my head and know where every state is.”