Super Human (22 page)

Without waiting for the pain to subside he rolled onto his hands and knees. Then he heard Thunder shouting, “Lance! Get out of here!”

He scrambled to his feet and staggered forward, hands stretched out before him, unsure whether he was heading toward the truck or away from it. All he could see was a shifting green and red blur, a thousand times stronger than the afterimage of a camera flash.

There was a crash behind him, and Abby shouted, “Thunder, get down!”

Another crash—metal on metal—and a man roared in pain. Lance hoped it wasn’t Thunder.

Lance’s right foot hit the curb and he almost toppled over.
Which way am I going?
He jumped as someone or something brushed past him, but whatever it was didn’t stop. Then his hands touched cool glass—a store window. Moving away from the sound of the battle, he felt the window’s wooden frame, then a corner and a recessed doorway.

He stepped into the doorway, feeling for the door, but the recess seemed to go on for too long. It took him a moment to realize that the door was already open and he’d walked into the store. Over the sound of the battle, he heard something scrape along the floor ahead of him. “Who’s there?”

A frightened voice—“Stay away!”—followed by more scuffling.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Lance said. “I . . . I can’t see. Where are you?”

“Don’t come any closer!” It was a girl’s voice, or perhaps a very young boy.

Lance stopped moving. “Just tell me where I am. Please. The flash of light blinded me—I can’t see anything.”

A pause, then, “Bookshop.”

The window behind him shattered and the voice screamed. Lance dropped flat to the ground, his left elbow colliding painfully with the edge of a wooden display stand.

Lance slithered forward, hoping that he was going in the right direction. “What can you see outside?” His fingers brushed aside fallen paperbacks and shards of broken glass.

There was no reply.

He worked his way around another display stand. “Come on! What can you see?”

“Fighting. . . . There’s a girl with a sword. A man in shiny armor.”

Paragon!
Lance thought.
No, can’t be him. He was too sick—he couldn’t have recovered yet.

“Two men now . . . No, lots of them.”

“The girl with the sword . . . is there a tall boy with her? He’s wearing a costume—”

“There’s a man on fire!” the voice said, high-pitched with panic. “He’s burning but he’s not hurt!”

“All right. Don’t look out there anymore. Look at me instead. What’s your name?”

“Dylan.”

“How old are you, Dylan?”

“Seven.”

“OK. Dylan, I’m one of the good guys, I promise you. I’ll help you get away, but I can’t see so you have to help
me
. Deal?” His right hand touched a sneaker, which was instantly pulled away.

“I’m scared.”

“I know. Take my hand.”

After a moment Lance felt a small trembling hand settle into his. “That’s good. Dylan, where’s your mom and dad?”

“At home. They’re sick. I came out to get help. Then I saw the big boys and I got scared so I came in here.”

I can’t just leave him.
“Dylan, is there a back way out?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t open the door.”

Lance got to his feet. “Show me.”

He felt the boy stand up and lead him through the shop. “You have to tell me if I’m going to bump into anything, OK?”

“OK,” Dylan said.

Lance’s knees clipped the seat of a chair. “Ouch! Like that chair.”

“Sorry. It’s back here.”

He felt his left shoulder brush a doorjamb. “Is this a storeroom or something?”

“Yeah.” Dylan pulled Lance’s hand to the left. “Mind the boxes. The door is here. In front of you.”

“I’m going to let go, but you stay next to me, all right?” Lance reached out carefully with both hands, and felt the varnished surface of a wooden door. He groped around for the handle, gave it an experimental tug. “Locked. Dylan, can you see any keys?”

“No. I already looked.”

“Of course you did. Sorry. But is there a window?”

“Yeah, but it’s too high. It’s right up at the ceiling and it’s very small.”

“OK, forget that.”
If I had my tools I might be able to pick the lock.
His fingers probed the handle and the surface of the lock.
Feels like a Solidsecure two-twenty.
“Dylan, I need some stiff metal wire. Can you see any paper clips or—”

From the main store came the sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the broken glass.

The boy gasped and ducked behind Lance.

Lance crouched down next to him and whispered, “What can you see?”

“Men. They have guns.”

“Oh great. . . . OK, just stick close to me and play along with whatever I say, all right?”
They could be the army, or they could be working with Slaughter.

Then Lance heard a voice from the far side of the room. “Who are you?”

“Jason Myers,” Lance replied. “And this is Dylan. Who are
you
? What’s going on?”

Another voice quietly said, “Not one of Dalton’s crew.”

“You sure?”

“
Look
at him. He’s just about wet his pants.”

Bingo!
Lance thought.
We might just get out of this if I play the sympathy card.
Aloud, he said, “Help us, please. We came out to get help for our parents. They’re sick. We got trapped in here. I . . . I’m blind. I lost my cane somewhere.”

The second voice said, “Forget him. Let’s go.”

“No, wait!” Lance called. “Please! We can’t get out!”

“We don’t have time for this.”

The first voice: “Listen, kid. The whole
world
is sick, understood? Just stay here until the fighting is over and you should be safe.”

“Who are you? You sound like adults—how come
you’re
not sick?”
They’ve got to be part of The Helotry,
Lance thought.

“We’re the ones who are going to make everything better,” the man said.

Lance heard the static-filled squawk of a radio voice: “Team eight, come in. What’s your position?”

“Bookstore on Main, Mr. Remington,” the second man replied. “All clear. Just civilians.”

“Superhumans are on the run. Slaughter’s got Dalton, and we’re tracking two black kids. The white boy is still unaccounted for—he could be with the local teens. They’ve scattered, but they should be easy to round up. Secure the area in case the boy returns.”

“Will do.” The radio clicked off.

Lance heard the man approach, and felt Dylan shrink farther behind him. The boy was trembling.

“Did you see a guy about your age with the others?” The man asked.

“No. I can’t see
anything
.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. What about
you
?”

Lance sensed Dylan shaking his head, and said, “We’ve been hiding out here for hours.” He decided to take a chance. “Are . . . Are you going to hurt us?”

“Now why would you think that?” The voice was gentle, sounding a little surprised at the question. “No, we’ll take you someplace safe. Trust me: You have nothing to worry about.”

Lance faked a sigh of relief. “Good, thank you.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Me and my brother here were worried that the world was coming to an end or something. All the adults are sick but if you’re OK then there must be a cure, right?”

The man didn’t reply.

“Are you still there?” Lance asked.

“Oh, I’m still here.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. McKendrick.”

Lance stiffened.
How did he know?
“I’m Jason Myers. Who’s this McWhatever guy?”

“So Dylan here is your brother?”

Aw no! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Should have asked him what he looked like!
“Uh . . . Yeah,” Lance said quickly. “We’re adopted. Mom and Dad can’t have kids of their own.”

“Is that so?” There was the clear metallic
click
of a gun being cocked. “You look like a smart kid. But you’re clearly not smart enough to tell when a name is androgynous. Dylan’s a girl.”

 

 

Abby threw Lance through the truck’s shattered windshield, grabbed Thunder’s arm, and pitched herself forward and out, dragging Thunder behind her.

She pushed Thunder aside and ducked as a long metal pole swung toward her head. It hit the truck hard enough to tear a gash in the radiator. She grabbed for the pole but the man on the other end let go and ran. She pulled her sword from its sheath on her back and quickly looked around. The teenagers had already fled, Roz was gone, Lance was on his hands and knees.

Beside her, Thunder said, “People coming . . . Dozens of them.” He shouted, “Lance! Get out of here!”

Abby passed him the steel pole. “Back-to-back, OK? We’ve got to keep them busy, give Lance some time to get away.”

A metal-clad man rushed at her out of the shadows. Abby swung her sword in a backhanded arc. Its blunt edge clanged against the man’s armored chest and he collapsed to the side, smacked his head against the truck’s remaining headlight—cracking the headlight open—and toppled over. Almost total darkness flooded over them.
Oh great! OK, maybe we can’t see them but then they can’t see us either!

She heard footsteps shuffling to her right, and in the faint orange light from the burning car in the town square she had a glimpse of a large metal weapon in the man’s hands and twin glints reflected in a pair of thick goggles.
Night-vision goggles—they
can
see us!

There was a muffled
ptooff
of compressed air, and a thick, short cable with steel spikes on each end thudded into the front of the truck only inches away from her right leg. The man cocked the cable-weapon and fired again, but this time Abby knew what to expect. She slashed out with her sword and sliced the cable in two.

Then in the half-light she saw four—maybe five—more armored men, all with the same kind of weapon.

Trying to pin us!
“Thunder, get down!” She threw herself backward as the men fired in unison, collided with Thunder, and knocked him flat.

Take them a couple of seconds to reload . . .
“You all right?”

Thunder was already getting to his feet, the steel pole still in his hands. “Yeah. We need to get out of here!”

She pulled the pole from his grip. “Stay behind me and keep low. I’m better with this sort of thing than you are.”

“No arguments.”

Abby slipped her sword back into its scabbard, and holding the pole like a quarterstaff she rushed at the armed men.

She spun, clipped one of the men in the side of his helmet, knocking off his goggles, jabbed another in the stomach. The remaining three backed away, and one of them fired. Abby knocked the spiked cable out of the air, jumped, slammed the end of the pole into the ground, and vaulted over the men.

Their reactions were fast, but not fast enough: Abby whirled the pole over her head and brought it down hard on one man’s shoulder—she heard something inside him
crack
—then whipped the other end about and struck one of his colleagues in the knees. The man screamed.

Abby moved toward the last of them, but he was already on the ground, whimpering, his body convulsing, his hands desperately scrabbling to pull off his helmet.

“Redirected that guy’s screams,” Thunder said as he ran toward her. There was something round and metal in his hands—one of the men’s helmets. “Amplified them too.” He pulled the helmet on over his mask. “OK,
now
I can see.... Y’know, the armor these guys are wearing is a lot like Paragon’s. Let’s pick up Lance and get out of here.”

“But Roz . . .”

“She’ll be OK.” Thunder looked about. “More of them coming.”

“You’re sure about Roz?”

Thunder leaned down and grabbed the weapon from the screaming man’s hands. “No. But we have to get to the prison, free Pyrokine. That’s what she’d tell us to do.” He tilted his head from side to side. “They’re coming from
everywhere
!” He paused again. “We should leave Lance. If they all follow us he might be able to get away. How’s your sense of direction?”

“I remember from the map which way the prison is,” Abby said.

“Lead the way.”

Abby handed the steel pole to Thunder and once more drew her sword. They ran past the truck and into the town square.

How did they find us?
Abby wondered.
Could Slaughter have put a tracking device in the truck? No, more likely they followed the only truck that was moving.

“Down!” Thunder shouted. Abby dropped flat to the ground as the store they were passing was bombarded with a dozen spiked cables. The store’s windows and door shattered inward.

The square was suddenly filled with armored men, all aiming the same powerful-looking weapons.

Then a dark figure descended from the sky, settled gently on the hood of the burning car. As they watched, the fire began to grow. Flames licked at the dark figure’s feet, quickly spread up his legs until his whole body was engulfed.

The burning man stepped off the car’s hood and landed lightly on the ground.

He walked toward them, leaving a trail of fiery footprints.

Oh no. . . .
Abby dry-swallowed. “Thunder . . . Run!”

 

Roz Dalton was dreaming. Shocking, violent dreams that made no sense but left her feeling sick, betrayed, hurt physically and emotionally. It was cold—as cold as last winter’s holiday in Alaska—and there was a woolen scarf around her neck. But the scarf was too tight and she couldn’t loosen it.

Unbidden and unwanted, an overwhelming sense of loss and abandonment filled her mind, and she realized that for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was crying for her parents, and . . . for someone else, but she couldn’t remember who that was.