Vs Reality (17 page)

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:35 am, Eastern Daylight Time

Cole reels and backpedals, his back slamming the brick wall behind him. His eyes are glassy, fogged over, pupils blown. He glances down at the gaping hole in his chest, a dark cinnamon river flowing down his stomach in thick rivulets, pooling on the concrete beneath his running shoes. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to end, he thinks, struck with a twisting pang of regret.

His ears ring. The piercing noise comes in long throbbing waves. Through the pulse he hears Jens’ voice, screaming out apologies that he doesn’t need to make. Another gunshot rings out in the distance. The wail of police sirens fill his head. And suddenly the world falls silent and all he can hear is the sound his own heart, beating slower with each feeble pump, the intervals between beats coming slower and slower. And then they fade.

He’s surrounded by darkness now. Limbo, maybe? Though he’s still aware; acutely, almost hyper-aware, actually – even moreso than when he was alive. And that’s what Cole wants to be at this very moment:
alive
. It’s warm and comforting and painless where he is, without even an inkling of self-doubt creeping into his consciousness. Why couldn’t it have been like this before? he wonders. What was preventing him from feeling even the most infinitesimal part of this sensation while he was still in the driver’s seat of his own physical body? Was something preventing it? An uncontrollable external force? Or had it been, all along, a byproduct of his incessant inner monologue: the nagging, scathing voices of pessimism that drowned out his every positive emotion; the silent assassins of self-realization that are never quite visible but perpetually surround him, like motes drifting in front of a window pane, undetectable until you focus and sharpen your vision.

He’s comfortable now, but he’s already restless. He doesn’t
want
to be in a celestial paradise floating among the clouds, or whatever follows this warm and comforting darkness. He burns to be back on Earth, in the thick of the fight, pressing forward, not giving an inch.

He wills his eyes to open and commands his legs to extend and support his weight. A moment later he’s standing, glancing back into the open doorway, his heartbeat pumping like a piston, so violently he feels it might break his ribcage. Brodie and Jens look on as if they’re seeing a ghost.

The pain is gone. He grabs a fistful of his tank top and rips it away, using the remains of tattered fabric to wipe the blood from his chest. It clears away to reveal the perfect, unblemished skin beneath.

Another shot rings out and a bullet pierces his shoulder. The wound closes before his eyes. He glances across the street to a bakery where snipers are perched atop a low-rise building, taking aim. He’s no longer afraid of being shot. He’s just pissed.

“I’ve got this,” he assures Brodie and Jens without turning back, marching across the street.

“Drop him!” a voice calls out from the bakery’s roof.

Three more shots ring out, piercing Cole’s shoulder, forearm and thigh. The bullets impact with a tiny crimson plume, and his skin closes around the entrance wounds as he pressed forward.

A densely packed line of vehicles are parked across the street, cars and cabs and motorcycles, some with their doors still open; they’d been abandoned when the SWAT team descended on the block. He grabs the front tire of a Harley Davidson, his grip powerful enough to lift it by digging his fingernails into the rubber tire. He drags it into the street and begins to rotate. One circle after another, spinning like an Olympic hammer thrower until he lets the bike go. It takes flight. The motorcycle boomerangs through the air, across the street and into the third-story of the building, exploding with a burst of fire and metal. The building begins to collapse and the snipers tumble through the cascading mortar, crashing into the sidewalk below.

Jens and Brodie peek from around the edge of the door, fingers curled over the edge. Cole nods and waves them out.

They shuffle towards the north end of the building and peer around the corner, where they’d expected to see a small battalion of law enforcement. What awaits them is an army. More police cars, SWAT vans and armored transports than Cole thought New York had at its disposal litter the street in front of the condo.

This is our window, Cole thinks. There’s a feverish type of pandemonium rippling through the scene: billowing smoke, a fire blazing in the remains of the bakery, medics screaming instructions as they tend to snipers half-buried in mortal and glass; it’s the perfect time to strike. Hesitate a moment longer and the army will have regrouped.

Cole glances back at Brodie. “Where do you need to set up?”

“Right about there.” He gestures towards the busiest part of the narrow two-lane street, where no less than twenty vehicles are blocking traffic, and twice as many soldiers.

“What are you going to do now?” Jens asks, his voice quaking.

“I’m going to clear some space.”

When Cole races into view, screaming, shirtless, spattered in his own blood, the scene freezes into a chaotic diorama: he sees peacekeepers with their mouths agape, some wailing like terrified children; a much more composed SWAT team leveling their weapons to open fire, and a hailstorm of lead bursting from their barrels; and an armored van, no more than a few strides away, positioned, he envisions, like a pigskin leather football mounted on a tee. He kicks it. The van takes flight, spiraling sideways, casting the army into a menacing shadow. They scatter. It makes an impact, slamming into police cars, bursting into flames, exploding, blasting charred bodies away. Anyone left standing escapes on foot, or dives into the nearest functional vehicle before making their escape.  

Cole approaches the entrance and kicks a nearby fire hydrant off the sidewalk, releasing a geyser of water onto the remains of the burning vehicles.

“Brodie!” Cole calls out. “Is this enough room to set up?”

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:41 am, Eastern Daylight Time

“How did things go?” Dia jogs across the rooftop patio, her luminous blond hair fading to black, glowing eyes reverting to their natural dark brown.

Paige offers a weak smile. “Like swatting a fly. I don’t know how Brodie does it every time, but I’m
already
addicted to this stuff. Forget Muse, I’m hitting Plan B from now on. How did the portal go?”

“Like a hot knife through butter. One tear and it was Niagara Falls. It’s flooding fast though…we’re running out of time.”

They position themselves on the edge of the building side by side, inching their feet precariously towards the ledge. Everything is a haze from this height, and their view is obstructed by the billowing smoke from decimated vans and police cruisers; the clouds of charcoal belching skyward are dense and impervious to the yellow morning sunlight. As the rising pillars sway they see a vague outline of overturned cars being doused with a geyser of water from what looks like a broken fire hydrant.

“I just got a text from Brodie,” Paige says, unable to tear her eyes away from the carnage below. “He’s set up. This is it.”

Dia wrings her hands. “Looks like it.” 

Paige can’t help but wonder what happens if Brodie miscalculates. “Look, if we don’t make it…I mean, just in case, I want you to know something.”

Dia answers without looking up. “I swear to
god
Paige, if you finish that sentence I’ll backhand you across your stupid face.”

Her lips curl into a tiny, childlike smile, and for just a flickering moment the crushing weight of the world is lifted from her shoulders. “I love you too.”

Dia reaches out and snatches her sister’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “Now let’s hope we’re not squished into meat waffles.”

She steps off the ledge, dragging Paige along with her. They tumble through the acrid smoke, filling their lungs and burning their eyes. Plummeting at the speed of gravity the ground becomes visible through the watery burn, rushing up to meet them.

Paige’s final airborne thought is a morbid vision of what could happen if their brilliant plan fails: that they’re going to be scraped off the pavement with a spatula like a charred burger left too long on a barbecue.

Then they stop. Pausing in mid-drop, bobbing gently just six feet from the ground, ensnared in an invisible net. Then they lower the final distance, slow, controlled, feet touching down on solid ground.

Dia lets out a stream of expletives followed by a deep sigh of relief. Paige turns to see Brodie, sprawled on the pavement, Cole cradling his head and neck. He looks as if he’d just passed out and been caught on the way down.

His intense red eyes fizzle out like dying bottle rockets, popping and crackling. He blinks twice, sending black plumes of smoke from beneath his heavy lids.

Paige rushes to his side, drops to her knees and cups his chin in her hands. “Holy shit, Brodie, that was amazing! Are you okay?”

His eyes are just slits now, too tired to prop open, but he manages a thin lipped smile.  “You have to admit…” he coughs, “that was
totally
watershed.”

New York City
August 26, 2011
8:40 am, Eastern Daylight Time

Paige, Brodie and Dia have all reverted to their natural forms. Plan B burned through their bloodstreams at an accelerated rate; like a blast of nitrous oxide to a high performance engine, the experimental blue serum provided a much-needed turbo boost, triggering them to manifest with more power than they’d ever experienced before – but not without a cost. The sensation can be described as halfway between a tequila hangover and a sledgehammer to the back of the skull.

Cole yanks Brodie back to his feet, whose rubbery legs are barely cooperating.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, eyes flickering. He sways, grabbing hold of Cole’s arm at the bicep to avoid falling. “
Bro
…did you take another shot of Plan B, or have you been hitting the gym?”

“No,” Cole replies, slightly confused. “I just haven’t turned back yet.” Still in his manifested state he stands nearly a head taller than usual, impossibly broad and chiseled, eyes glowing an unnatural electric blue.

Paige pulls a set of keys from her pocket, dangling them with a light chime. “Come on, let’s head for the landing strip. We only have a small window, so we need to get moving.”

The last portion of the plan is an escape: a trip overseas, flown by a former US naval aviator (who will be expecting a suitcase filled with cash in exchange for both his services and his silence.) He’s on stand-by, at least for the time being; there’s no guarantee he’ll sit tight if police sirens start blaring on the tarmac behind him, hence the ever-tightening timeline.

As they prepare to leave, a silhouette becomes visible in the distance. Partially obscured by the billowing smoke, a towering man marches towards them. At first they assume it’s a peacekeeper or SWAT team member left over from the battle, but it doesn’t seem likely; anyone with a functional set of legs had fled when Cole punted a van into their roadblock.

His reveal couldn’t be more dramatic. The smoke clears as if his presence alone is willing it, swirling around him at first, and then parting like floating curtains fashioned from charcoal. It’s Govinda.

His dark three-piece suit, gold jewelry and pocket square might indicate otherwise, but Cole has no delusions about this man’s intentions: he’s coming for a fight. I’ve faced bigger men, Cole thinks, smiling inwardly. And when I did, I was half the man I am right now.

Dia wraps her fingers around Cole’s wrist and pulls, but his feet are cemented to the ground.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” She tugs again, harder this time.

“Pull the van around,” he orders her without averting his eyes. “I’ll see you in five.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Dia shouts. He refuses to turn his head so she steps into his field of vision. “We’re done here.”

“He’s seen us. He knows we’re alive.”

“We’ll deal with it later,” she implores him, her voice thin with panic. “
Please,
we have to
move
.”

“What do you want me to do?” He shouts, much louder than he intends. “Run? Hide?”

“I want you to
think
: what will this fight accomplish?”

“It’s simple,” he says, his voice frosting over. “I kill Govinda, right here, right now. And this ends.”

Dia’s frantic eyes dart to his herculean arms; the veins as thick as ropes, zig-zagging down his enormous biceps. “It’s the
serum
. It’s still in your system, clouding your judgment. Muse made you aggressive and a little nuts, but this…”

“I’ve never seen things more clearly. Now go.”

She presses her hands into his chest. “But you don’t
have
to do this!”

“
Go,
” he says, jabbing a finger towards the alley at his back. “I’ve got this.”

Govinda is dangerously close now, just a block away and approaching fast. Dia can’t wait any longer. She races away with Paige in tow. Brodie shuffles after them trying to keep up, leaning on Jens for support, rounding the corner and disappearing into the alley.

As Govinda steps within earshot, Cole calls out to him, hands spread wide. “I seriously considered your employment offer, but I think I’m going to pass.” 

“Unfortunate.” Govinda reaches deep into his breast pocket and produces a handgun; an almost comically undersized pistol with a long skinny barrel, like a paintball gun without the dispenser. He levels the weapon and takes aim.

Cole lets out a sardonic laugh. “I guess you missed the show, because the entire NYPD couldn’t stop me.”

“You think yourself invincible? You think I can’t kill you?”

“I’ve already died once this morning. It didn’t last long.”

Govinda raises the gun high, steadying it with his other hand, peering down the sight.

Cole can’t help but laugh. “If you think a pellet gun is gonna do what a sniper rifle couldn’t, hey, knock yourself out.”

He squeezes the trigger.

A tiny silver dart with red feathering sails from the barrel, silently embedding into Cole’s shoulder. He brushes it off with a breezy backhanded swipe, like swatting a mosquito. “You’re gonna have to do
a lot
better than that, my man, because—”

And then it hits him.

Hard.

The antidote.

Cole reels and the earth quakes beneath his feet, rocking off its axis. His vision doubles, blurring into jagged fragments. When he’d been shot just moments ago and darkness swarmed in around him, he’d remained composed, aware, in control of his faculties. But now, with the energy sapped from his veins, the sensation is completely foreign. Like a time lapse video played in reverse his muscles atrophy, reverting his chiseled, granite-like physique back to a thin, wiry frame. The tattoo of the snake vanishes as well, the ink retreating back into his pores. He stares at his arms in wide-eyed panic, praying they’ll expand once again, infusing him with superhuman power. Nothing happens.
Holy shit!
he screams out in his head, the words not even coming close to describing the situation he’s in
.

Govinda lets the pistol clack to the sidewalk at his feet. “I see you’re fresh out of bravado. Nothing clever to say, Mister Cole? No witty retort?”

Cole glances up and his field of vision is filled with a fist, each finger wrapped in chunky gold rings. It slams his orbital bone. Flashbulbs pop and arrows of pain rocket through his temples. A second blistering shot lands on his jaw, loosening his molars.

“You spineless little bastard,” Govinda growls. “Without the ability to manifest you’re the same pathetic underachiever you were before you got hooked on Muse.”

Cole staggers and spits a wad of blood-soaked saliva at his feet. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment doesn’t even
begin
to cover it. I spent a considerable amount of time and money ensuring people would manifest around the world, causing as much damage as possible. But you just couldn’t resist getting involved. You had to step in and play the white knight.”

The realization strikes Cole like an anvil. “You did
this…you
created
a threat.”

“I created a
market,
” Govinda is quick to correct him. “The New World Council has deep pockets, willing to pay millions to keep the peace – the peace they promised their supporters. We created a trigger, used it on a group of carefully selected potentials, and before long a few dozen people manifested in key locations.”

Cole’s mind reels: spontaneous human combustions in Copenhagen, cars floating ten feet above the street in Mexico City, an iceberg forming in the Mojave desert. And of course, a portion of the Great Wall of China melting like candle wax. These weren’t anomalies. They were staged.

“You
created
a terror threat,” Cole says; he’s so concussed he can no longer be sure whether he’s speaking aloud or just inside his own head. “A new type of enemy that the Council couldn’t handle on their own.”

“And there we were,” Govinda says, a wide patronizing smile crawling across his face, “ready to offer our services for a reasonable fee. Well, not
that
reasonable, if I’m being honest.”

Cole scrambles backwards. “Clever.”

“I thought so.” Govinda lunges forward with surprising agility for a man his size, burying the heel of his shoe into Cole’s chest, sending him crashing to the pavement with a skull-rattling thud. “But that was just phase one,” he continues, cracking his neck, loosening his tie for comfort. “With a ‘dangerous virus’ spreading around the world, turning regular people into biological weapons, the Council was becoming desperate. Instead of charging millions for security, we’re now charging
billions
for the vaccine. It all happened like clockwork. We designed the problem, and – as you’ve just experienced – the perfect solution. Of course we weren’t anticipating Muse…or you, for that matter. But I don’t think we’ll have any additional setbacks after today.”

Cole wills himself to stand. “You weren’t expecting
me
?” He coughs out a dry wheeze as he nurses a cracked rib.

“Out of all the potentials, you’re the only one who manifested before we could administer the accelerant. This is why you fascinate me, Mister Cole. And why I want you on my team.”

“
Want
?” Cole asks. “As in, present tense?” He backpedals into the street and Govinda follows, matching him step-for-step.

“I’m giving you something I rarely offer anyone, Mister Cole: a second chance. Join me,
right
now
, and become wealthier than you could ever imagine. You’ll be in control for once. In the driver’s seat of your own life. And with my resources at your disposal, we can figure out how you were able to manifest in the first place.”

“And if my answer is still no?”

Govinda shrugs. “I haul your corpse back to The Basement and have a team of scientists dissect you. I’m sure they can figure out what’s making you tick.”

“Wow, wealth beyond imagination…that sounds like a pretty good offer,” Cole says weakly. “Hold on, I think I still have that contract you gave me.” He digs into his pocket and fishes around theatrically, but instead pulls out his hand, balled into a fist, with his middle digit outstretched.

“Still with delusions of grandeur,” Govinda snarls, his words thundering into Cole’s ringing ears. “Alcohol, prescription pills, Muse…it’s all the same. I’d hoped you were different, but you’re just like everyone else: you drug yourself into a state of perpetual denial, because if you ever got clean and woke up you’d have to face the truth: people like you
never
succeed unless someone like me allows it.” He lunges forward and his fists connect in a blur. Govinda throws one concussive blow after the other, backing him against the side of an overturned car that’s still billowing smoke from its undercarriage. A right jab drives the air from his lungs, a left hook ruptures his liver. “You turn down a chance at greatness for a lifetime of pain and fear.” An uppercut to the chin snaps his head back, sending him to the pavement in a crumpled, blood-soaked heap.

Govinda steps away and plucks the pristine pocket square from his breast pocket, meticulously scrubbing the blood from between his fingers, buffing his thick gold rings to a shine.

Cole’s chest rises and falls in tight convulsive spasms. Each breath is agony. His eyes flutter and his consciousness begins to fade, but his memory sails back to Paige and Dia’s penthouse, when he was sitting in their opulent screening room, hearing about superhuman abilities for the first time. When he’d first discovered Muse and rolled the endless possibilities over his mind, it wasn’t the promise of bulging biceps that enticed him (though admittedly that
was
an attractive part of the superhuman package.) What he craved was the numbness it provided. The simplicity. The lack of fear, the absence of pain. The beautiful glittering lie in his outstretched palm was one he was willing to succumb to without question – he was hooked even before his first hit.

The harsh ringing in his ears starts to silence. He smiles through the agony and lets out a short awkward laugh. After a few unexpected chuckles he bursts into hysterical laughter, dotting the pavement with specks of blood.

Govinda drops the bloodstained handkerchief, letting it flutter to the ground at his side. “I must have caused some permanent brain damage because there is
no way
you can possibly find this amusing.” His response is a combination of disdain and mild curiosity.

“I had an epiphany,” Cole says, sitting up with a painful groan, pressing his back to the overturned car.

“Please, share it with me. I can have it engraved on your headstone.”

“I just realized that even though I was never pumped full of your drug, you
did
create me. My whole life, assholes like you drove me to fight harder and push past my limits…not because I had to, but because I wanted to prove something.” Cole stands upright, shoulders back, staring defiantly in to Govinda’s soulless eyes. “I just forgot that for a little while.”