The Temporary Hero

by Nick Svolos

  The man already had his weapon drawn when he saw us. He took aim and ordered us to halt.

  We didn’t.

  He unloaded his clip into my chest, and my breastbone erupted in fire. I grunted and stumbled back a few inches. Reggie, following close behind and using Femme Fatale as cover, caught the agent with a blast from his stunner. The agent cried out as his body jolted and fell to the floor.

  Another corridor, then another. The henchmen behind me checked in on comms, securing office staff and agents alike, keeping our escape route open. At last, we arrived at the central network cabinet. I tore the cover from the wall, and Sinfonie inserted a USB drive into an open port. She pressed a hand against the chassis and spoke, “Incoming. Two hostiles, followed by four more. Keep ‘em busy.”

  I positioned my body to protect Sinfonie while Fatale and Reggie took up a position a few steps down the hall. Sin’s thoughts echoed in my mind, streams of data passing by at a bewildering pace. I could feel the pleasure she took at the ease with which she gathered their most sensitive data. I caught a word here and there, and found a reason to be pleased, myself. She was grabbing everything there was to know about the ERD. I focused on keeping my thoughts quiet.

  The next two agents rounded the corner in front of us, and with Fatale drawing their attention, Reggie had them unconscious on the ground before they could even open fire.

  “Agents down!” a voice shouted from somewhere along the right side of the junction. Now that they’d seen what had happened to their buddies, the next four agents would be a lot more careful.

  That was going to be a problem.

  “Rush ‘em. I’ll be safe here,” Sinfonie’s thoughts ordered. I didn’t hesitate. I raced forward, tapped Fatale on the shoulder as I passed, and sped to the corner. She and Burns followed. I swung around, trying to be as big a wall as possible and draw the agents’ fire. Some of them shouted, “Halt,” but at least two of them didn’t bother with such formalities and started shooting.

  Gunfire filled the corridor and bullets smacked into us like a hard rain. The shot placement was now much more random than we’d faced from the first man, a product of the agents’ all-too-human reaction to the stressful situation they were thrust into. I’d have felt bad for them, if I could have gotten past how much each hit hurt. I couldn’t move forward out of fear of cutting down Reggie’s field of fire, so I just steeled my jaw and took it.

  The stunner’s paper-ripping sound spoke out from over my shoulder, trimming the gunfire by half. Another rip and the guns fell silent. Four FBI agents lay on the floor, out of action. One way or the other, this thing would be over before they woke up.

  “Damn, I gotta get me one of these,” Reggie said, smiling at his weapon.

  We turned and ran back into position for another wave, if one came. Sinfonie was already back from her trip through the FBI network and disconnecting the thumb drive.

  “Get everything?”

  She nodded, a hint of pride shining past the fear in her eyes. “Yeah, everything—the ERD, Alvarado, the gas. All of it, but it’s bad. They’ve split the gas up. There’s gotta be at least fifty devices, scattered all over the city…” She turned and ran back down our extraction route. We followed, collecting Bumblemen as we went. “…and they’re set to go off this afternoon!”

  ***

  As we approached the office we’d come in through, the Bumbleman assigned to control that room shouted at his captives.

  “Alright, we're leavin’ now. You’re all gonna count to a hundred before gettin’ up, got it? Anyone who doesn’t gets a dose o’ this!” He grinned and blasted the ceiling with his stun rifle. Chunks of acoustic ceiling tile rained down on the zip-tied FBI agents and civilian employees. Screams and gasps of terror from the latter and furious glares from the former were the only replies. The henchman seemed satisfied with the result.

  It might have seemed like overkill, but when the job was to keep a group of people under control without unnecessary violence, ninety percent of it was intimidation. Bill the Wall knew his job well.

  I did a quick head count to make sure we weren’t leaving anyone behind and nodded to Femme Fatale to lead us out. She took a quick step back and sprinted for a shattered window, leaping into space.

  A wordless shout blasted her back in, along with the side of the building. Carried on a wave of force, she slammed into me, bowling me off my feet. We tumbled together, crashing into a wall. Plaster came off in great chunks, bouncing off my helmet.

  Damn, what the hell did it take to catch a break around here?

  Fatale was already on her feet, ready for whatever came next. Forney didn’t keep us waiting. The ERD man floated in and landed with an authoritative thunk on the rubble-strewn carpet. Femme Fatale was already in motion, launching herself into headlong flight, tackling Forney low in his torso. Her momentum carried them both out of the building. The pair spun crazily, Forney pounding Fatale’s head and shoulders as he tried to shake her off.

  I hurled myself after them, scoring a solid right to his jaw. He dropped like a stone, dragged down by my girlfriend, who twisted to make sure he got the full impact when they slammed into the street. Chunks of pavement flew in every direction, smashing into parked cars and storefronts. The few civilians still down there—most of the people had the good sense to clear the area when people in bumblebee outfits started flying around—scrambled for safety.

  I took a quick scan around, including the third dimension like I’d been taught. The training paid off. I spotted Agent Wells swooping down from above and behind me, getting into range for another sonic blast. I shot straight up and bent my path into a loop, but blew my shot at wrapping an arm around her neck. She ducked out of the way, spun, and screamed at me.

  I cursed myself for a fool while I careened, out of control, into a sixth-floor office. Going for the grapple was stupid. I should have just slugged her. It was a quicker move. But I knew she wasn’t resilient enough to take the kind of damage I could dish out. And, dammit, I had this problem when it came to hitting women.

  Ordinarily, that was a good policy, although I’m sure I’d be censured as a troglodytic sexist pig for saying so. But I was squaring off with a supervillain bent on killing millions. I should have known better.

  Like I said, I’m a fool. A damned fool.

  Wells, on the other hand, was no fool and had no problem at all with laying into a man with everything she had. She rose up quickly, expanded her lungs, and got ready to deliver the kill shot. I grabbed a heavy wooden desk, swept it before me, and braced against what I hoped wasn’t a load-bearing wall.

  Wave after wave smashed into me, sonic force battering my makeshift shield to splinters. Her scream forced me back against the wall. Plaster shattered, aluminum framing buckled and wires sparked as they came apart. My ears were in agony, and I focused all my energy on keeping what little was left of the desk between my head and the screaming FBI agent out to kill me.

  I braced myself and waited for a break in her attack. She had to run out of air sometime.

  Eventually, she did. I didn’t waste any time. As she sucked in another big breath, I punched what was left of the desk at her. I launched myself after it, grabbing an upended desk chair on my way out.

  Misguided chivalry be damned, I threw a wild haymaker with my right hand. Wells saw it coming a mile away, and ducked under it. What she didn’t see was the chair I dragged with me, and I spun, swinging it around and catching her in the ribs. The air in her lungs burst out before she could use it as ammunition. It wasn’t enough to put her down, however, and she sped off to the east, trying to escape into the lower levels of the parking structure.

  Stunner blasts followed Wells as she fled deeper into the rows of cars. The henchmen were back on their feet, flying out to join the battle. Sinfonie stood back on the shattered office floor, directing their efforts.

  I left them to it so I could search for Forney. He and Femme Fatale were trading blows in the middle of Broadway. The sh
ockwaves from their blows had blown out all the windows on the now-deserted block, and the combatants seemed content to settle matters there without causing any more harm to the city. Very considerate. I shot down at Forney to show my appreciation.

  A roar from the garage slammed me back into the building, this time into what looked like a deli. I pratfalled into a series of patio tables, chairs and umbrellas before crashing through what was left of a pane-glass window and plowing into the counter. I shook it off. No time to be embarrassed. Wells must have evaded the Bumblemen and doubled back. I was becoming very, very sick of that woman. With a snarl, I flew through the shattered storefront, looking for my tormentor.

  Sinfonie found her first. Agent Jerry Forney inexplicably lost interest in his fight with Femme Fatale, turned, and streaked straight at Wells. I cheered in my head, realizing Sin must be using her mind-control mojo on him again. Wells dove to the side and Forney’s momentum smashed him into the garage level’s ceiling. Several tons of concrete, rebar, and cars fell in, filling the area with dust and a cacophony of car alarms. Through the cloud, I could see Wells fly out of cover, coughing. She pressed a button on something attached to her arm, and I heard a female voice cry out somewhere above me.

  Sinfonie’s voice.

  I flew up to the third floor to find Sinfonie sprawled limp on the ground. Reggie knelt over her, his hand on her throat. “I-I don’t know what happened, man. She just collapsed,” he stammered. “She ain’t got no pulse, man.” He looked up at me, fear and grief in his eyes. “She ain’t got no pulse!”

  XVI

  “Something ‘bout the way I use my walk

  I don’t know the words, so I can’t talk”

  I hunched over Sinfonie, the heel of my right palm on her breastbone, covered by my left, and focused on keeping my strokes firm and steady, maintaining the rhythm.

  Here’s a fun fact: The American Heart Association recommends maintaining a steady series of fast, two-inch deep compressions in the center of the victim’s chest at a rate of one hundred to one hundred twenty beats per minute. If you ever have to administer CPR, you probably won’t have a metronome handy, but an earworm can save a life. Stayin’ Alive, the old Bee Gees song, has a beat made to order.

  It’s just something I read. Never thought I’d have to use it.

  “Don’t blame me for my poor form,

  This song came out ‘fore I was born”

  Reggie watched me work, his face dazed and blank. It didn’t take a psychologist to see he blamed himself. His job on this caper was protecting Sinfonie. She was powerful, maybe the scariest woman on the planet, but at the same time, incredibly vulnerable. She wasn’t bulletproof, weighed in at maybe a hundred and ten pounds if she had a big lunch, and when she was doing something intense—like mind-controlling a crooked ERD agent—completely at the mercy of her surroundings. She needed someone to watch her back.

  The point was, if she could see a threat coming, it wouldn’t be a threat for long. But, she didn’t see this coming. Nobody could. Not even Reggie, who knelt paralyzed with self-recriminations by her side as I worked.

  This might have been the first time I’d ever seen Reggie care about anyone or anything. Go figure.

  “But it’s okay, I don’t care

  Something ‘bout her underwear”

  Femme Fatale arrived at the floor just after the call went out over our comms that Sinfonie was down. Most of the Bumblemen wanted to go after Wells, but Fatale held them back. She ordered them into a defensive perimeter to buy us time as she knelt down to take over the ventilations.

  Reports came in from the Bumblemen in the parking garage. They’d found Forney’s body. The ERD man was dead. They weren’t sure how, but I had a suspicion growing in the periphery of my mind. It reminded me of the thugs in the airport, but that was a mystery for another time.

  “We can try to understand

  Something New York contraband”

  I remembered Sin telling me about what happens when someone like her is linked to someone when they died. She called it “dump shock.” It was a bad thing, but if I could keep her body alive long enough for her to find her way back to it, there was a chance she could survive this.

  I felt something hot and wet roll down my cheek. It dropped off and splashed on my hand.

  Dammit, Cindy, you have to survive this.

  I kept working.

  “Weather in a bunker, ain’t nobody funker

  And you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive”

  How long do you have before brain damage starts to set in? Ten minutes? How long has she been out?

  Shut up.

  What happens if she makes it back, but we’re too late? Could she lose control? Would we have to put her down?

  Shut. Up.

  “Real city shakin’ and everybody’s quakin’

  And we’re—”

  Sinfonie’s body convulsed, her mouth gulping air before falling limp again. Fatale’s hand shot to Sin’s throat, and I stopped for a couple of the longest seconds of my life. She smiled. “She’s back.”

  I leaned back, shaking out my arms. For a normal, CPR is exhausting. With Ultiman’s stamina, it wasn’t hard at all. My biggest worry was not turning her ribcage into mush. My arms were tight as hell from my efforts to control my strength. I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

  Reggie patted Sinfonie’s face, trying to bring her around.

  “She’s not wakin’ up.” He looked at me. “Shouldn’t she be wakin’ up?”

  “Give her some time,” I replied. I tried to sound confident, like this was all part of the plan. Maybe I pulled it off. “She warned me about this. Has to rebuild her neural pathways.”

  “We have to go,” said Femme Fatale, motioning outside and catching my attention. I could hear it, too. Approaching sirens. “Can we move her?”

  I nodded. I turned to Reggie. “You got this?”

  “You bet your ass.” He grinned, his determination swaggering back to him. He swept up Sinfonie in his arms and jetted out of the building.

  I activated my mic. “All units, scatter and rally at the hive. Bumblemen Three and Four, you’re on escort duty for Number One.” That’s how you do it. No names. You never know who might be listening. Confirmations rolled in. Fatale hopped onto my back and I flew out above the street.

  We stayed close to the three henchmen carrying Sinfonie in case Wells came back with reinforcements. They’d be vulnerable until we made it to safe ground. I kept my head on a swivel, sweeping the sky for helicopters, drones, the ERD, or whatever else they might use to follow us. Fatale kept an eye out for the speedster and other threats from street level.

  Mickey rented us—at considerable expense I might add—the use of Teuton’s old lair in Seal Beach. Hidden under an old marine repair shop, the place was cold, dingy, damp, and smelled a bit of mildew. Mickey’d updated it with some newish computers, fixed the plumbing and electrical, but other than that, I imagined it looked pretty much the same as it had back when it’s previous owner died in 1987.

  The lair was decorated like the love-child of a Viking stronghold and a death-metal album cover. Lit by electric candles and wall sconces, it was a little dim for my tastes. Rough-hewn wood lined the walls and ceiling, adorned with archaic weapons and trophies from Teuton’s heyday.

  The hearth still worked, and Reggie laid Sinfonie’s body by the fire some of the guys built. I patted her down, found her thumb drive, and slotted it into the computer. I’d say this for her—she was as organized as she was thorough. I found what I was looking for in just a few seconds. A list of geographic coordinates appeared on the screen. The locations of the nerve gas dispensers.

  Sinfonie was right. There were at least fifty of them, and they were all over town. There had to be a way to narrow this down; some reason to their placement. Some pattern that would maximize the casualty count. I called up a map application and started filling in coordinates. The first one was on the 405 freeway near Washington Boulevard
. The next was on the same highway, but near where it connects to the 90.

  Oh, no. I plugged in a few more and understood their game.

  Fatale and one of the Bumblemen watched over my shoulder as I added more data points, and red dots appeared on the map. They were all high-congestion points on the freeways.

  “Oh, my God,” Fatale breathed.

  “What? I don’t get it,” the henchman asked. Henchmen usually didn’t. They weren’t exactly what you’d call big-picture thinkers.

  “That’s where they planted the gas,” she explained.

  “On the freeways?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, getting to my feet and calling the rest of the henchmen over. “On a hot day like this? Everyone has their windows open or the air conditioner running. Perfect.”

  “Won’t they just drive past it?”

  “Have you seen it out there? Traffic’s already backing up. When they trigger these things, it’ll be at the height of rush hour. Gridlock.”

  “Jesus. I gotta get my kids outta here.” One of the henchmen started for the door.

  “They’ll never make it,” I called after him. “It’s already too late.”

  The man just stood there for a moment, trying to come up with an argument against my position.

  “Look, Doughboy,” The Wall said, “there’s nothing we can do about this. This is, what, fifty bombs all over the city? Even with these jetpacks, we can’t cover that kind of area.”

  “Yeah,” another Bumbleman joined in, “Look, I hate to cut and run on a payin’ gig, but this is outta our league. I don’t have any EOD training. Does anyone?” Nobody spoke up. It was a specialty beyond most thug’s experience. “We need to cut our losses. Some of us got families. We can at least get them away from the freeways. Don’t they deserve a chance?”