Unbreakable Storm
The Darkest Storm - Book 2
Patrick Dugan
To my Booger Bear (Emerson) Miss you every day RIP 2/2006 – 8/2017
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
Falstaff Books
About the Author
Also by Patrick Dugan
1
It’d been a week since Powell murdered Wendi, and the Reclaimers were showing the episode again since “technical difficulties” ended the broadcast the previous week. They made a huge deal of the rebroadcast, which landed on the anniversary of the Dark Brigade attacks, or the Darkest Storm, as most people called it. I would give anything in the world to not see this again, and the worst part is that it was all my fault.
It also was my seventeenth birthday.
We had returned to Castle, the safe house we’d inhabited since we couldn’t return to Redemption. Instead of cake and balloons, we watched Wendi’s death in Hi-Def. Mom attempted to turn off the TV multiple times. Dad sat in silence next to me, a scowl entrenched on his face. Marcel stood in the doorway, his face ashen with grief. Abby sprawled on the recliner; her hair kept her face hidden. No one spoke as the fight progressed.
I saw parts of the fight I hadn’t witnessed in the heat of battle. Abby snarled as she saw herself get knocked down and beaten by the troops we fought. I was glad to see her anger hadn’t translated into her growing as her Gift kicked in. Jon dropped three of them before a guard’s baton struck him in the head; Powell knocked Dad to the ground as I attacked. The glee showing on Powell’s face as he unloaded into me changed to shock when I blew him across the arena.
My stomach tightened, the bile strong in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes, even though I felt it was disrespectful to Wendi’s memory to not watch her sacrifice her life to save my mom. I heard Mom’s gentle sobs as they crashed against the mental walls I’d built against crying. I forced my eyes open to watch.
When I walked away from Powell’s limp form, the camera focus shifted to the gun as he raised it. The shot flew past me and headed toward Mom as she hung by her arms. A blur entered the screen as Wendi sped to get Mom out of danger. Blood plumed from her as the slug struck her in the side of the head; she’d never seen the bullet coming for her. Her beautiful blond hair, now dark red with blood, flowed away from her as she spun out of control. Mom cried openly as she watched Wendi’s lifeless form tumble. The numbness prevented the pain from getting to me. It bounced off my detachment like a rubber ball hitting a steel shield. I stared at the scene, aware of my mom clutching my hand and Dad putting his arm around my shoulders in a show of support. We were comrades now. Blood had been spilled by all to win our freedom at the cost of Wendi’s life, but emotions would have to wait.
The camera moved to a wide view of the arena. The film betrayed what I knew to be true. On TV, Powell regained his feet, retrieved his rifle and proceeded to kill my mother, father, Abby, and Jon. For some reason, I stood frozen in the middle of the floor, immobile as my enemy executed my friends and family. When Powell finished, the camera zoomed in as he turned toward me, rage contorting his face. “Executioner, you will pay for your crimes with your life!”
I cringed inside at the stupid name with which the Reclaimers had dubbed me. Given everything that had happened, a stupid nickname seemed the lamest thing to get upset over, but it ate away at me. Saturday Night Showdown was all a game to them, and the Gifted paid the price for losing. I felt my mental shield slip as the emotions hit me.
On screen, Powell pulled a long-bladed dagger with his uninjured hand, the remains of his left arm swung like a broken clock pendulum. “Prepare to die!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Bring it on!” The voice didn’t belong to me, being much higher than mine; the scene flickered slightly.
Marcel snickered, rubbing the sparse stubble which acted as his goatee. Given his lack of showering lately, he smelled more like a goat. “Amateurs. They didn’t align the edges of your face correctly before they overlaid the actor. Not to mention the guy is at least thirty pounds heavier than you.”
“And probably twice as hot,” Abby chipped in.
I shot them a quick smirk. Marcel was a constant in my life; his humor always pulled me out of bad spots. Abby melded with us as if she’d always been here. None of us had been at Castle long. Dresden had been compromised when Jon turned rogue, so now we lived in Castle, an old Infinity Guards hideout in the Appalachian Mountains west of Charlotte, North Carolina.
My ‘twin’ ran into battle with Powell. They traded blows. Powell’s ruined arm erupted as lightning struck it. He rained down blow after blow which staggered “me.” In reality, it would have energized me. I would have blown him to smithereens with all the power I’d built up. I almost laughed.
Knocked to the ground, Powell raised his arm in triumph. “This is for all of you that lost family to these abominations!” he roared in time with the crowd as they surged to their feet, whipped to a frenzy by the bloodshed.
“I’ll see you in Hell, Executioner!” he screamed. He grabbed me by the hair and used the knife to cut my head off. The blood sprayed everywhere, bathing him in a robe of gore.
“Oh my God, they really killed him,” Marcel said, before running for the bathroom, his hands holding the vomit as it spewed from his mouth. Mom jumped up to help him; his heaving and crying echoed through the complex’s living area.
“Probably some criminal,” Abby said, her voice thick and low. She perched on the edge of her seat like a predator about to strike. Ever since the fight, she’d been full of pent-up aggression. Dad assured us it would pass; it was her reaction both to losing Wendi’s death and Jon’s leaving the group. He said some people withdrew into themselves after their first fight. Abby descended into a murderous rage.
On the TV, Powell threw my dismembered head, causing it to skid and bounce to land face first in front of the camera. Desmond Roberts’ voice overlaid the screaming crowds.
“Folks, I know you waited an extra week, but what a fight. This will go down as one of the greatest fights, even greater than the Dominion Gauntlet. Five Discordants dead along with a known sympathizer.”
Imagine that; my mom supported her husband and son. Who would have guessed? The more I watched, the angrier I got. The scene switched to a slow motion of Wendi’s death. I couldn’t take it anymore. The energy sprang to life with my anger, flowing like magma through my bloodstream. The surge increased tenfold as I concentrated it into a tight sphere in the center of my chest. The heat felt as if it would scorch me where I stood, which would be a proper punishment for killing Wendi, but no such luck. As I prepared to release the built-up ene
rgy into the TV, it snapped off. Dad held the remote up like some religious artifact in an attempt to calm me.
“Tommy, take it downstairs to the gym, but stay out of the combat rooms,” he said in his quiet but commanding way. Dad was Cyclone Ranger, one of the world’s strongest, and most hated, Gifted. Clad in a ratty NYU sweatshirt and a pair of oversized sweatpants, he didn’t look the part. “I’m going to check to see how Marcel is doing.” The man could give stealth lessons to cats with how quietly he moved.
I headed to the gym to release the pent-up energy, but Abby blocked my way. She snarled as she said, “I’ll go with you, I need to hit someone.”
She stormed away from me, red and black hair splaying out behind her like a Valkyrie’s cloak. What she meant to say was, I need to hit you. Abby and Wendi had gotten close, and we all knew I was responsible for Powell killing her. Being pounded by Abby wouldn’t be enough punishment for what I had done, but it was a start.
She stopped in the stairwell doorway. “You coming? Oh, and if you wear your inhibitor cuff, I’ll make you eat it.”
I realized too late I had been holding the cuff on my wrist. To an outsider, it looked like a watch, but it allowed me to turn off my gifts when needed, like at boxing practice. Not much use firing off lightning bolts at your sparring partner. I broke the seal and shoved it in my pocket. The energy still swirled like a hurricane in my chest. I’d have to hold back; I didn’t want to hurt Abby. She was one of the few friends I had left. Maybe I’d switch on the inhibitor and let her end me.
I followed her down two flights of stairs and out into the workout rooms. Every sort of exercise equipment known to man was here: barbells, weight machines, rowers, and treadmills large enough for an elephant to use stood around the room, grouped by the exercise type. At the far end, rock climbing walls and a full obstacle course had been installed. I couldn’t identify what a third of these machines even did.
Abby emerged from the locker rooms at the back of the gym. I passed her as she started warming up on the parkour course. It amazed me to watch her workout, her speed and agility surpassed everyone on our team. Jon could keep up with her, but he’d abandoned us after his twin Wendi’s death. I jogged into the locker room and jumped into my combat suit, but left the helmet sitting on the shelf. Mom would have a fit if she found out I’d gone without a helmet, but nothing could hurt me, at least not much. Being able to absorb energy had its perks as well as its costs.
I walked out to sit on a stack of weights only Titan could lift while waiting for Abby to finish the course. She could leap twenty feet at a time, swing around on the bars like an Olympic gymnast, and power through the larger obstacles without breaking a sweat. The longer she left her cuff off, the stronger she grew. I’d noticed she wore her inhibitor constantly now, with the exception of training time. She landed with a dull thud after back-flipping off the last wall.
I entered the training room, Abby close behind me. In all reality, you could probably test a nuclear bomb in here and maybe scratch the paint. Dad didn’t know I’d seen him unleash enough lightning down here, after Wendi’s funeral, to destroy a city block. With the amount of power at his command, he could level buildings. No damage remained to mark his fury, except the cracked, bleeding burns covering his arms.
The room only had one door. The Air-Lock back in Redemption could have been a screen door here. Marcel had just about wet himself as he examined the technology involved in making the training room. He explained it, but all I heard was like blah, blah, Carbinium enriched tubes, blah, blah, repulsor ray, blah, blah, blah. Twenty minutes in, he realized I wasn’t listening and gave up. I got the point: nothing could penetrate the walls here.
Once inside, Abby pressed the button; the door slid quickly out of sight as the room sunk deeper into the mountain “You ready, Ward? I’ll take it easy on you since you’re the birthday boy.” She cracked her knuckles, grinning at me.
“Screw you; I’m ready for your worst. I’ll try not to mess up your hair.”
She scoffed. “I’ve had the cuff off longer this time. You won’t touch me, Sparky.” She stretched her arms out wide, rolling her neck back and forth to limber herself up. “You need to stick your finger in a light socket before we start?”
“Funny.” I pulled deep from the well I kept stored within me. I’d never get caught out of juice, like with Powell. I had found I acted like a battery as long as I didn’t use the cuff. Once the inhibitor turned on, no juice for me. Luckily, it came back once the cuff turned off.
“Take your best shot, low voltage.” She squatted awaiting my opening shot. I started small, knowing she’d move before it got close to hitting her. She rolled left and came back up in the same position.
“That was weak. You take it easy on me, and I’ll kick your balls in.”
While she couldn’t do any lasting damage with my body absorbing the force of her blows as energy, it would still hurt like hell.
The next shot streaked directly at her. The thick bolt would have rattled her teeth had it hit. She laughed as she easily avoided the shot but hadn’t seen the second blast, thin as a laser beam, which ricocheted off the wall, hitting her fully in the ribs. With a whoosh of exhaled breath, she landed hard on the floor but managed to get to her feet somehow.
“Now that’s more like it,” she snarled. “I like to play rough.”
I opened up with a set of short bursts that she avoided like a running back through the secondary. The last blast flew below her as she somersaulted over it. Both her feet, clad in her normal steel-toed boots, struck square on my chest. Pain burst like water through a broken dam; even with my powers, I’d have a bruise for a week. Her strike would have knocked anyone else out, but my body absorbed the energy, saving me from a few broken ribs. There are benefits to having Gifts, for sure.
Instead of mimicking the roll Abby does, I flopped. As hard as I practiced, the backward roll eluded me. Her boot missed my head by a millimeter or so as I scuttled away from her. She pursued, low to the ground, fists ready to strike. I punched a blast of energy at her head, hoping if not to hit her, at least distract her, to let me regain my feet. Abby hit like a Mack truck on steroids.
My shot hit her square in the face. Her head cracked back, and I heard an audible crunch. Blood flowed from her nose, down her face. “Abby, are you all right?” I ran to help her up.
As I approached, she reverse-rolled to her feet and launched in one smooth movement. Her fist hit me under the chin. I tasted blood from where I bit my tongue in the process. I collapsed under her weight. She straddled over me, raining punches on my arms and face.
I raised my arms to protect my head. “Abby, what are you doing? I give up.”
“Of course, you give up!” she screamed, froth splattering as she spoke. “You always give up, and people die, right? You never give up!”
A loud horn blared, and blue lights flickered on. Someone had triggered the inhibitor override. Abby kept punching. “You never give up, NEVER! You fucking could have killed Powell, but you quit!”
Blood flowed from my face as the pummeling continued. Even without her Gift, Abby was strong as an ox.
Hands grabbed Abby and pulled her off me. Dad wrestled to hold her as she lashed out with both feet and words. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, though I wasn’t sure if it was from my head spinning or her shouting incoherently.
“Enough!” Dad bellowed as he continued to pull Abby away from me. “You are not using your Gifts to fight. You’ll both wear your cuffs from now on, or I’ll lock you in the holding cells. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said wiping the blood from my face. More replaced it, but I deserved what I got.
Abby pushed Dad out of the way and left the room. He watched her go, shaking his head as if trying to figure out what to do with her. He turned back to me.
“We are having a meeting upstairs about this,” he said and followed after Abby.
Great. All I needed was a lecture on top of my injuries. I�
�m sure the injuries would be shorter lived.
2
I stalled the inevitable by heading to the locker room. After I stripped off my combat suit, the mirror confirmed what I had already known. Bruises covered my arms and torso, blood dripped from my nose, and my mouth had swollen up from the beating I had taken. My dark brown hair currently had a red tinge to it from splattered blood and a gash in my scalp. With the dampening unit on, my body would heal at the same rate as a Norm.
I threw on clothes and tied my shoes, stopping to replace the tissues shoved in my nose as the blood soaked through them again. I guessed I’d be a vampire’s snack with all the blood dripping out of me.
I stomped up the stairs. The sooner this ended, the sooner I’d be able to heal. Healing the injuries would be easy, the wounds from the words would take a lot longer. The sad part: I agreed with Abby. I’d stopped fighting; I let Powell kill Wendi, and if not her, my mom. I thought I had been merciful, but the cost of mercy had been much steeper than I’d ever imagined.
As I entered the second floor of Castle, I slowly surveyed the area. All the levels were circular, having been built in an old missile silo. A huge kitchen dominated with an enormous stove and three refrigerators. A sink I could bathe in took up the far end of the space. The main table sat adjacent to the kitchen area, could seat twenty, but four of the chairs could hold three people easily. A birthday cake sat in the middle of the table, untouched. The other side of the circle contained a living room, media room, and a couple of meeting rooms.
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