Halfway Heroes

by Dustin Martin

Heather swung by her apartment so she could pick up some equipment. “Wait here in the hall,” she told Mark. She left the door cracked as she retrieved her things. Mark stood outside, checking his own apartment door now and again. It felt like ages since he had been in there.

  His apartment door opened and Gene stepped out. He grumbled about no newspaper being delivered. Then he raised his eyes and spotted Mark. “You,” he said, growling. Mark sighed. Not a convenient time. Compared to his huge anxiety about what the police would do to him if they found him, Mark’s worry about his dad came to nothing. “You had something to do with all this, didn’t you? You little maggot.” He stomped over to Mark, his eyes large and angry. “We’re under some kind of martial law. This has something to do with your freak friends, doesn’t it? And you’re involved.” He shoved Mark into the wall.

  “You again?” Heather stepped out of her apartment. She wore a beige coat, which complimented the scarf Mark had given her, and the coat bulged at her hips. Weapons. Enough to be prepared for any threat. Mark was relieved she was here. He relaxed in her presence, and grinned, feeling cocky and assured.

  “Stay out of this,” Gene said, slamming Mark up against the wall again. He turned to Heather, fists curled, grinding his teeth.

  Mark knew Heather could handle Gene. But he could, too. He yanked Gene back. “Leave her alone,” Mark said. He pulled his father to the ground. The training had paid off tremendously.

  Shocked, Gene stood. He regained his composure and jabbed his finger in Mark’s face. “You—” Mark swatted his hand aside. Then he pushed Gene back to the apartment door.

  “Stop it,” Mark said. “I’m sick of you, so stop it. Leave us alone.” He glared at his father, who fumbled with the doorknob. Gene opened the door and slipped into the apartment. From just inside the door, he said, “I’ll call the cops. See how a little jail time straightens you out.” Then he slammed the door shut.

  Mark dropped his shoulders, a wave of relief washing over him. That felt awesome, he thought. Heather placed a hand on his shoulder. Her other hand, which had been inside her coat gripping a pistol, dropped to her side. She smirked, patting him in a congratulating manner. Together, they headed back to the car and drove to Leonard’s home.

  On the way, Heather’s walkie-talkie came to life. “Heather? Heather?”

  It was Emeryl.

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  “Thought you should know your little ragtag police force got into the city. We only managed to take out a few of them, but some of my guys were lost in the fight.”

  “Great,” Heather said. “Where are you now?”

  “On my way to Hunter Memorial. They need backup there. Turns out FBI are leading a charge on it. Did you get the code yet?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “We’ll meet you there after we check out Leonard’s house.” She lowered the walkie-talkie. “Great. The BEP Division and the FBI. What’s next? The National Guard?”

  There was no sign of people or cars in the driveway when the three of them arrived at Rooke’s house. The outside of the building was untouched. They decided to go through the back door. So Heather parked in the backyard, which was freshly maintained despite the occupant’s demise. It was a hidden garden tinged in white frost, the polar opposite of the rolling, untamed fields surrounding the neighborhood’s borders.

  Heather opened the back door with care. Mark stepped forward, ready to cover her. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but his senses were on full alert, most notably his nose preparing for the awful corpse stench. Yet the house was quiet and devoid of any odor. The large halls offered no response to their unannounced visit. Together, they checked room after room, searching for any sign of Rooke. The house was surprisingly toasty compared to the outside temperature. The lights still worked, but they turned them off for fear they would make their presence known.

  When they had exhausted all corners of the house, they headed to Rooke’s work area. The computer was on, his work spread out as if he had left only minutes before. Heather sat down at his computer while Mark checked through the papers on his desk. They detailed experimental procedures and equipment, which he assumed was here in the room. He scanned the papers and saw foreign medical terms. “So we’re looking for four numbers?” he asked.

  “Yes. Anything that might stand out. Perhaps something significant to Rooke. Keep an eye out for any numbers like that.”

  An idea had been niggling at Mark’s brain for a while since he’d been at the factory. Only now, in this downtime, did it manifest itself. “Do you think there is no cure for this version of SN91?” Mark asked.

  “I doubt there is,” Heather said. “Unless you have super speed and were prepared, I don’t see how you could inject the antidote fast enough before you were killed by the gas.”

  “You think Rooke did all of this because of Leonard?” Mark picked up a paper. The name SN91 appeared a few times on it, but the paper appeared to be only a brief manufacturing report.

  “Yes. He always was a little unhinged when it came to his father.” Heather tapped a few keystrokes, knitting her brows. Mark thought this was kind of funny, in an endearing way. He felt himself staring and looked away. “Guess we should’ve figured it was Leonard who actually kept him from losing it.”

  “But to go this far,” Mark said, trailing off.

  “He was really close to his father,” Heather said. “As close as anyone can be, I suppose.” She looked at him.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mark said.

  “I guess not,” she said, returning her attention to the computer.

  He browsed through a few other papers and then cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks. You know, for back at the apartment.”

  “You were the one white-knighting it, not me,” she said, chuckling. “Besides, if you hadn’t stepped in, I probably would’ve gassed him. In a permanent manner.”

  He nodded. Gene did have that aggravating effect on people. “Still, thanks.” He left out the “I couldn’t have done it without you,” but she appeared to understand.

  As he searched through the papers, Heather unbuttoned her coat and unwrapped her scarf, letting it drape on her shoulders. Her bulging neck stood out in all its glory, not yet large enough that she needed to release the gas, but still sporting pronounced veins. However Mark didn’t find her repulsive. Her neck was more of a curious feature on this beautiful woman. A feature that he had never seen before. He turned away before she caught him staring at it.

  Heather sat back from the computer after several minutes of searching. “Nothing,” she said. Mark shook his head from among the papers. “Looks like we’ll have to find Rooke and extract the code from him.”

  “Where should we start looking?” Mark asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. She rubbed her eyes and started to stand up from the desk. But something on the screen caught her attention. She sat back down and shuffled the mouse back and forth.

  “Find something?” Mark asked hopefully. She didn’t answer. He walked around the desk and peered over her shoulder. On the screen was a document, like the various medical sheets he’d been perusing. Yet there was a name at the top he recognized. Heather Stanson? He, like Heather, scanned through the document.

  Heather finished before him. She gaped at the screen. Then she pushed the computer monitor to the side in a fit of rage. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

  Crash! Mark’s head whipped toward the sound. Someone was downstairs. Heather leapt up. She tied her scarf snugly on her neck, took out a pistol, and checked her ammunition. Mark, though curious what had riled her on the screen, abandoned the computer to take up a position on the side of the door across from Heather. They snuck out of the room and down the hallway.