The Push Chronicles (Book 2): Indefatigable

by J. B. Garner

  Muscles contracted, nerves fired erratically, and a million danger signs fired off in my brain. As I fell backward twitching, I found I was strangely still in control, still grimly hanging in focus. I tried to will everything to work, to start back up. In theory and practice, it was possible. There were trained people who could shrug off a full-powered taser in moments. As I fought my own body, I heard the footsteps approaching my side.

  "You see, while you were constantly occupied trying to do what you thought was the right thing, I've been watching, studying, and waiting," he explained. There was a pause. Every extra second counted as I managed to wrangle my rebelling neurons into their pens. "Oh, very very good. I suppose you need another shock or three." I could feel his presence looming. It was now or never, Irene.

  The second I heard the faint spark of the taser, I forced my arm to swat it with all the grace of a zombie. It was, thankfully, enough ... even Mackenzie hadn't expected me to right myself so soon. I must have annoyed him with that, as he grabbed my wrist and cranked that arm back to a dangerous extension. The sudden jolt of pain signals kicked in the adrenaline and with a sudden biochemical surge, my entire body was back on board with the brain. Too bad my arm was about to snap like a chicken wing.

  "The taser would have been more pleasant, Dr. Roman, but if you insist." Something popped as my elbow hyper-extended, but I ignored it as I had already written off that joint in my brilliant (read insane) gambit. I pushed my knees up to give me a hint of leverage and then yanked with all the strength I could muster with my mangled arm. Technically, Mackenzie had the win. The technique was flawless and his position perfect, but he hadn't factored in the possibilities when dealing with people like we were. I didn't have to out-technique his hold if I just put enough muscle to lift him and myself clean off the ground.

  He was, for the first time, surprised as his feet left the ground with the sudden motion. Unfortunately, my shoulder, already wrenched, dislocated and I was sure I tore some stuff inside that was important. Even my unnatural pain tolerance was topping out. But I was free and Mackenzie had hit the stone floor hard.

  In a desperate bid to keep the bastard down, I pushed up to my feet, took two big steps, and hauled off with the hardest punt kick I could manage, straight to his ribs. To his credit, he managed to roll with the impact, but I imagined I at least cracked a rib or two. He curled fetal as he tumbled. The moment he stopped, Ian madly scrambled to his feet and I was right on top of him, one arm useless and the other still mangled from yesterday, not that I cared one bit.

  I led with a wild swing as I charged, which he blocked and replied with a sharp jab to my gut. Ignoring the instinct to curl up, I simply continued my rush, letting momentum slam my body into his, throwing us both back against one of the stone walls. Now I got that headbutt I so richly wanted. Why? I wasn't even sure at that point. Maybe just to say I had managed it. I drove my forehead into the bridge of his nose and was delighted by the crunch of cartilage as blood poured out of his nostrils.

  Problematically, that left me with only one arm to try to keep him pinned against the wall. Just as I figured I would have done, Ian managed to ignore the instinct to cover his broken nose and used my poor position to jab his fingers into my dislocated shoulder. I wanted to be able to focus through it, but that had finally, after all the brutalization my body had taken in so short a time, been too much. I cried out and staggered back, letting Uncle Terrorist slip free.

  I needed to relocate my shoulder; I needed two arms, even if they were both mangled. As I tried to get a handle on the pain, Mackenzie took the smart move and drove a hard punch at my head, probably hoping for a sweet-spot knockout. I was only saved by my staggering retreat, but I still was tagged in the cheek. I was working with raw desperation and let that fuel a wild, low kick which, by some miracle, knocked the legs out from under Mackenzie. That would last moments.

  Fortunately, I knew how to relocate a shoulder which shockingly is not by slamming it into a hard object like in an action movie. I closed my eyes, loosened up my body, and rotated my bent arm in a full circle. There was another flare of pain and then a distinct pop.

  Excellent timing as Mackenzie, still in far better shape, was back on his feet. The thing was, all it took was one lucky shot from either of us. We weren't Pushed and our strange abilities just made this kind of fighting even more dangerous. It explained the stun gun ... for some reason, Mackenzie very much wanted me alive.

  In line with that thought, Ian advanced nimbly forward, trying to use my sloppy stance to try to get a solid grip on me. I brushed aside his first attempt and tried to push him off with the sole of my boot; there were still tingles up and down my arm and I was hoping for just a few moments to get ready. Instead, Ian caught my extended leg and heaved upward. As before, when enough strength is applied, no amount of balance matters. The world spun as I flipped over backward.

  By some miracle of agility, I carried through the flip and landed on my feet in a crouch. As impressive as that had to look, it mattered about zero, as I was still at a horrible disadvantage. Mackenzie had no qualms capitalizing, grabbing me by both shoulders as I regained my feet, digging his thumbs hard into the joints. I didn't give him the pleasure of crying out, but the surge of pain, now only dulled instead of ignored, left me open to two swift knees into my gut.

  I contemplated throwing up whatever I had in my stomach all over him but I somehow held on and threw my arms up and out violently, hoping my assessment of strength earlier was true. Sure enough, the sudden push tore me out of Ian's grasp. Seizing this one moment, I slipped to his right, slammed a fist into his kidney, and then shoved him hard into the nearest wall.

  I know the kidney punch hurt him, but he still had the presence of mind to guard his head with his forearms. Everything was turning hazy around the edges and it was getting so hard to focus, but I managed to shake my head and stay awake. With one last desperate rush of energy, I swung a full-strength haymaker at his exposed back.

  He wasn't there. The man had experience, extensive training, at least a dozen years in dangerous situations. I was a former physiologist who had been relying on luck, some strange gimmicks, and crazy on-the-job training. It wasn't a surprise that Ian would have instantly moved away, but I was too tired and too beaten-down to figure that. Instead, I broke my knuckles as I shattered a fist-shaped hole in the stone wall.

  There was a tremendous stabbing pain in my left shoulder blade. It wasn't just a hard punch or a stabbing finger-thrust. Mackenzie had shoved a knife straight through the flesh and just shy of cracking the bone. My pain centers overloaded and I slumped against the wall. I tried to keep standing, scrabbling for some handhold with my battered right hand, but it just wasn't working. I continued to slide down until I crumpled to the floor. It was damp, cold, and surprisingly soothing.

  "Well now," Ian said with a startling level of calm, "that was educational. You really would have had the best of me if I hadn't ensured you would be properly prepared." Just how much of the past few days, hell, the past months had Mackenzie been behind? I didn't know, so I pushed up to my hands and knees. Just as I didn't want to know what all he had done, I certainly didn't want to know what he intended to do now, especially with me. Despite that valiant effort, I was loosing the war with gravity. I just couldn't force myself back up, especially with a knife still sticking out of my back. I could hear the scrape of plastic then more footfalls approaching me.

  "Don't worry, Dr. Roman. You won't enjoy this, but you won't be dead." The electric crackle of the taser. "When you wake up, let's try to have a rational conversation, alright?"

  The first long shock locked up my joints and I felt my cheek hit the floor. The second one finally shattered my focus and, in one giant wave, pain, agony, nausea, and fatigue hit at once. Thank God for the black slate of unconsciousness.

  Chapter 13 Loyalty

  I knew I wasn't dead because I dreamed. Unlike the few lucid dreams I had in the past, these were incoherent, wild mixes of dream
and nightmare. I had a strong suspicion I was drugged, which I think would have accounted for the untamed state of my subconscious mind. After an indeterminate time, I came out of the psychedelic haze and dropped into normal sleep.

  When I woke up, I was sitting upright in a plush, high-backed chair. The chamber I was in was dimly lit, but there were many subtle clues that I was still in some subsection of the Atlanta sewer system. My injuries had been treated professionally. In fact, I felt better than I had in weeks and I had been dressed in what looked to be white cotton scrubs. Of course, that meant no communications gear and no GPS tracker. I wasn't even restrained as far as I could tell. If it wasn't for the fact that I was sitting across a table from Ian Mackenzie and that I had a strange weight around my neck, I'd have been rather happy.

  "Ah, right on time," the terrorist madman said, certainly not sounding like a madman. "I'm sorry that I had to hurt you as bad as I did, Dr. Roman, but you didn't really leave me much choice." Okay, that sounded a little more unhinged.

  "I'm only wishing I had given you no choice at all," I said. My throat was dry and I found myself drinking from a glass on the table. In fact, it looked like there was a full, if basic, meal laid out for the two of us.

  "I understand that you feel that way right this moment," he nodded, "but you may change your mind after our conversation." He arched an eyebrow and grinned as he watched me drink. "Aren't you afraid the food or drink is poisoned?"

  "Who would even think that?" I argued. "If you wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead. Who would tend to someone's wounds to wake them up to poison them?"

  "A Pushed," Ian replied without hesitation. "Or, to be frank, most people under the influence of the Whiteout." I couldn't help but nod in agreement. It was just so melodramatic; it would be perfect for that mindset. "I know you think I'm a monster, an insane terrorist. All I ask is that you hear me out. Listen to my story and my plans."

  "Why would I ever think you're a monster?" I rolled my eyes. "I mean, you just murdered your own colleagues, signed the death warrants on who knows how many people Reaper killed, jeopardized an entire city, and let's not even get started on the lives lost because of the Hogs and what you're doing to them now." I stopped my mini-rant to grab a bite of chicken off my plate. The hunger inside me was gnawing at my insides and I just couldn't help myself.

  "Fair enough." Mackenzie let out a deep sigh. "You have to see, though, that those were acts of desperation in fighting an invading army, not random acts of malice." He must have taken the sight of me eating as time to politely begin his own meal as he tucked into his food, cutting the meat into small, even squares before eating one bite at a time.

  "Invasion?" I asked. "Don't you think that's an extreme stance to take? The Pushed are people too. You have to know, you have to be able to see the same things I see."

  "I do and yes, at an elemental level, they are. What I think the problem is, Irene, is that the course you have taken has made it hard for you to look at the big picture."

  "What do -" He held a hand up calmly for silence. I decided to give it to him for now.

  "Before we get down into an actual debate, would you allow me to lay out my own cards on the table? I think you would agree that it is poor science to jump to a conclusion without having as much knowledge as possible, right?"

  "Fair enough, but remember your observational bias. Try to stick to the facts."

  "Duly noted, Doctor." He chewed slowly at a piece of meat, swallowed, then began his story in earnest. No matter what kind of crazy tale this was going to be, I figured that it was time for me to devise some way out of this mess. I had no idea where I was, what had happened to my friends, or even how long it had been since Mackenzie and I had fought, but all of that was meaningless if I didn't get out of here alive.

  "Now, I'm sure that Duane and Rachel have told you about my past. Bright-eyed and eager out of high school, I spent six years in the U.S. Army. Apparently I had just the right stuff to be brought into military intelligence and then, after that, I pursued a career in law enforcement. With my qualifications, I wound up working for the FBI. The precise details are unimportant; it's all very mundane."

  "In the Bureau, I became something of a go-to man for unusual cases. To be quite frank, I relished it. I have always wanted to believe that there was another layer to human experience that lay right around the corner, so looking into cults, unexplained disappearances, bizarre crimes, and all manner of oddities scratched that intellectual and spiritual itch."

  "Rachel mentioned something about that," I nodded. "She said that you had been very open-minded before the Whiteout."

  "True. I still am, if you can believe that." He chuckled. "I'll also ask not to repeat what Mr. Brooks has no doubt recounted about me. Very colorful, I imagine."

  "That's one way to put it."

  "Well, in time, I hope to be redeemed. Now where was I? Oh yes. This was how life was before the Whiteout for me. To my dismay, I never found any true evidence of the unnatural. Every once in a while I thought I may have come close, but nothing concrete. It should be obvious, then, that when the Whiteout happened and the Pushed appeared immediately after, I wanted to be at the top of the list of people the government wanted working on the situation. Fortunately, my superiors agreed and assigned me before I could even present my request."

  "Within an hour of the event, NASA had worked out the probable origin of the event: here in Atlanta. Before noon of the first day, I had already sent Agents Brooks and Choi to track down information which, as you already know, led to you."

  "That's what I have never quite gotten," I mused. "How did you know to put them on the trail to Eric?"

  "The Bureau was already investigating Dr. Eric Flynn when the Whiteout happened." Mackenzie twirled his fork as he spoke; more and more he seemed like a scholarly uncle than a criminal mastermind. "From the report Choi sent me, I know you were there at his laboratory. Do you really think, even as brilliant as Eric is, that he could have absconded with all that equipment over the years and not started leaving some trail behind? If only they had found more evidence before hand to press charges, it is possible the Whiteout could have never happened."

  "This all sounds well and good, but it hasn't explained why you decided during those first three days to go all 'terrorist ringleader'. You had to have done that within the first day, because you personally unlocked Pandora's Box when you talked to Gerald Schuller."

  "That's simple, Doctor. All it took was observation and that first interview with Epic to make it all plain as day." He paused for a moment and I gestured for him to continue. "Come on, you know what I'm talking about. The entire human race has been mentally altered against it's will and, the same day, a supremely powerful being puts himself forward not only as the first among a new race, but one that promises to lord over and protect the mere, mortal, human race." He sipped at his drink. "That doesn't sound like a savior. That sounds like an invader justifying his actions."

  "You put it that way before. An invasion. Why exactly do you see it that way?"

  "Why don't you, Irene?" He sighed. "Very well, I'll spell it out for you: The Pushed do not think or act in a way that aligns with human thought, even human thought influenced by the Whiteout. More than half of the Pushed population believes in taking over the world, either in mock beneficence or in honest subjugation. They have more in common with a hypothetical alien invasion than a human condition."

  The worrisome thing to me was that I could find few faults in his beliefs so far. How far off were they from my own, to be honest? Sure, I wasn't organizing a guerrilla war on the Pushed, but I still was trying to work towards their eventual elimination from the planet through ending the Whiteout. Maybe Archer was right. Maybe I really did hate the Pushed and simply tried to deny it. Still, did those beliefs justify the lives Mackenzie had taken?

  "Assuming I believe you and I recognize your logic as valid, why the terrorism? Why the murders? Why Reaper?"

  "I knew that I would need
time to organize. Time to prepare an answer to the invading forces. You see, during my time investigating bizarre cases, I spoke with many very intelligent people about the hard realities of the possibilities of aliens. It was universally accepted that any civilization that could devise the means to travel the stars in a reasonable time would be so dramatically advanced over us that we would be as ants are to us. If they wanted to take over our planet, there would be nothing we could do."

  "Just like now, at least in your eyes."

  "Exactly, Irene, exactly. Gold star. And really, how far from the truth is that?" He put down his silverware and steepled his fingers. "The Battle of Washington changed little except for adding a division in the ranks, thanks to you. No governmental regulation can do more than incite counteraction. No military force can hold a candle to the destructive power of the Pushed, especially if they continue to unite into groups and then factions as they already are doing."

  "We're holding out just fine," I argued. "And the Pushed I work with aren't like that. There are good people among them; they just need to get organized and unified to counter-balance the bad seeds."

  "I don't want to burst your bubble, Irene, because frankly I'm rather impressed with what you've managed to do so far. There's a reason I haven't overtly interfered in Atlanta until now. Let's be realistic though: you are one woman, and you have a small cadre of elite forces. Let's be generous and say you and your friends are the equivalent of ten of Epic's so-called heroes a piece. Congratulations, it is now sixty to a thousand odds instead of six to a thousand. You are inevitably going to be crushed all the same."