The young Eskimo’s eyes rolled upward as he thought to himself, Oh, Christ. A half hour late on my delivery schedule and I have to get pegged by a Jesus freak! He then pushed gently past the old man and opened the cab door.
“Uh, look, pop, I’d really like to stay and listen, but they’re building a new booster station down by the river and they can’t finish the foundation without this cement. Some other time, huh?”
“B-But I’m so confused,” Aningan insisted. “I need help ”
“Ohhh, I get you.” The young man nodded knowingly and reached into the pocket of his jeans, bringing out a dull silver coin which he placed into Aningan Kenojuak’s outstretched hand. Then he climbed into the truck, started the engine, and slowly pulled away from the sidewalk, calling back as he left, “Have yourself a snort on me, old-timer. And give my regards to God!”
Puzzled, the shaman looked down at the tarnished metal disc in his hand, then let it drop to the mud. He didn’t understand what his young kinsman had meant, but somehow it made him feel unsettled, and unclean. He had to do something. But what?
Looking around again, Aningan saw a white man in a plaid lumberjack coat coming from the front door of the largest building on the street, an official-looking structure with decals and seals in the corner of its modest picture window. Beside the building was a large, fenced-in yard which held a wide array of bulldozers and other construction vehicles, along with several stacks of oil drums containing diesel fuel for the machines. Aningan’s village had been altered by white man’s magic, and it was obvious that this was the point from which that magic had originated. Thus it was here that the aged wonder worker must make his demands.
Careful not to slip in the half-frozen mud, Aningan crossed the crude street, moving directly to where the white man from the official building was unlocking a gate to the equipment yard. Then, standing as straight and tall as his frail form would allow, he spoke with both dignity and courtesy.
“I insist, sir, that you return my village to me at once.”
“Huh? Whazzat?” The man from the official building, who happened to be named Fritz Gardenia and happened to be field foreman for the Amrek Construction Company and happened to be thinking about his hemorrhoids, turned around. “You say somethin’?”
“I said, sir, that the village must be restored. The ice god has returned and this . . . this place is totally unsuitable for his worship. I’d like my village back now, please.”
Fritz Gardenia raised his hands in exasperation, looking away. “Oh, Christ on a stick! Why do I get all the banana-brains? What am I, some sort o’ freak magnet?” Then, to Aningan: “Look, Mac, I got me a bunch o’ eco-nuts comin’ to examine the pipe, so I gotta check for leaks, y’unnerstand? I’m busy an’ I’m tired so just lemme alone, ’salright?”
The irritable construction worker turned away, starting to push the gate open to enter the equipment yard. But Aningan Kenojuak reached forward, grabbing the man’s woolen coat and holding him back.
“Wait! You have no right to take this land! No right to destroy a way of life that has existed for centuries! You must give it back, or the ice god will—”
Fritz Gardenia whirled around, breaking Aningan’s grip and throwing the old man off balance, causing him to tumble backward into the mud of the street.
“Damn it, ya old fool!” the construction boss yelled, angrily. “I’m tired o’ all you panhandlin’ deadbeats. My company’s brought more prosperity to this land than a thousand years o’ your blubber huntin’ an’ fish peddlin’, an’ we ain’t even asked for a ‘thank you.’ So I ain’t gonna give ya this damn town an’ I ain’t gonna give ya no more o’ my time. If ya want a handout, try the Salvation Army. Now beat it!”
Straightening his coat and wishing that he didn’t have to sit on the hard seat of the company land rover all the way down to the river, Fritz Gardenia walked stiffly off into the equipment yard. Behind him, Aningan Kenojuak pulled himself up slowly from the mud. His eyes no longer sparkled, but burned with a dark, dangerous fire. All the years of loneliness welled up inside him. All the hours and minutes and eternities of worthless solitude filled his soul, mingling there with the shards of broken dreams and splintered hopes. They raced through his mind, cutting like a whirlwind of icy thorns, sending the blood pounding through his ancient body with a strength born of atavistic, animal rage.
He looked around, and saw that those few white men who even bothered to notice his plight did so with barely-concealed grins of amusement. Aningan Kenojuak answered those grins with a snarl of clenched teeth as he reached with both hands to grab the gemstones around his neck and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze.
“No!”
Along both sides of the street, planks from the wooden sidewalks cracked and split and flew into the air, spinning and tumbling in erratic paths that caused the startled pedestrians to scramble for whatever shelter they could find.
“No!”
Like balloons left too long in the sun, the tires of the passing trucks and jeeps swelled and blew, sending mud spattering in all directions, and sending vehicles skidding out of control to crash into walls and each other.
“NO!”
As one, every window along the main road exploded outward, showering street, sidewalks, and passersby with sparkling stars of shiny, sharp glass.
Aningan looked at the pale faces that now gazed at him with the awe and respect he deserved. He looked around at the ugly, unpardonable town that he was about to destroy—and he smiled.
While in the distance, a glittering quinjet sped silently into view.
Seven
“Strap in, guys. It looks like we’ve hit some pretty heavy turbulence.”
The Beast struggled with the usually responsive control stick. Ever since they had spotted the town up ahead, the quinjet had been bucking and lurching as if caught in some invisible storm. In the copilot’s seat, the Scarlet Witch glanced over the control console with growing concern.
“I don’t like it, Beast. First we hit an air pocket that isn’t there, and now all the dials are spinning like someone was holding a magnet over them.”
“Yeah, I know,” answered the erstwhile Hank McCoy, “and I’ve got another bulletin for you: the engines are starting to cut out! Something tells me Grizzly Adams of the Yukon must be close by.”
Settled comfortably in one of the passenger chairs, his seat belt still rolled up in its retractable holder, Thor added, “Mayhap ’twould be wise to ground our craft and proceed afoot?”
“Not only would it be wise, Blondie,” the Beast now had both hands and one foot on the control stick, fighting it, “but I’d say it’s quite possibly our only hope for immediate survival! There’s a smooth patch of what I hope’s snow at the other end of town. I’m gonna try and set us down on it.
“Prayers in the names of Orville and Wilbur Wright will be gratefully accepted.”
Wobbling and canting like a kicked Frisbee, the malfunctioning quinjet angled low over Bantu Junction, then dipped even lower to come smacking down into a deserted field with a dull WHUMP and an impressive spray of snow, metal, and mud.
On the main street nearby, Aningan Kenojuak didn’t notice. His concentration was focused on a rise outside of town, a rise above which hovered his ice-imprisoned, unseeing god: Captain America.
“Do not fear, My Lord,” he said, a revitalized sense of purpose and destiny giving new strength to his voice. “The white man may not willingly remove his magic—but I may yet remove the fruits of that craven sorcery. Behold!”
Turning to face the equipment yard from which he had so recently been cast, the old Eskimo touched out a pattern on the String Of Stones; while in that yard, Fritz Gardenia stood beside a logging crane and wondered just what the hell was going on. He stopped wondering, however, when the crane suddenly shuddered and began to rumble forward of its own volition.
The crane was a massive thing, painted yellow and propelled by mighty treads that were fully as tall as an average
man. It sported a latticework hoisting arm that was forty feet long, and ended in a dangling metal chain with a hook that was used for lifting or lowering heavy loads. And when it crashed through the steel-link security fence—leaving a hole through which the terrified Fritz Gardenia ran only seconds later—it began swinging that arm from side to side, smashing it randomly into walls and roofs like a child in a tantrum.
Aningan Kenojuak looked pleased. “And now,” he said to whomever cared to listen, “to cleanse this blasphemy!”
Fingering a new sequence on the gemstones around his neck, the dark-eyed shaman mumbled a few whispered words, then nodded his head once. In the yard, the metal oil drums stacked neatly around the fence perimeter began to tremble, and then split apart in wide, gaping holes, spewing their uctuous contents high into the air. At their apex, the countless gallons of diesel fuel burst into flame, finally raining back down to earth in gouts of crackling orange fire that set the equipment yard ablaze, and scarred the sky with billows of roiling black smoke.
At the edge of town, the Beast clambered out the side door of the quinjet—which was now the top door, since the aircraft had tilted over onto its side at the end of his somewhat inglorious landing—and slid down the fuselage to join the other three Avengers.
“Uh, tell you what, guys—if you don’t tell the FAA about this, I won’t. Okay?”
No one answered the Beast. They were all looking to the town a short distance away, and to the soot-dark clouds that rose from its center.
“There canst be little doubt,” Thor said, “but that the one we seek doth lurk nearby. Wanda, Pietro, Beast—thou wilt search for the magician, Kenojuak, and for our stolen comrade, whilst I strive to douse yon base inferno.”
And so saying, the God Of Thunder thrust Mjolnir before him, letting the mallet’s mystic powers carry him aloft. In seconds, he was above the fiery equipment yard; in those same seconds, he knew what he must do. Thus grabbing Mjolnir by the leather thong at its heel, he began swinging the enchanted hammer in a circle over his head, faster, ever faster, until at last the mallet swung at such great speed that it displaced the air within the area of its circumference, creating a vacuum that drew upward a great, whirling spout of snow from the empty expanse behind the yard. Then, tilting his spinning hammer much like a rodeo rope twirler, he angled the rising snowspout over toward the fire, stopping the hammer with predetermined precision to let the snow fall in a white, smothering blanket over the flames.
This had escaped Aningan Kenojuak’s notice. For as soon as his cleansing conflagration had begun, he had turned to saunter casually down the main street, watching the driverless crane crash and slam into buildings, looking much like a man whose pet has learned a new trick. But the town had gotten over its initial shock, and was about to strike back. Led by a uniformed security guard, a dozen armed men ran from the construction-company office and stopped several yards from the strolling shaman.
“I don’t know what you’re doin’, you sonofabitch,” yelled the guard, bracing his pistol with both hands, “or how you’re doin’ it. But you’d better stop it right now or we’re gonna blast your tail halfway to Seattle!”
Aningan looked at the men, an odd half smile on his face, as a familiar yellow-green glow spread from the String Of Stones to cover his body. “Do,” was all he said.
The guard’s finger pressed back on the pistol’s trigger. “All right, boys, I’ll take responsibility—burn ’im!”
Rifles and pistols cracked and bucked, spitting fire and lead at the elderly Eskimo only yards away. But none of the bullets struck their target; instead, they glanced off the pulsing glow as if they’d hit solid titanium steel, ricocheting in all directions. Unfortunately, caught up in bloodlust and the confidence that their firearms could drop anything that walked, the gunmen were unaware of this. Even when some of the stray bullets struck their own number, they refused to believe that they were only making noise.
To the three Avengers emerging from an alleyway a short distance down the street, however, the situation was all too obvious.
“Oh, my god!” cried the Scarlet Witch. “Those men don’t know what they’re up against. They’ll end up killing each other!”
“And if they don’t,’ added Quicksilver, “that rampaging machine will! It’s got no driver!”
Squatting next to the mutant siblings, the Beast suggested, “Look, folks, bullets and I don’t get along too well—they tend to leave annoying little holes in my body—so why don’t you two take care of those hotshots while I zip over and pull the plug on My Mother, The Crane, okay?”
With that, the Beast bounded off down the street, swinging from the occasional lamp post or flagpole for added momentum. Behind him, the Scarlet Witch blinked—and was alone. Realizing that Quicksilver was probably already in the middle of the fray, she ran down the sidewalk toward the one-sided gun battle.
Meanwhile, at the scene of that conflict, puzzled gunmen lowered their weapons, having finally noticed that their last few rounds had struck nothing, and that there was now an odd silver blur between them and their target. That blur stopped, and it was Quicksilver, holding out before him a double handful of copper-jacketed lead pellets that his incredible speed had enabled him to catch in midflight.
“Hey,” cried one of the construction men. “Ain’t that one of the muties that works for a superhero group back east?”
(Aningan Kenojuak had also recognized Quicksilver, and felt a subtle twinge of apprehension.)
“Yeah,” called another, “but what the Sam Hill’s he doin’ here?”
“I am trying to save you from your own folly,” answered Quicksilver. “The man you seek to slay has powers beyond your ken, and you would be fools to continue your senseless aggression.”
Huddled behind glassless windowpanes, the citizen of Bantu Junction watched the temporary lull in the war that had erupted on their streets. Then, with a voice calm and even, the security guard spoke.
“Look, superstar, out here we’ve learned to take care of our own, and that’s exactly what we intend to do. Maybe we are fools, but if you don’t get the hell out of our way, you’re gonna be dead!”
The guard then raised his pistol—or at least tried to. For midway on its journey to eye level the weapon’s barrel snagged on a shimmering, translucent wall that had suddenly appeared before the guard, a wall that quickly spread into a dome that covered his startled companions as well.
“It’s called a hex sphere, gentlemen,” said the Scarlet Witch as she came to stand beside her brother.
(Aningan’s hand crept to the String Of Stones; his apprehension grew.)
“And,” she continued, “if you try to shoot, cut, or walk through it, I think you’ll probably find that task almost as easy as drinking tar through a straw.”
Mercifully, the trapped gunmen’s short and to-the-point comments on the witch’s handiwork were muffled by the thick walls of the sphere.
“Excellent, Wanda,” said Quicksilver. “With these spectators protected from themselves, we can concentrate on—”
“Oh, my stars and garters! Whoooop!”
The familiar expletive brought Wanda’s and Pietro’s heads around to gaze at the far end of the street. There, dangling from the chain in front of the very machine he had gone to stop, was the upended and exceptionally-embarrassed Beast. Having deftly avoided the crane’s swinging arm long enough to reach the machine’s control booth, he had paused to figure out which among the numerous switches and levers would deactivate the rampaging juggernaut. Unfortunately, that had given the sentient mechanism enough time for its hook-tipped chain to snake into the control booth, wrap itself tightly around the Beast’s ankles and yank the surprised Avenger back outside. Now, it drew its hoisting arm back, readying a swing that would smash the helpless Beast into a concrete wall like a fuzzy demolition ball.
“Quicksy! Wanda!” the Beast yelled. “G-Get me out o’ this, will ya? I-I don’t think the world’s ready for a furry, blue pancake!”<
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Almost before the words had been said, Quicksilver began sprinting for the scene, followed at an expectedly slower pace by the Scarlet Witch. As they left, Aningan Kenojuak shuffled in his old man’s way toward the far end of town, intent on gaining the side of the ice-god who hovered in sacred majesty beyond. He was worried. He hadn’t counted on facing these super powered foes again, and this time he was without Brother Bear.
Meanwhile, the Beast had closed his eyes, and so didn’t see Quicksilver arrive and begin running in a rapid, tight circle below him. But he soon felt the results of that tactic, as he was caught in the Silver Speedster’s slipstream and started to spin, ever faster, the chain that held him twisting and knotting tighter and tighter until at last it snapped, sending the Beast falling in an awkward spiral to land in the mud below. Seconds later, the hoisting arm crashed into the previously-sound concrete wall of the local post office—sans Avenger.
Quicksilver skidded to a messy halt and dropped to one knee beside his freed comrade. “Beast! Are you hurt?”
“Let me put it this way, Quicksy,” said the Beast from a sprawled sitting position, “I don’t suppose you know how to put a splint on an ego, do you? Never mind, I’ll be okay—and thanks. Now let’s go give that nasty ol’ Avengernapper a lickin’ he’ll never forget!”
Full of natural enthusiasm, the Beast pulled himself to his feet and started walking. Unfortunately, the direction in which he walked was sideways, straight into a still-standing plasterboard wall. Finding himself once more on his increasingly bruised backside, the Beast drilled some mud out of an ear with his little finger and said sheepishly, “Ah, on second thought, maybe I’d better sit this one out.”
Moments before and blocks away, Thor had also heard the Beast’s initial cry. But as he had turned Mjolnir to fly in the direction of that yelp, confident that the oil fire had been duly suffocated, he was nearly singed as the flames erupted anew, burning through the covering snow, streaking even higher than before.
Marvel Novel Series 10 - The Avengers - The Man Who Stole Tomorrow Page 8