“Monica, get down!”
Startled, Cooper spun around just in time to see death coming at him.
Another, older punk had shown up — from inside the apartment? through the broken front door? Cooper had no idea — and this guy dressed the part, dressed as Cooper had expected to find Arturo, with wife-beater, low-riding pants and everything. Cooper had no idea who this new fellow was, but that didn’t really matter. What mattered was the double-barreled shotgun that looked about as big as a cruise missile and was aimed right at Cooper’s face.
Arturo’s mother ducked, Arturo stayed down, and Cooper very nearly shit his pants.
“Wait—!” was all Cooper managed to get out, his hands raised before him in futile defense, before the new punk fired the shotgun. Regardless of the muffling effect of his shield, the roar was deafening, the fire spit from the barrel was blinding, and Cooper flinched away, waiting for the pain to register, waiting to taste blood and other gore in his destroyed mouth, waiting for the darkness to reach out for him with cold arms and ... and ...
Someone whispered, “Dios mio ...”
Cooper opened his eyes and lowered his hands. He had to blink a few times — pointed right at him, that shotgun blast had been bright as hell! — but even before he could see, he realized what had happened: His paranormal shield had withstood the shotgun blast without so much as a scratch.
No one moved, all four of them too stunned to do anything yet. Cooper’d had no idea how strong his shield was. He knew it was tough enough to crack wood, to break porcelain, sure. But to withstand a shotgun blast fired from six feet away? He didn’t know he had that kind of power!
Cooper’s hands stopped trembling. And he started grinning.
That grin woke up the newest member of their party, and his would-be killer raised the shotgun again and fired the second barrel. Monica cried, covering her ears; Arturo swore, his eyes so wide they looked like they might roll right out of his head.
The second blast didn’t seem nearly as loud or as blinding to Cooper. He flinched — that was just understandable, human instinct — but he did not cower this time. The buckshot struck his shield and cascaded around it, leaving no mark, not even so much as a powder smudge.
As Cooper relaxed again, Monica was crying louder than ever, and Arturo wasn’t far from it. Cooper’s would-be killer broke open the shotgun, trying to remove the spent shells with trembling fingers as he muttered under this breath, “Mierda, mierda, mierda ...”
“Ain’t gonna happen, buddy,” Cooper spat, and he leaned forward, way forward. His shield rolled around him, bearing down on his target much faster than he had advanced on Arturo earlier.
The punk realized he would never get the shotgun reloaded in time, and it would not do him any good if he did. He dropped the gun, spun on his heel, and ran for the door.
Cooper caught up with him just as they reached the threshold. His shield slammed the guy in the back, but instead of knocking him down and rolling over him, it added to his own momentum and sent him flying across the hallway, right into the opposite apartment door. Cooper had already made room to Arturo’s cracked doorframe when he entered, so he lost only a little speed exiting as he scraped along one side. The punk, dazed, turned around just as he was caught between Cooper’s rolling shield and the neighbor’s door. His nose exploded and his lips flattened, the breath burst from his lungs, and unlike Arturo, he had nowhere to go.
As Cooper was still leaning forward, the shield’s pressure did not let up, and although the door creaked, it did not give — it was the guy’s chest and skull that finally gave up the ghost with a sickening crack!
Cooper allowed the dead man to slump to the floor. Some of his blood stayed on Cooper’s shield, rolling up as he reversed, then oozing back down. It remained very beaded, reminding him of rain on a window pane.
Cooper’s anger held together this time — the guy had fired a shotgun at him! — but he honestly had not meant to kill the guy. Hovering safely within his protective shield, he gazed down at the messy body and pondered his next move.
“Perry? Jesus Christ, Perry! What have you done?”
Cooper turned to see his security friend, Dwayne. The paunchy guard was standing a few feet down the hallway, framed on either side by a number of heads poking out of apartment doors. Dwayne was gaping at the punk’s body, and his right hand was gripping the handle of the low-powered pistol in its holster.
“I, uh ... uh ...” Cooper stammered. How the hell was he supposed to explain a tableau like this?
“Jesus, Perry ...” Dwayne was now staring at Cooper’s feet — specifically, the fact that they were hovering above the hallway floor. He drew his pistol.
In spite of being aware of how all of this must look, Cooper felt indignant. They, the apartment tenants, were all gawking at him, judging him. As if they hadn’t all complained about Arturo and his hoodlum friends? Hypocrites! Still, he tried to keep his voice level. “Dwayne,” he began, “this, this isn’t ... I didn’t—”
And of course, of course, Arturo’s mother chose that exact moment to peek out of her apartment, see their little friend lying in a spreading pool of blood across the hall, and scream her damned head off.
Others joined in, followed a second later by several slamming doors; one woman ran out of her apartment and down the hall, away from him. Someone cried, “Rogue! Cooper’s a rogue!”
Then Dwayne — his “friend,” Dwayne — raised his pistol and fired. Cooper barely flinched this time, but that wasn’t the point.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Cooper roared, leaning forward and rolling toward Dwayne.
Dwayne fired one more round before running away as fast as his old legs could carry him. To add further insult to any macho image he might’ve held of himself, he wailed “Roooogue!” in a high-pitched voice far more feminine-sounding than Arturo’s mom.
As Cooper passed another apartment door, he saw it open and glanced over. A middle-aged woman he’d talked to once or twice (Mary?) stepped out just far enough to point a stun gun at him, one of those cheap knockoffs that claimed to be “almost as powerful as PCA sidearms!” in the commercials (emphasis on “almost”).
Mary fired, and the paddles bounced off his shield without incident. That wasn’t the point, though — the point was that she tried to hurt him.
Refusing him loans, laying him off, stealing his money, ruining his car, cheating on him, divorcing him, ignoring him, now they were trying to shoot him ...
That was it. Perry Cooper was done. He’d had enough. Enough! Nothing could hurt him, nothing could stop him. Ungrateful, backstabbing, two-faced, punk sonsabitches — every one! He would kill them all!
And so Perry Cooper snapped.
The words “anger” or “fury” did little justice to the crazed fugue in which Cooper found himself; he did not make distinctions or slow down for justifications. He lashed out without any real thought or reason, slamming against, smashing into, and rolling over anything or anyone unfortunate enough to draw his attention. The smartest, luckiest tenants were the ones who kept their doors closed — during his one-man riot, his sphere shattered glass, cracked wood, bent steel, broke bones, crushed joints, hyper-extended limbs, and, in one instance, ruptured organs.
The police arrived. Just regular, uniformed officers, because the first 911 calls had reported gunshots rather than rogue activity, so the police were dispatched ahead of the PCA. It was a disaster: Wasted pepper spray, impotent TASER devices, more fired shots — one of the terrorized tenants caught a stray bullet in the side of her neck and sprayed blood like an obscene fountain. Cooper had crushed one of the officers against a wall before the rest called a retreat.
Then Cooper finally saw something that brought him partially back to himself. He was on the second level of the complex, smashing a coin-thieving soda machine to metallic pulp, when he glanced over the railing into the swimming pool area. A number of tenants were making a run for it toward the exit on the far side of the pool, but
the pair that Cooper zeroed in on were Arturo and his wailing mother.
Arturo, who — in Cooper’s fragmented mind — had started all this trouble!
Cooper leaned back to get some rolling room, then threw himself forward. His shield burned proverbial rubber and smashed through the upper-floor railing with barely a hitch.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?!” he roared.
Arturo and his mother looked back, their eyes widening in terror as Cooper dropped toward them. The mother stumbled and almost slipped into the pool, and Arturo struggled to keep her upright.
Cooper reached the ground just a few yards from them — he barely felt the landing, but the concrete ended up with a shallow, fragmented crater. He rolled backward for just a split-second, then he was up and out of the shallow depression and bearing down on Arturo.
Arturo said something in Spanish and pushed his mother in one direction while dodging the opposite way, waving his arms to keep Cooper’s attention on himself.
How noble, Cooper thought with deep sarcasm.
He pulled back at the last moment so that, when he struck the hoodlum bank employee, it knocked him down rather than rolling over him. Arturo landed on his back, gasping for breath.
Cooper dropped his shield just long enough to plant a foot on Arturo’s stomach. He then stepped forward and reactivated his shield.
What little air Arturo had managed to draw burst from his lungs. His face turned purple as he glared up at Cooper and beat at the feet hovering over his chest. Cooper tried to smile at him in triumph, but it only twisted his lips into an ugly sneer.
“Arturo!” his mother cried, and again threw herself at Cooper’s shield. She was even more frantic — Cooper wasn’t just mashing her son’s foot this time, he was crushing the life out of him!
Ignoring her, Cooper crouched to bring his face closer to Arturo’s, spitting, “Adios, amigo ...”
“Hey! Asshole!”
Cooper snarled and looked up, assuming that someone was probably about to shoot at him again from the second floor.
He was wrong.
Sailing erratically through the air over the roof of the apartment complex, Shockwave of the PCA had called him out. The paranormal agent wore a shiny full-body suit of deep crimson — it came across almost, but not quite, as a superhero costume; the only things it was lacking were gloves and a mask, and for that matter, shoes.
The air rippling around and beneath him, Shockwave descended upon Cooper.
“Hey, asshole!” Shockwave repeated, his fists clenched and ready to erupt with his namesake. “You want a fight? I’ll give you one!”
And then Shockwave crashed into the swimming pool.
PARANORMALS
Tires screamed on the asphalt as Michael and Shockwave peeled out of the PCA gym’s parking lot at high speed. The rear end of their sedan fishtailed as Michael cut across traffic to take the fastest route to their destination.
Since Mark had learned to fly not long after they were partnered together, they’d had debates, on and off, as to whether or not he should take to the air when they got a call, as his traveling in a (mostly) straight line would get him there faster. But most of the time, they decided that, as partners, they should arrive together.
“Any updates?” Michael asked as he negotiated around an oblivious driver who failed to pull to the right for the police-style lights the PCA field agents were finally issued.
Mark checked his phone. “A short one. Looks like the rogue’s got a kind of force field bubble strong enough to stop regular cop bullets.”
Michael nodded, keeping his eyes on the road as he ran through a red light.
“Force field ...” Mark mused. “Sounds like it could be a flashy kinda fight. Lotsa pizzazz ...” He gave Michael a hopeful, sideways glance.
Michael couldn’t help smirking. “Go ahead. I know you’ve been dying to.”
Grinning ear-to-ear, Mark unlatched his seatbelt and climbed over the seats into the back. He pulled a black, folded garment bag up from the floorboard and unzipped it to reveal a glossy crimson suit. He whispered, “Yes!” as he started undressing ...
During the previous quarterly meeting-of-the-minds, Davison Electronics had presented the PCA review board with a new protective fabric, which, in laymen’s terms, they had dubbed “micro-chainmail.” Far lighter and fantastically more flexible than Kevlar, Davison’s spokesman, Alan Russell, proposed outfitting all PCA field agents with the material and, once proven successful, perhaps even to the military and nationwide police forces as well. A sample of the fabric was passed around as Russell spoke, eventually making its way to the lowly Lieutenants in the back row.
As soon as Michael saw the shiny material up close, he suspected that he had seen it before, worn by a certain masked vigilante of note. He had smiled as he passed it over to the next person, pleased that the aforementioned party was willing to share and not monopolize such an advantageous invention.
Unfortunately, it was not to be. The micro-chainmail was tough, but it was stopped by a truly immoveable force: Budget. The penpushers in Washington, those who never, ever stepped into the field against a rampaging paranormal rogue, deemed the material “too expensive for mass production” — as had been the case far too often throughout history, they considered dollars more important than people. Many PCA officers railed against this decision, Takayasu and Shockwave among them, but in the end, it didn’t change anything.
But not too long after this debacle, a package was left on Shockwave’s doorstep; said package contained the glossy crimson suit. Mark later admitted to Michael that, when they very first met Vortex, he had joking-but-not-jokingly asked Vortex about getting a costume of his own ... and Vortex had evidently remembered their exchange. The red outfit was less “snazzy” than Vortex’s own — no mask, no cape, no symbol on the chest, and no gloves or boots, so as to not interfere with his shockwaves — but Mark had still been quite pleased.
Shortly thereafter, Michael received his own package: A new, custom-fitted trench coat, lined with the micro-chainmail. But while Takayasu very much appreciated the gesture, and made sure to voice this appreciation the next time they met in the field, he found the coat too heavy, especially once he added his usual complement of anti-paranormal gadgets to the inner pockets. He tried to make do once or twice, but it just hindered him too much (he had no idea how Vortex ran around head-to-toe in the stuff — not to mention the cape!). They had finally compromised with a bulletproof vest-style lining, so that at least his torso was protected in combat.
Speaking of combat ...
Cutting a hard left, Michael pulled into the parking lot of the three-story apartment complex. Several police cars were controlling the entrance, and they were waved through in a hurry. The press was beginning to arrive as well; the uniformed officers were successful in keeping them at bay, but they were already snapping pictures and shooting video from afar. Civilians were emerging from the complex’s main thoroughfare in trickles and spurts, most of them looking stunned or in tears, and the police were escorting them away.
When Michael stood up from their car, the press photographers started snapping photos like crazy. Mark, looking slick in his crimson suit and knowing it, made a big show of emerging from the backseat.
A second later, the senior police officer, a trim Hispanic man, hustled over to Michael’s side. “Glad to see you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Mark commented as he rounded the car.
“No, I’m serious,” the officer said to Mark. “I know you guys get jurisdiction flack sometimes, but I’m happy to hand the rogues over to the PCA. This kind of sci-fi crap didn’t exist when I went through the Police Academy.”
Mark accepted that with a nod of appreciation. “Sorry. It’s a nice treat to feel wanted, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I do indeed. Anything we can do to make your lives easier?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Michael said. “Keep the press out, escort the civi
lians away as they get clear. Leave the rogue himself to us.”
“Like I said, happy to. You guys alone?”
Mark started to answer with a very cocky affirmative. “Hey, man, we’re all the PCA you’re gonna—”
At that moment, a second PCA sedan rolled into the complex parking lot, its engine revving as it sped over to join them.
Michael said to the officer, “No, sir, it looks like we won’t be alone on this one.”
Mark craned his neck to see who had joined them. When he identified the occupants, he grumbled under his breath, “Oh, great ... Golden Boy and Poindexter are here to save the day.”
Powerhouse rose from the passenger seat with a respectful nod to Michael. His partner hopped out from behind the wheel and jogged around to join him.
Powerhouse’s partner was Ensign Pendler, a gawky man around thirty who had a reputation as a bit of a non-action agent who let Powerhouse do most of the work but shared the credit. Michael had no personal hard feelings for Pendler, but nor did he have much respect for him, so he was glad that his own superior rank would leave little question of who would be in charge.
As they came together, Powerhouse also nodded to Shockwave, but Mark gave him the cold shoulder — Lincoln either didn’t recognize it for what it was or, more likely, chose not to. Michael saw it, though, and made a mental note to talk to Mark about it, again.
Mark’s professional jealousy would be a lot worse, Michael knew, if Mark were aware that, once Powerhouse joined the PCA and they realized just how strong he was, the higher-ups — in a personal phone call from the one and only Admiral in the PCA, Admiral Karl Dunham, formerly a General in the U.S. Army — had offered Michael the opportunity to “upgrade his situation” by partnering with Powerhouse. The Admiral had even implied that it might come with yet another early promotion to Lieutenant Commander, even though Michael had already leapfrogged from Ensign to full Lieutenant after the PCA headquarters was destroyed. Michael had expressed his gratitude, but very politely declined the offer and stated his desire to stick with Shockwave (fortunately, this decision did not appear to have resulted in any political fallout, yet; probably because he and Shockwave had continued to kick paranormal ass together).
Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone Page 7