Users

by Stacy Buck

  "An addict," he said.

  "When is the last time you were high? Are you high now?"

  "What? No, I've been sober for years," he said.

  The agent raised one eyebrow as if his bullshit meter had just shot through the roof.

  "I mean it. I haven't done drugs since, since...a long time ago."

  "Then what were you doing in a known drug house, with this dragon chaser, who's obviously in serious need of a fix; and in a room full of members from a local cartel?" The agent stood in silence, eying him for even the slightest tick, or twitch that Carter might be deceiving him.

  Carter knew he had better make this good, or he'd be spending the weekend in lockup at the local county jail, and with his record he'd probably be looking at some time, even with his act of being a good Samaritan and saving the agent's life.

  "Look, I wasn't going to say anything, but I used to work with the All Americans."

  The agent's eyes lit up at Carter's mention of the elite of the elite of powered teams.

  "I'm not currently a member, but I still do work on my own, and I've been casing these guys for weeks. You and your boys actually busted in the door right when I was about to find out who their supplier is," he lied, but the agent leaned in wide eyed and eager; he lapped up the lies without question, like a dehydrated puppy after a long run.

  "I'm using my powers to work my way to the top of the cartel's food chain; to find the city's biggest drug dealer. I plan to stop the supply of drugs at their source."

  "What did they call you?" the agent asked and excitedly awaited his answer, his head bobbing as if on a swivel.

  "What did who call me?"

  "When you were on the All Americans, what did they call you?"

  "Oh, that..." Carter was embarrassed to answer, but didn't want to disappoint the DEA agent. "Ash."

  "Ash?" he asked. The agent's eyes narrowed and his lip curled in confusion. "Why did they call you Ash?"

  "Because when I was done with you, there was nothing left but ash," Carter said.

  The agent wore a toothy grin at his answer, but quickly composed himself as Carter stopped talking.

  "I'm going to need to see some sort of permit. We can't have vigilante justice being doled out in our city on a whim an-"

  "Here's the thing, I'm kind of working undercover, so if you could keep it on the hush hush...that would be great." Carter sincerely hoped he was smiling right, and that his facial expression was convincing.

  They sat in silence staring at one another for a long moment.

  "I think I can do that." The agent turned from side to side to make sure no one was within earshot.

  "Most importantly, let's just keep this between us." Carter leaned in to whisper to the agent.

  "No problem, just between us." The agent winked.

  "Am I free to go?"

  "You are."

  "Can I borrow the blanket?" he asked hopping down from the back of the ambulance. The pads of his bare feet were cold against the wet concrete, but he simply adjusted the heat in his body, sending just enough hot blood to his toes to keep them warm, without actually setting them on fire.

  "You can keep it."

  *****

  That night he slept alone for the first time in ages. Despite the rickety bed and his crummy apartment, he slept like a rock. Having used up so much of the heat within him left him feeling drained and his temperature was almost comfortable for a change. Maybe he needed to use more often. Maybe draining all that heat was a good thing, but that left him with another problem. Where would he use it? Become a serial arsonist like the guy last year who went around burning down half built construction sites. Would he just have to get used to the fact that in order to be comfortable he was going to have to burn off his hair on almost a daily basis.

  He rolled to his side and pulled the bed's comforter tight around his shoulders. He felt at peace and was enjoying it, even if it wouldn't last for more than a few hours. He closed his eyes tight and tried to avoid the reality that when he awoke, he was alone, he was broke, and he had almost been arrested the night before. But the light through his bedroom window was beckoning him to awake, and after many moments passed, he finally rolled out of bed. Groggily, he lifted his heavy eyelids, and stared at the cheap shag carpeting covering his bedroom floor.

  "Ugh," he said remembering the details of the previous night.

  He had narrowly avoided a huge disaster. He had almost relapsed, losing years of sobriety, and he had almost ended up in jail. He had dodged a major bullet, and he knew it. Now, he was starving. Quickly, and without showering, he got dressed and ran out the door for breakfast; not even bothering to look in the empty, shit brown cupboards hanging on the kitchen wall above the counter. They were without a doubt empty.

  He made his way through the stark white hallway, took the three flights of stairs down to reach street level in large easy strides, went through the bar covered door, and out into the alley. He turned the corner and was on his way to get a cheap breakfast when something in the corner of his peripheral vision caught his attention.

  He froze.

  "What in the hell?" he asked in amazement and horror.

  A yellow newspaper vending machine, covered in spray-painted gang tags, shown just enough clear plastic on its front for him to recognize his name. There it was, on the cover of the Seattle Daily newspaper in big bold letters, "The Ash vows to stop Seattle drug kingpin." He dove into his pocket looking for spare change, fumbled with a few quarters, pulled out fifty cents, and slammed the money into the newsstand's slot. He pulled down the lever and snatched a paper from within the box.

  "Holy shit," he said.

  Below the headline it read, "Seattle local hero, The Ash, saves an agents life in a harrowing display of bravery. The hero, whose real name will remain anonymous; used a dazzling display of Scorcher's abilities to disarm a drug dealer in a late night raid, after an agent had been taken hostage."

  There it was, Scorcher, the slang name for him and others like him who possessed the curse of fire powers. He was one of only a few on the west coast, but there were others. And it wasn't only the Scorchers. There was a whole menagerie of labels or slang for people with powers. The telekinetic users got called Movers, there were Screamers and Viewers, Changers, Pushers, and Blinders, and countless other powered individuals with countless names. But as far as he knew, he was the only scorcher in Seattle, which meant it would not be long before the cartel and their hit men came looking for him.

  "You've gotta be kidding me. That agent and his big mouth," he said to himself.

  Carter yanked the hood from his sweatshirt up over his head and made sure to pull the sides down and around to partially cover his face. He leaned against the building wall and read on. "The agent whose life was saved by the hero, quoted The Ash as saying he is working his way up the chain to see that the city's biggest drug dealer ends up behind bars." Carter shook his head in disbelief. Things were going from bad, to worse, to fucking nightmarish.

  *****

  He had spent the day hiding in his apartment eating bowls of frosty oats and vanilla yogurt. He had watched more reruns than he could count, but he didn't dare even peak outside his window for fear of what lay beyond the smudged glass. It was mostly rain, always with the rain, and he didn't have to look to know that. The continual ping on the metal fire escape outside his bedroom window gave it away. It got dark early this time of year; twilight came and was gone by five thirty in the afternoon. While most people were still returning home from their day jobs, he was curled up on the couch, afraid.

  At some point he must have dozed off. When he awoke the TV was still going and the lights were still on throughout the apartment. But something, a crinkling or ticking had him wide awake and upright with a jolt. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts and return to reality from his dream state. The sound was like a scratching of metal on metal, a grinding and a slight jiggle of the handle on his front door, letting him know that someo
ne wanted in, and he doubted it was your average burglar.

  Below the crack in the door were the shadows of two feet, and sure enough within a few seconds, the door began to creak open slowly on its rusty hinges. At first just a sliver of light shone through the small opening, and then the door was thrown wide. Carter flipped backward over the couch, and rolled the short distance it took to get to the bedroom in his cramped apartment.

  "Carter," A voice called.

  Shit, they knew his real name. He cursed himself silently for not taking better care to hide his identity all these years, which was kind of hard to do when you're more worried about where your next fix is coming from than making sure the lights stay on, or even something as simple as brushing your teeth.

  "Who is it?" Carter called as he crawled across the floor to the nightstand next to his bed. Careful not to make a sound, he slid open the top drawer and reached in until he felt the cold steel of his desert eagle.

  "We just want to talk." The voice called again.

  Carter didn't believe it for a second. That's what the bad guys always said before they put two slugs in your forehead. Foot steps crept across the linoleum floor of his entry, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Sitting with his back against the nightstand, Carter slowly, trying to be as silent as possible, pulled the hammer back on his gun, and waited.

  "Come on out of there Carter," the voice, just on the other side of his bedroom door, said.

  He took a quick glance at the fire escape and for a brief moment considered jumping out his bedroom window, but where would he go? He had no one, and it was only one or two thugs. No, he had to deal with this and deal with it now.

  "All right, I'm coming out," he said. "Back away from the door."

  He rose to his feet and stalked to the door. He reached for the handle, but his hand stopped just short of the nob. Carter froze for a moment, a feeling of dread running through him as the pain of the fire from his anxiety rushed through his veins. Would he be better off to come out guns blazing, firing at anything that moved, or should he take his time, give them a false sense of vulnerability, and then hit one with the fire and another with a bullet. He decided on the latter. Better to know who he was dealing with before going off half cocked and guns blazing.

  Carter pressed his face against the door jamb, grabbed the door handle, and twisted slowly before pulling the door back just an inch to peak into the living room. His heart sank instantly, and he slammed the the door to a close. Outside the door was not one or two, but a room full of killers. Possibly twenty or more men with machine guns aimed right at the door. He dove to the floor as the bullets started to fly. In an instant his door was like swiss cheese. Chunks of wood and drywall dust rained down on him as debris showered the room.

  Bullets tore through a grateful dead poster he had framed on the wall, shattering the glass, and he had to put his hands over his head protectively to keep from being cut by its shards. Using one hand, Carter pointed his gun toward his feet and fired three rounds. A cry of pain roared above the gun fire.

  "My ankle! God damn it! He shot me in my ankle!" And for a brief moment the gun fire stopped.

  "He's got a gun!" Then once again, the bullets came whizzing overhead. Carter army crawled on his belly across the cheap shag carpeting, to the window, and smashed the glass with the butt of his gun. He turned and emptied the clip into the wall before tossing himself over the window's frame and out onto the fire escape. The metal grating was wet. The cold rain slapped him in the face the second he got outside. He half slid, half ran down the fire escape steps and was almost to the second floor when what was left of his bedroom door was kicked in with a loud crack.

  "He went out the window!" A voice called from above.

  "He's out on the fire escape!" said another.

  Carter was going to have to jump for it. There was no way he could run down two flights of steps before they were on him. He leaned over the thin metal railing and eyed the dumpster waiting for him at the bottom. Sparks fell around him, as the bullets ricocheted off the metal grating of the fire escape on the floor above. A bullet bounced off the metal next to his hand with a loud ping as he leapt over the railing. He landed hard, flat on his back, against the rubber lid of the dumpster, caving it in, and crashing into the trash below. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and as he gasped, he sucked in a mouthful of rank, rotten air that was so foul he could taste it. Wheezing, he dug through the pungent trash searching for freedom and a breath of fresh air.

  He grabbed hold of the dumpster's top edge and lifted himself up and over. Chunks of rotten banana were smeared on his sweatshirt and an old sticky food wrapper clung to his pants, but he ignored it; not bothering to wipe the banana off or remove the wrapper, as another round of bullets bounced off the dumpster. Carter ducked below its lid, making his body as flat as possible against the side of the dumpster.

  "After him!" Two sets of heavy boots rattled against the grates of the fire escape as a pair of assassins leapt out the broken window.

  "The rest of you back down through the front!"

  Carter popped the clip on his hand gun to confirm it was empty and silently scolded himself for not grabbing the extra clip in his dresser. He tossed the useless weapon aside. He was going to need his hands free if he was going to get out of this alive. If he moved from behind the dumpster he'd be wide open for the two assassins to shoot him, and he had only seconds before they reached the street. He had no choice but to make a run for it and hope like hell they were poor shots.

  He moved to dart out from the behind the dumpster, caught a quick glance of the assassins, and was struck with an idea as the heat within him reached a critical mass again; the second time in twenty four hours. A floors worth of grated staircase still separated him from the assassins above, and they would have to be impeccable shots indeed to penetrate the tiny holes in the metal grates. Carter bolted across the space between the dumpster and fire escape, reached the building's outer wall where the fire escape was bolted to the building, and grabbed the bolts, one in each hand. The sweat and rain covering his palms began to steam as his hands glowed bright orange.

  Carter let out a guttural scream as he focused the heat from his entire body into his hands. As his power gathered, molten hot fire erupted from his palms and out onto the metal bolts and bars holding the stair case to the building. The metal glowed red hot and within seconds traveled up the bars, into the grates, and to the bolts on the floor above him. The assassin farthest down the steps, screamed as his boots caught fire, and he began to panic.

  "Turn around you fool!" he howled as he pushed his companion back up the steps.

  They ran back the way they had come, and the glowing red metal chased them. They almost reached the third floor, were almost to the broken window leading back into Carter's apartment when a loud screech of twisting metal alerted all three of them that the fire escape was coming down. The grates rumbled as the fire escape shook violently. Carter dove to the side to avoid being crushed, and the assassins were thrown from their feet as the fire escape dropped an entire floor in an instant, to the alleyway below.

  The fire escape pulled away from the building and balanced awkwardly for a moment before tipping over and crashing into the adjacent building. Metal scrapped against metal and metal scrapped against stone when the different layers of the fire escape folded in on itself, taking the assassins with them.

  "Die you fuckers," Carter said as the metal rails, support bars, and grates, were twisted into a mangle of deadly spikes.

  When the tangle of broken metal finally came to a stop, the assassins were left in a vicious blockade, like the world's worst animal trap. Their bodies had been penetrated by numerous busted rails and one assassin appeared to have been impaled medieval style straight up the ass and all the way out his throat. Carter assumed he was dead or would soon be, but the other hadn't been so lucky. Still alive, he screamed in agony. A metal bar, what appeared to have been part of a handrail had stabbed clear
through the man's thigh, while another shorter piece of broken metal had penetrated his left shoulder.

  The man was held aloft by the spikes, and the right side of his body dangled in midair, putting all his weight on the chunks of broken metal sticking through him.

  "What the hell happened here?" an assassin asked when the others, who had taken the stairs, rounded the corner of the building. The wreckage of the fire escape lay between Carter and the assassins.

  "There he is. Don't let him get away!" another cried.

  "Go around. We're not going to get through here."

  "But what about them?" The first asked eying their companions amid the wreckage.

  "Fucking leave them."

  Carter wasted no time in using their confusion to his advantage. He ran along the alleyway, ducked into a department store, and ran out the back on the opposite side of the building. He kept running, never looking back. He ran until his legs ached, until he reached the docks downtown, and hid inside an old shipping container. Carter gasped for air, having over exerted his out of shape lungs. He hadn't been taking care of himself and now he was paying for it.

  With no chance of going home, he had only one place he could go, and it was the last place he wanted to step foot in at that moment. But he had no choice. It was time to go see The Fox.

  #

  Chapter 4

  The rapping in her dream turned to a pounding in reality when The Fox awoke in the middle of the night. There it was again, the pounding on her front door. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, grabbed a knife from between the mattress and box spring, and tiptoed down the cold hardwood steps. Straight ahead in front of the steps was the front door, and a shadow loomed in the small strip of glass in the door. The figure of a man, a man who kept pounding on the door, would have been hard to make out for a normal person, but to her keen eyes was clear as day.

  She undid the bolt, the chain, and the lock on the door. Holding the knife behind her back, she cracked the door open and peered outside.