The two soldiers, a man and a woman, wore a different uniform than what most citizens of Las Vegas expect to see, with its heavy Air Force population. Rather than the digital desert camouflage worn by the active duty personnel at Nellis Air Force Base, these two had dark gray BDUs, with no distinguishing marks, other than what looked like their name, rank, and the good ol' stars and stripes patch on their upper arms. From his angle, he could only see the name on the male soldier's chest. Reck. Each of the soldiers had a rifle slung across the the front of their torsos. An M16A4 on a 3-point tactical harness, but all Mark saw was a nondescript black military rifle on an uncomfortable looking strap.
“We're going to move you guys to a safer location.” The woman said.
Her voice was loud and clear enough for Mark to hear, as he made a note of the name on her tag. Parks.
Nodding to show he understood, he moved over to see how Irene was doing. Her eyes were still red, but she gave Mark a quick, yet genuine smile and a sense of relief washed over him, helping relax his tense shoulders.
As the group moved north on 4th Street Mark protested.
“Whoa hey, that's where the first scorpion went. We can't go there.”
“First scorpion?” The second solder asked, cupping his hand under Mark's left arm to keep the pace. “What time did you wake up?”
It didn't take long to cover the two blocks back to the Fremont Street Experience. Mark had thought they covered far more ground, but that kind of havoc must have caused some serious time dilation. The bullet riddled carcass of what Mark had described as the first scorpion, lay dead in the distance as the team turned the corner to head east.
As they reached the intersection of Fremont and Las Vegas Boulevard, Reck held his fist up, palm facing forward. Parks put a hand on Mark and Irene's shoulders to stop their advance.
“This is zookeeper one nine, we did not get that last transmission. Say again.” Reck said, holding his hand up to his throat. He turned his head, trying to find a better angle, like his head was an antennae. “Say again.”
He looked back at Parks. “Did you catch that? They were trying to tell us not to go somewhere.”
Just as she was about to answer, another scorpion scurried around the corner. Reck pulled Mark behind him, brought his rifle up, and took aim. Before his first shot rang out, five evenly spaced explosions tore up the asphalt and sidewalk on the next block. A chunk of debris hit Reck on the side of his helmet, dazing him and spinning his body around. Parks grabbed Irene and pulled her back behind a wall while Mark grabbed Reck's harness strap and dragged him as fast as he could.
The scorpions staggered across their view, injured by the explosions, but not down yet. A sudden burst of adrenaline kicked in, triggering Mark's fight or flight reflex. He grabbed hold of Reck's rifle, and lunged forward before realizing it was still attached. He frantically looked at the strap and found what looked like a release buckle. Pressing the side latches in, the rifle came free and he bolted after the monster, with the sling whipping wildly behind him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Parks' voice was barely audible through his berserker rage.
He gritted his teeth, shouldered the weapon, like he had seen many times watching his Three Kings DVD while working late nights, and pulled the trigger ready to rock and roll. The cracking report and sudden flash were far more than he was prepared for, but he still stood fast, with the trigger pressed, wondering why nothing else happened. He flipped the rifle to get a look at each side, trying to figure out why it didn't go Rambo for him. At this point, he wished he played all those military first-person shooters, instead of spending so much time on Japanese RPGs, and turn-based strategy games. Slapping the side of the M16 with the heel of his palm, he hoped that did the trick.
Once again shouldering the weapon, he looked down the barrel, and then realized he didn't even know where to look in order to aim this thing. By this time, the scorpion had already put another couple hundred feet of distance between them. Trying once more, he leaned into the butt stock, squeezed the trigger, and was answered once again with a single shot.
“Semi-auto, maybe?” he asked himself. “Sure, why not?”
Crack after crack rang out with each undisciplined pull of the trigger, the muzzle flash making it tough for him to see what was happening downrange. He stopped firing for a second, but kept looking through the ring on the rear site of the rifle, at what he hoped was the front sight. The scorpion must have decided enough was enough and came scuttling back. Once his eyes shifted focus, he saw the real reason. A gila monster was hot on its trail, tearing up the street as it went.
Mark lowered the rifle and staggered back on his heels. Reck's gloved hands grabbed him by the jaw and right arm, yanking him down hard to the street. In his dazed vision, he could see that Parks knelt down next to them, rifle pulled tight to her shoulder, elbows down and close to her body, unleashing combo after combo of three round bursts. He turned his head and covered his ears, seeing Reck also kneeling, with a pistol in his hands, firing at the pair of enormous creatures, hoping to dissuade their rush.
The three of them scrambled to their feet, just a blistering BRRRRAP BRRRRAP sound bounced off of every surface still standing on the block. Mark's teeth were wiggling from the sonic assault, as he saw the pincer all the legs on the scorpion's left side disintegrate in a cloud of dust and debris, while the gila monster was ripped open from its left shoulder to its right rear hip. The 30 millimeter rounds, normally used to punch holes into tanks, were far too powerful for the thick scaly hide.
A dark gray, unmarked A-10 Warthog buzzed the scene slow and low, rattling all the glass, tiles, tooth fillings and coin trays in the area. Once the roar of plane had passed, things grew almost too quiet. Every few minutes, the shuddering BRRRRAP and howling A-10 engines could be heard strafing various parts of downtown Las Vegas.
Reck jerked the rifle out of Mark's grasp and re-slung it, yanking him back into the moment.
“If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll put you down myself.” Reck said.
Clearly this was a promise and not a threat.
Irene came running when she saw that the fighting had stopped.
“Are you guys alright?”
“Yeah Parks and Reck saved my butt back there.” Mark said.
Hearing their names said out loud, his face lit up, and started giggling uncontrollably like he just solved a tough story problem during a math test. He turned to the pair and saw Reck slowly shaking his head side to side, delivering a stone-cold, killer glare.
“Don't.” Parks said, lazily pointing a finger up in the general direction of Mark's stupidly happy dog-smile.
He dropped the subject but couldn't stop smiling and giggling.
* * *
“Wilco.” Reck said into his throat mic.
He turned to the rest of the group to fill them in.
“Three gila monsters and eight scorpions down. No civilian deaths.”
“Sounds like we're done here.” Parks said, stretching her arms and shoulders back to alleviate some of the day's tension.
“Looks like it.”
The pair turned to Mark and Irene. They were sitting on cheap metal folding chairs, being monitored, hydrated, and treated in a hastily erected canopy serving as a medical station.
“So really, no one died during all of this?” Mark asked. “Wow, and I thought Lady Luck was just smiling at me.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of us.” Irene said sincerely, holding Park's right hand in both of hers.
“Don't mean to sound trite, but we were just doing our jobs, ma'am.” Reck answered.
“Hey who are you guys anyway?” Mark said, breaking the moment. “Those aren't the typical military uniforms we see on TV everyday.”
Parks glanced over at Reck. “Looks like the cat's out of the bag.”
“No. Not yet it isn't.” He turned back to look Mark in the eye, handing back his slim wallet. “Expect an official visit from
someone to discuss this whole situation, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“Wait, did she say cats? Like 50 foot cats?” Mark asked, while sneaking a quick peek to make sure the two hundred and sixty two dollars was still there.
“Have a nice day, you two.” Park said trying and failing to hide her smile.
“Ma'am.” Reck tipped his helmet and bowed his head towards Irene. “Mark.” He gave a curt nod.
“Parks and Reck.” Mark said, with a tight smirk, and shallow nod, glad to get one last dig before the pair left.
Irene was smiling, but still shaking her head disapprovingly. “I thought you said your name was Skywalker.”
“Heh, yeah uh. I was quoting Star Wars.” He said sheepishly, as she reminded him of his ridiculous entrance. “You know that part when Luke comes into Leia's cell on the Deathstar?”
“No.” Irene chuckled. “Perhaps you should pay attention to your demographic when attempting to make such a dramatic introduction.”
“Sorry about that, Mom,” He said, stressing the word Mom, like an upset teenager. His facial expression grew serious as he finally started to unwind. “Are you going to be OK, Irene?”
“I just talked to my family.” She said “Everyone is home safe, so we'll all be taking some time off to spend together.”
Her honest smile reminded Mark that he was breaking character and getting too somber.
“Hey why aren't we in the back of a pair of ambulances parked at an angle, like at the end of every great action movie?” He said to the staff treating them.
“Because this isn't an action movie.” The nurse said, plucking the needle from Mark's arm, and pressing a cotton ball to stop the bleeding.
“Not an action movie?” Mark said with real conviction. “We were attacked by huge scorpions, and gigantic — no gargantuan — gila monsters!” He waved his arms around to emphasize his point, breaking free of the nurse's grasp and sending the cotton ball falling to the ground.
Mark sat poised waiting for the nurse to reply. As the nurse snatched the cotton ball from the floor and opened his mouth to speak, Mark interjected. “We hit the monster jackpot here, buddy!”
Irene could barely contain her amusement. “You don't seem to take anything seriously. I don't know how you manage to take care of yourself.”
“Me neither.” Mark said.
He glanced over at the nurse with a smug look. “Roll credits.”
# # #
TWO PERCENT POWER
Patrick Lawson sat on the edge of his seat, pressed his forearms into his stomach, and leaned over, hoping the pressure would help with the pain. If someone were to tell him that there was actually a small animal inside his body, tangling itself up in his intestines, he would honestly believe it for a brief moment. His friend Trevor Powell sat in the apartment with him, waiting for a good moment to start the conversation.
“So this happens every time?” Trevor asked.
“Yes.” Patrick said, clenching his jaw, not looking up.
“And you go through this, because drinking milk boosts your abilities?”
“Yes.”
“Your super abilities?”
The wave of pain had subsided, and he craned his neck toward Trevor, but didn't dare to straighten his body. Not waiting for Patrick's confirmation, Trevor continued the interrogation.
“Your super abilities that let you control milk?”
“Is there a point to this? You seem to go through the same routine every week.”
“I'm just saying,” Trevor said with a smirk. “It's kind of ironic that you're lactose intolerant.”
“It's not like I was born with both super powers and lactose intolerance. I'm pretty sure the former caused the latter.”
Content that the cramping had stopped, Patrick sat up and ran his fingers back through his hair, stopping when he clasped his hands behind his head. He pulled forward with his hands and pushed back with his head to stretch his neck out. The fact that his arms covered his ears, making it a bit harder to hear Trevor's next round of wacky questions, was a bonus.
“When you use the power, is it like the Green Lantern, but with milk instead of the glowing green manifestation of his will?” Trevor seemed proud of himself for that one.
“No it's — it's more like the water tribes on Avatar. Like a milk bender.”
“Man, you really put some thought into that.”
Trevor's tone was dismissive, and playfully insulting. Patrick released his head, and sighed with the frustration of the conversation.
“If the Green Lantern makes a glass of liquid, is it like green milk, or green Kool-Aid?” Trevor asked.
“It would be whichever he wanted.” He said, glad to be moving on.
“Can he make a green book of black magic?”
“What? I don't even know what that means.”
“Never mind. So does it matter what kind of milk you drink?”
“ARGHHH!”
Both the cramping in his stomach and pain in the neck had returned.
* * *
Is this really what he wanted to do with his life? Was there a more effective way to utilize his talents, that could help a greater number of people? All this street-level supers stuff was a mental and physical drain, with no real feeling of accomplishment. He had stopped the occasional bike thief or purse snatcher, and he had saved a cat or two from a precarious perch, but no one seemed to take notice or care. Patrick had to remind himself that he wasn't doing this for recognition, or reward. However, he couldn't help but feel like he was trying to empty a swimming pool with a spoon sometimes.
The thoughts weighed heavily on him recently, and he almost decided to hang it up for a while. Maybe he could look around for some like-minded, or even gifted people that he could talk into something bigger. Something that could make a larger impact on their city. Not a huge impact, like the Avengers or the Justice League. Just something local that could actually grab some attention and perpetuate a feeling of safety and justice. It was a corny idea, but at least it was honest.
He decided to push the idea to the back of his mind, and focus on tonight. The last thing he needed was for himself, or someone he was trying to help, to get hurt because he wasn't on point.
The cold night air cut deep into Patrick's exposed face and neck, but his modified motorcycle track suit kept the rest of his body warm enough to focus on the task. Unfortunately, all he could think of was how hot this new getup would be in the summer. He saved up for months to buy this track suit, and finally rigged all of the tubes, and pouches inside to keep all the milk he had to bring with him. There was no way he could design, purchase and build a different outfit for patrolling in the warmer weather. Not with his salary working lunch shifts at the local, corporate-owned family grill. At least this super suit was much better than his previous method of prowling with cheap black sweats, and a hydration backpack full of milk. He could never get the smell of old milk out of that thing.
The memories of the old milk odor filled his thoughts, stirring up some not-so-fun memories, when the sound of breaking glass pulled him back to the here and now. The neighborhood had several break-ins recently, and he wanted to spend a couple of nights hanging out, to see if he could run across any suspicious figures lurking around. He definitely was not expecting it to happen on the first hour of the first night.
The sound came from nearby, but Patrick couldn't just start running through yards looking for some shady figures, he decided his best option was to choose the side of the street he thought the commotion came from, and use the sidewalk. It didn't take him long to find the house he was looking for.
Most of the side yards were gated, but this one had an open side yard, with a gate that lead to the back yard. The side yard was mostly hidden from the glow of the recently upgraded LED street lights, but just enough light bounced off of the browning grass to reveal two figures draping something over the window sill. His tactical flashlight stripped the darkness away with 200 lumens of light. The beam hit the
duo like a shock wave, causing them to flinch and freeze, using their forearms as a makeshift visor.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Patrick asked, trying to muster up enough authority in his voice to take control of the situation right away. These two couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen, so he hoped they would be too afraid to make any stupid decisions. Any more stupid decisions, anyway. He did his best to pick out distinguishing features, but all he noticed was the attention grabbing faux hawk on the taller of the two. The other man, about Patrick's height, had close cropped hair, and a denim jacket.
“No, man. We're good here.” The first one, Faux Hawk, said.
“Yeah I forgot my key and no one was home.” Said the second.
He thought the second reply took a little too long. He glanced up at the windows, and saw no lights coming from anywhere inside the house. Clearly he was right. It appeared that no one was home. Patrick decided to buy his story to draw them out a little further.
“Oh, let me help. Is there someone I can call?” He asked, reaching into his pocket, to grab a non-existent phone.
“No no, that's cool, don't worry about it.” The second one said.
The pair approached, with the shorter guy now taking the lead. He waved his hands, keeping them high to diffuse some of the light as he spoke.
“Listen, I don't want my parents to find out that we just broke the window.”
Patrick listened to his words, while he lowered the flashlight beam, hoping it would come off as a courtesy. His intention was to move the beam to keep an eye on Faux Hawk, the man in the rear. He looped his left thumb into the release tab hanging out of his sleeve. The tab was attached to the tubes that ran down his sleeve and connected to a brace around his wrist.
As the men reached a nice casual chatting distance, they sprang into action like a rusted out coil. The front man attempted a tackle so telegraphed, Samuel Morse would have smiled and nodded. For his reward, Patrick stepped to his right and jammed the butt end of the flashlight just behind his ear. He was lucky Patrick was holding it with a normal grip, otherwise he would have caught the scalloped business end of the tactical flashlight.
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