Roger vision snapped into focus, and he let out a guttural howl, throwing his office chair at the group. His battle cry caught their attention, giving them just enough time to drop as the adjustable, ergonomics-friendly chair crashed through the 12th floor window of the office building. All three men were back on their feet in a flash, bringing their submachine guns to bear at the new threat. Roger dug his feet into the ground and dashed towards the attackers.
From inside the office, there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a deafening burst. Roger, and two of the mercenaries flinched, caught off guard by the flash bang that was tossed into the office. The stoic mercenary, the leader, maintained his composure and fired two three-round bursts. His shots all hit clean into Roger's torso. Two bursts, grouped tightly together, as if the thunder and lightning from the next office didn't even phase him.
Roger fell on his face, sliding along the rough office carpeting, from his forward momentum. There were many voices, all competing for attention in his ears. He heard two or three men shouting, as well as Shannon's voice, clearly distressed and confused. The leader's voice pierced through the cacophony like a needle.
“Watch him! Don't let him up. I'll grab the prize.”
This wasn't an assassination, this was a kidnapping. Roger pushed himself back up to his feet. His chest was burning, but it didn't seem to keep him from moving. One of the men booted Roger in the sternum, knocking him onto his back. The mercenary brought his weapon up and fired. The muzzle flash filled Roger's vision with yellow, orange and white bursts. The weapons all had what looked like silencers on the barrels, but there was still a loud popping from each shot.
Roger was shielding his face with his arms, as every sharp, hot bullet struck his body. Each round that hit him, sent a ripple from the point of impact. His joints ached, and his head was pounding. The sound of the barking report from the mercenary's MP5 Submachine gun was muffled, as the sound of blood rushing filled his ears. The shooting stopped, and the man's frantic voice took over.
“What are you!?” He dropped the empty magazine from his weapon and seated a fresh one onto the magazine well.
Roger leapt to his feet, noticing that the ceiling was now much closer to his head than before. He was probably pushing 8 feet in height now. Every movement was accompanied by his joints, crackling, popping, and seating into place. His whole body felt like it was vibrating. It was almost madding
As the weapon's charging handle snapped forward, Roger's large bony hand wrapped around it. With little effort, he snatched the weapon free, and palmed the man's face and head with his other hand. The stuttering cracks of the next attacker's weapon pulled Roger's focus to his left, as round after round of 9 millimeter ammunition pounded away at his rib cage and back. With a quick backhand swipe, Roger sent the first mercenary flying into the second. The two collided and sunk into a deep dent in a filing cabinet.
He hadn't intended to throw the man that hard. It seemed much easier than it should have been. Roger had a hard time focusing on his actions, and situation. His body itched, and frequent spasms would wash over him, making it hard to concentrate. He felt as if every muscle in his body was dying to be used.
Roger was losing control. Ever since he discovered this odd trait, he hoped he would be able to channel it to help. The problem he faced was the uncontrollable nature of the power. He struggled to restrain his strength. Every move made more difficult with the surge of energy, begging to be spent and released. It was difficult performing any kind of task requiring fine motor control. He couldn't even turn a knob to open the door without denting, bending or cracking something.
If he ever lost control, and killed or seriously injured anyone he was saving, much less anyone he was trying to restrain, there was no way he would be able to forgive himself. What could he do at that point? Surrender? He would be locked away and experimented upon, deemed “too dangerous” to roam free. Become a villain? His ability would be much more useful if he could really cut loose, without holding back.
He would never be able to allow himself to hurt anyone. He would even be wracked with guilt over property damage. He had to maintain self control. He had to learn how to reign in his strength. The world around him was made of egg shells, paper mache, and toothpicks. It was too fragile for him to roam freely. Every move he made felt like he was building a house of cards. Any slip could cause serious harm.
He stood trembling, looking for an outlet. Squeezing the submachine gun he took from the mercenary, the steel barrel and frame strained under his strength. He bit down hard, feeling the pain through his teeth. His jaws clamped down hard enough to dig in and leave an imprint into the metal, on the edge of cracking his teeth. It was almost enough of an outlet to burn off some of the excess energy that rapidly built up in his muscles. The shaking subsided slightly, as he dropped the ruined weapon.
The leader stepped out of the office, with Shannon in front. She was gagged, and her hands were secured behind her back. His left arm was wrapped around her neck, pulling her with him, as his free hand held a pistol aimed at Roger. Taking a step forward, he looked down at the man's gun and sneered.
“You think that's gonna stop me from ripping you apart?” Roger said. “Your buddies didn't do much with their toys.”
“Those were rubber bullets, tough guy. These are jacketed hollow points. I'm sure they'll do more than those little red welts.”
Roger's arms and hands were twitching. Things were starting to slow down. The fear was starting to take over. He wasn't afraid of the gun. He knew he could take two, maybe three shots at that range, and still be fine. His biggest concern was saving the innocent woman between them, and still keeping his job after all this ended.
The man tugged at Shannon's neck as he took a step toward the elevators. He called back to the other two hired guns. “You two, get up. We're leaving.” He looked at Roger. “And you...why don't you just take a deep breath and —”
Roger lurched forward. The gun went off, just as he plucked it from the man's grasp, crushing it. He grabbed the hand that was around Shannon's neck and squeezed. All the small bones and joints in the man's hand balled up easily in Roger's oversized fist. Shannon scrambled to one of the cubicles and rolled under the desk. Hauling the leader up by his collar and harness. He spun to face the other two men.
The terror in their eyes was clear. They stood face to face with an 8 foot tall beast of a man, twitching, salivating, and flexing, barely able to hold still. They watched the thing casually take a .45 caliber bullet to the neck, and crush their leader's gun, just as easily at it crushed his hand. And then the beast spoke, with a voice that sounded like rocks scraping and gouging against each other.
“You can both give up now...or I can just...” Roger casually glanced toward the shattered window.
He pulled the extra sets of flex cuffs off of the mercenary leader's uniform. Maybe this hero stuff isn't going to be so hard after all. Now all he had to do was secure the kidnappers without causing too much damage to their wrists and ankles.
# # #
Brian Manning lives in Las Vegas, collecting many amazing adventures in the suburbs (Yes there are suburbs in Vegas). Unfortunately, he can't write any of them down, because What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas. He is also the author of:
Battlefield HTML (non-fiction)
Two Percent Power (super power short story)
Life Worth Living (zombie survival short story)
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Table of Contents
MONSTER JACKPOT
TWO PERCENT POWER
POWERS THAT BE
LIFE WORTH LIVING
ALL CLEAR
SURGE
Monsters Heroes Cowboys & Zombies Page 9