The mood was broken. He snapped his head up to look around. There was a noticeable change in atmosphere now. The tranquillity broken.
Two men, in black. One beefed up beyond belief, the other of medium build and height, neither looking happy. They had entered the garden via a set of double glass doors near the fountain at the other end.
The first thought that came to Russell’s mind as he stood up was “How dare they!”
He almost said it, but for the realisation of how stupid it would sound.
They moved toward him, not bothered by the beauty in their way, kicking through the hedges as if they were trashcans dropped in their way. That made Russell mad.
“No!”
They hesitated.
“What?”
Russell took a couple of steps toward them. If it meant saving this place, he would do anything. They had no right to tear it up and he had no right to be the cause of their doing so.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Really?”
Russell thought about it. And was amazed he even had to.
“Of course not, you dicks!”
He turned and bolted back toward the Terrace. Garden or no garden, they had gardeners to look after it, who did Russell have?
He could hear the two men behind him, the sound of their boots on concrete. Then he recalled the pathway that ran the length of the garden, behind the central fountain and along the side of the building. Of course it would be easier to run on than grass and gravel. So hopefully they wouldn’t have caused too much damage to the garden.
Taking another sharp corner, Russell charged toward a set of automated glass doors that were already opening for a woman in a dress suit. The entrance was a few metres back from the footpath, but that distance seemed to vanish in seconds. Russell dodged past the woman and practically flew inside and into a corridor directly in front of the door.
A security guard jumped up from behind reception, “Hey!”
Ignoring him, Russell slammed a button on one of the walls, hoping he could jag an elevator.
No such luck. But there was the stairs.
“Prick!” the woman called. With an attitude like that, Russell thought, she deserved what was coming her way.
She too went sprawling, hands first onto the well polished tiles of the lobby, the guard leaping out of the way as the larger of the two men came hurtling into the building.
Russell twisted the handle on the door to the stair well and started climbing, taking two steps at a time. He had made it to the first floor landing when the door below was virtually knocked off its hinges.
Second floor sounded good, if only for a way out of the stairwell. Russell had absolutely no idea where he was, let alone where he was going. As he managed to think about it over his panic, he recalled thinking the worst thing for a person to do in a movie when they are being hunted, such as in Copycat when Sigourney Weaver climbs the stairs at the end, was to go up. There was absolutely nowhere to go if you did. And here he was, being a complete idiot and going up. Now, he could hardly go down. Who knows if someone was waiting for him in the lobby? The only option now was to go further up and he didn’t like the sound of that too much.
The second floor had a general floor plan not unlike the ground floor. A corridor with elevators and a t-junction on either end heading toward offices and company leased areas. Again, trying his luck, he punched the elevator call button and was surprised when one of the four shafts beeped. The doors slid slowly open and Russell leapt in as the stair well door burst open.
He punched the ‘door close’ button underneath the list of floor numbers from ‘B’ and ‘G’ up to ‘12’.
He pushed his back against the rear of the carriage, hoping to hide in plain sight, perhaps, or merely be absorbed by the elevator itself. No such luck.
He slammed the ‘8’ button, hoping to speed up the doors if anything.
Back in the corridor, he glimpsed the larger of the two men as he lunged toward the doors, unable to prevent them closing.
Releasing a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding, he watched the numbers above the door light up in order as the elevator moved. What the heck was he going to do now?
They would be on their way up by now, either by stairs or lifts. Or they would be waiting for him back in the lobby, waiting for him to make his escape.
Then again, there had to be another way out. There always is in places like this, either the fire escape or the below ground parking for executives. True, not all of these buildings had a car park, but there had to be a way out of the basement, other than through the damn lobby.
The Elevator lurched to a halt and the doors began opening again. Russell slammed the ‘door close’ button and ‘B’ simultaneously. He would find a way out. It would be down in the basement.
Or was he just being an idealist?
That was a problem he found himself suffering from. Idealism. Not something to be too proud of, especially in a realist world. Generally he was a realist and it wasn’t a problem. But the moment things went a little awry, Pop! In came the idealist notions of how it should be. Rather than dealing with what is, there was always that inner hope of this is what could be. Like viewing life as a big game. Almost like a role-playing game, the likes of Palladium’s Rifts series or as primitive as Dungeons and Dragons. There is a games master somewhere, perhaps even God, even though Russell wasn’t sure he existed, who gave him a set scenario. And it was his job to get out of it. But what Russell failed to see and he knew that when he looked back on it, was that what he did had its consequences. Life isn’t a game and in a case like this, if he died, he couldn’t go back and role up a new character. It was game over. No extra lives or second chances as in a computer game. No save options to load up, even if it meant going over the same old ground over and over again. What is done is done. But Russell’s idealism seemed to wipe all of this out of his head. Even with love. In a perfect world, Kristen loves him and would ask him out in a couple of days or so. Yet, in reality, he just wasn’t sure if he was wasting his time or not, or if she was even remotely interested. And in those occasions, nothing else seemed to matter; not food, not money. Just love and Kristen. Again, no thought of what is, just what could be. Ridiculous. And now, he found himself in the same predicament. Idealism was in control once more and there was no stopping it.
The doors ‘dinged’ open onto the basement and he stepped out. It was huge. Obviously he had been fortunate enough to get in one of only two of the four elevators that went all the way down as there was no corridor on this floor. Just a big open car park that looked to spread for a fair distance underground.
It actually looked like it could cater for another building or two, and perhaps did stretch that far. There was only one way to find out.
He took off from the lifts and ran across the hard pavement. There were at least forty cars parked here and there, giving a fair supply of cover if necessary, but it didn’t look like he’d be needing it. There was no sign of the two thugs. He slowed down, taking a more cautious approach. On the opposing wall, he could see a line of three elevators and a door to a stair well. Obviously another building. To his right, toward the street, was a large roller door, closed. He had two choices. The street or the building. He chose the latter. That way it would be harder for them to follow, rather than him simply appearing on the terrace, he could hang around inside the other building a moment longer and make sure the coast is clear.
He had to admit, it was all quite thrilling. Being chased, having to make possible life and death decisions, though he wasn’t sure if these guys would actually go that far. Then again, they did plant a bomb in a car park. Anyone and any number of people could have been killed or injured. Fortunately they hadn’t been. Well, excepting himself as far as he could tell and even then, he still wasn’t sure of the effects of the explosion. They had obviously done something to him to give him the powers, but it seemed highly unlikely anyone would plant a bomb in the hopes of mutating people in su
ch a way. Unless of course they were some sort of mad experimental scientist hoping to play god. But that was less likely than a terrorist organisation who just wanted to make a point. But what had been the point of the explosion in the first place? Was there a ransom involved? Possibly. The detective hadn’t mentioned anything, but it seemed he was more in the dark than anyone else. So what was the point behind it all?
Perhaps these new powers could help get the answers. Russell thought about it as he moved toward the lifts. Perhaps he could start looking into it. If it was such a big deal that they would try and hunt him down, the only real witness to the event, then there had to be something highly suspicious going on and he wanted to find out what.
There was a noise behind him followed by a loud Bang that reverberated through the basement. A window exploded inward in a car beside him followed by the windscreen blowing out over the bonnet.
Gunshot?
He ducked for cover behind the car and peered through the window toward the stair well he had been in only a few moments before. Someone was back there, hiding. He had managed a brief glimpse of one of the men disappearing behind another vehicle. But was there only one of them?
All the same, it would be pointless staying where he was.
He edged backward; staying crouched and hopefully out of sight. Trying to keep a car body in between him and the thugs. Obviously they had changed their tactic. Before they had wanted him alive, now they were shooting at him. This was serious.
“Duh,” he muttered to himself. What kind of an observation was that? “This was serious”? How bloody stupid would you be if you hadn’t realised that the moment the bomb went off.
Something moved to the right. One of them?
He ducked behind a car and attempted a quick glance over the boot. Still no one in sight. But they had to be coming after him.
Another loud gunshot echoed through the car park and he fell to the floor, back against the tyre.
He turned just in time to see a chunk of wall beside the elevator rupture and spray the floor.
The lifts were not an option. They would shoot him before the doors closed, or even before he got to the damn things.
What he needed was cover.
He concentrated; focusing his mind, hoping this was how it was done. Sure enough, he began to see the silver wisps of air again. Not so many this time and not as mobile as they had been outside. Perhaps the tight and closed quarters he was in was affecting them. Stagnant air.
All the same, he could use it to his own advantage.
He didn’t know how to describe the way he did what he did. He wanted the air to do something and it did. Like he was mentally asking it to do it, but it took a bit more concentration. Practically willing it to move.
He felt a warm breeze, mixed with the stale exhaust fumes that managed to linger in the car park, start to pick up. He cajoled it, convinced it to blow harder and faster toward the building he had just come from. But if he wasn’t careful, he’d run out of ammo. Not because he’d run out of air, but it would all end up down one end of the basement. He knew physics, he also knew that he needed to circulate the air, let it diffuse around and back, so as he can send it off again. He concentrated harder, forcing the air into a spin, two circles blowing down the middle of the car park and then dividing, retreating back up to the other end down either side and back through the middle again. Harder and faster, the silver clouds dancing wildly as the spun and drove onward and around building in intensity and strength until each circle became a veritable cyclone.
He got up onto his feet and ran, still crouched over, toward the roller doors. His way out. Strangely, he could only feel slight affects of the wind, as if it were avoiding him, trying to keep him from harm.
Some one yelled behind him. But he couldn’t make out what was said over the wind. It was howling, screaming even between the cars and around the basement. He didn’t look back until he reached a small panel with a white button on it. It looked to be the door release for drivers to press when they wished to leave. He hit it hard and ducked behind the machine, glancing around it, back toward where he thought the thugs were.
Sure enough, his powers were having the desired effect. Both men were huddled in the opposing corner, practically trapped by a wall of wind; their short hair and their clothes billowing in the wind as it rushed past them again and again like a gigantic wash cycle.
There was a tremendous rush of air as the roller door began rattling open. The fresher gusts of wind intertwined with the recycled, but ferocious blasts that were already at work in the basement, causing an even greater upsurgeance of tumultuous wind.
The very ground began to shake as cars began to scrape sideways against the pavement, dragged and pushed along by the gale-force winds. It suddenly occurred to Russell that perhaps things were getting a little out of control. The wind had done its job, he was able to escape now and maybe the men would think twice about following, but if the storm kept up, he could end up doing more damage than the explosion had, to the point of affecting the building above.
He refocused his attention. Concentrated on slowing the wind down. The silver threads had been all but lost in the frantic activity, but he could still sense them. So he reached out with his thoughts and tried to hold onto them, pull them back, and slow them down. At first they wouldn’t respond. So he concentrated harder, tightening all the muscles in his head, hoping it would make a difference, straining against the drag of the wind. And it began to work. He felt a sweat break out on his forehead as he literally grasped at the wind with his mind, slowing it down, easing it back. He could see the effects it was having. The cars had stopped moving for one, for another, the silver wisps were also slowing, returning to their normal casual dance rather than racing about on an ethereal sky circuit.
The two men in the corner were still huddled against the wall; their black jackets pulled up to protect their faces.
In a short while the wind would have settled, but Russell didn’t have that time to watch it. Instead he bolted up the driveway, through the roller door entrance and back onto the street. As far as he could tell, the two men weren’t following.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Oh come on, Harold. It was front page news yesterday.”
“No,” Harold’s camp and pompous accent was endearing, but his attitude was definitely getting on Pam’s nerves, “Yesterday’s news was for yesterday. The boy is of no concern now.”
“But what if there is a real story behind it?” She knew she’d made a mistake the moment she said it.
He turned on his chair, away from his computer and stared at her in amazement, his eyes practically bulging out of his head, “Real?”
“You know what I mean?”
He stood up, bearing down on her. He was tall if nothing else.
“I know exactly what you mean! You think I don’t take my job seriously. You think that I print garbage for the mere sensationalism that it seems to be. You think that I’m some old has-been too caught up in the swirl of the supernatural to care about the line to draw between reality and fiction.”
He was close, but Pam thought of him more of a “Never-was” than a “Has-been”.
“Now, Harold. You’re over reacting.”
He raised his hand, “No! Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t draw that line so clearly. But I know for a fact I deliver the news people want to read. They want fresh meat on the table every week. They don’t want the same story recycled over and over again.”
“This isn’t recycled! It’s new. It could be a story worth digging into.”
“When I was younger, Pamela, there were plenty of stories worth getting into. I would have published them all. There was a great one involving my neighbour at the time and a fortuitous black out that seemed to be the work of God, delivering unto him the fate he deserved. It would make a fine story, but it, like yours, is old news. Old news is just not good news. I’m sorry.”
She’d heard that story
before. He liked bringing it up, but he was using it to push the wrong point. And now she was going to use it to her own advantage, and she shivered at the mere thought of it.
“Maybe people would like to hear that story, Harold. Maybe you should publish it. Who knows! You might find a niche audience out there starved for the tales that lead us to where we are. Or people of your generation who want to look back and think that things were as dangerous and awkward back then as they are today. Have you thought about that?”
He was silent for a moment. He was definitely considering this. You could read Harold like a book. So obvious in every way, what he was thinking, doing, whatever. You just had to look at him and he’d give himself away.
“You might have a point. Just a page. Like a historical section. I think you’ve just hit on a perfect idea! And with Australia Day this week, we could do a special report! Pamela! I could just kiss you!”
She raised her arms in defence, “No. No need. I just want the boy’s address and the chance to check him out.”
Harold smiled, “Anything for my best reporter.”
She returned his smile, hoping he couldn’t read the falseness behind it. He was so predictable, so pliable. At least she had achieved what she had come for. And she might even get a raise for it.
* * *
Pam had sounded pretty sarcastic on the phone. She had managed to get the address out of Harold, obviously, but it was also obvious she had had to endure his normal pathetic whinging and whining.
Stacey thanked god he didn’t have to work directly with the git. Being a photographer, and freelance at that, meant he could work with anyone he chose or through anyone. That’s why he stuck with Pam. He knew her and they had a good working relationship; if you took the personal aspect out of it, that was. There had been a time when he was scraping for cash, but as his experience increased, so did his skill. He had managed to hone his abilities to the point he was quick to act if necessary. If something was going down, he was always ready for it. That was why he tended to carry the camera around his neck most of the time. He also usually kept one hand on it, for support, not to mention security, and in the odd chance something should happen, it was just a case of hoisting it to his eye.
Cartoon Heroes: Book One of the Dark Skies Series Page 7