Cartoon Heroes: Book One of the Dark Skies Series

by Anthony Harwood

  * * *

  He came to once again somewhere totally different. Laying on a hard bench of some kind, dressed in only his underwear and a hospital gown of sorts. He felt somewhat violated by that notion, but the cold metal beneath him kept his mind from wandering too far. It was an open backed piece and only ran to his knees. The actual material was thin and the table was absolutely freezing.

  Looking around, Russell could see he was in some sort of operating room. A bright light hung over head, beside him a small trolley laden with items he couldn’t quite make out from the angle he was strapped down at.

  To his right, a door slid open on an automatic system and two people walked in covered from head to tail in surgical clothing. The masks and caps gave an almost condom like look to them, but Russell found nothing humorous in that thought.

  He had to get out of there. He wasn’t sure if they had planned for him to wake up for the surgery or whether his new physiology got rid of the drug earlier than usual or what. All the same, he didn’t exactly want to be operated on.

  He tried to focus, letting the sharpness of the cold beneath him help direct his energies.

  He wasn’t sure how well it would work, but in moments, he began to see the slowly drifting silver currents, reacting to the motion of the doors that had allowed a further in rush of air.

  There was air here, something he could use.

  Concentrating hard, he gathered the currents above the table, letting them coalesce and interact with each other. He could feel the resulting breeze from the activity in the air above. Obviously so did the two doctors. They faltered mid step and stared toward Russell’s wind swept body. Hopefully, Russell thought, the gown wasn’t playing up too much.

  From the moment they realised something odd was going on, to the point when Russell threw the air ball at them, they had very little time to react. Maybe turn slightly, hoping to escape whatever was about to happen. But no such luck for these two.

  The ball sent the two flying toward the doors once more, tossing them like flies in a storm head first through the glass even before the door’s motion sensors could react to their presence.

  As if realising its mistake, the doors slid open, jarring both bodies against the door frame; acting like an iron cage as they struggled to get free, which in turn kept the motion sensor active thus keeping the doors wide open.

  Now, to get out of the straps.

  Russell pulled at both of his wrist straps, hoping to wriggle them loose, instead finding the hard leather was cutting into his skin.

  Then he had an idea.

  It was simple enough to redirect only a slight portion of the power he had used against the two surgeons. All he needed to do was angle it slightly and bring it back toward the table, and the small tray sitting beside it. Give it an up lift and-

  With a crash, the tray lifted into the air and tipped on its side, spilling surgical equipment over the table, some falling down to the floor with a clatter. Grasping for anything, Russell felt around, being careful not to cut himself.

  His hand found purchase on a small knife-like scalpel. What they had planned to do with that, he didn’t want to know. Deftly, he twisted it around and proceeded to saw at the strap, finding as he did so, the pressure his straining put on it leant itself to the tearing of the material.

  After quite a few moments he had one hand free. Enough to get a faster action happening on his other restraints.

  He jumped off the table, finding the flooring was as cold, if not colder than the table he’d been lying on. Scuffling his feet to avoid stepping on broken glass or any of the spilt surgical equipment, he moved past the still struggling men who, surprisingly, hadn’t been calling out for help. As Russell drew closer, he saw that the doors had luckily caught the men just under the tip of their sternums, effectively keeping them both somewhat winded as the mechanism jarred open against their bodies.

  Outside the operating room, or vivisecting room, whichever these loons had tagged it, was a small washroom, like you see on those medical dramas. Scrubbing tubs were situated in the centre, similar to the control set up in Doctor Who’s TARDIS.

  There was a door to the left which seemed to be the only exit. With no other choice, Russell continued to scuffle out that way, finding himself in a locker room. It was only small, but at one end there were showers and toilet cubicles. On the other were eleven tall lockers. Hopefully, some were stocked with clothing.

  He moved along each one. Finding personal effects and changes of clothes. It wasn’t long before he had organised a neat little wardrobe for himself, consisting of a t-shirt, a dark puff jacket and black jeans. To top it off, a pair of nicely polished boots, laced up to half way up his shin. A little odd for size, but more than suitable for wear.

  At least he’d scored something out of this little adventure; though now he had to buy another pair of trousers.

  Strangely, however, he considered the fact there was only one entrance to the operating room.

  It surprised even himself that the thought niggled at his mind. But why would they have only one, especially through a locker room. Would they normally cart a patient through a locker room? And if he was such an important ‘guest’, or was he just being egotistical, then why weren’t their security measures, such as cameras? They couldn’t have solely relied on the anaesthetic.

  Something was smelling fishy, here, and it wasn’t his feet.

  Instead of proceeding out the other exit to the locker room, he turned back to the scrub room. When he re-entered, he saw something that didn’t surprise him in the least.

  The men were gone. Rescued? Escaped? But where to?

  Someone was playing a game and Russell was the pawn.

  Well, he thought to himself, they still have to learn I’m not one to mess with.

  “Ooh, I’m shaking in my boots,” he said out loud, more in response to his false bravado than their challenging him.

  It was times like these he found himself wishing he had telepathy instead. Smiling, he began searching the walls to this room. Running his hands over the smooth tiles, hoping to discern a crack or join in the wall that may very well have been another way out. Sadly, there were none.

  So it was back into the operating room.

  Another seemingly dead end. Like the middle of a maze the rat is supposed to find his way out of.

  The walls in here were metallic. Reflective like mirrors, but much stronger.

  Let’s see how strong.

  Russell heard the howl of wind and the slamming of the locker room door as he called forth the air from all three rooms. He stood back, allowing the strong currents to rush past him, caressing his body like an invisible seductress before storming forward.

  The sheer force of the wind was incredible. He could feel it building in intensity as he sucked the air completely from the other two rooms and forced it into a veritable hurricane inside the operating room. He could see the silver strands lashing out against the metal walls, ineffectual in their intangible form. But as the loose equipment was swept up into the storm, he directed them as an attack. Chips and scratches soon pockmarked the walls as he pushed harder, the sweat breaking out not only on his forehead but under his arms. The control he was forcing was immense and required every ounce of strength in his body. It was as if he had clenched every muscle. He could feel cramps rising in his biceps and calves, but he kept pushing. The tray and its stand were shortly swept into the fray and they too danced and bounced against the wall.

  But they still weren’t enough to cause suitable damage. So, there was one other option.

  Pushing even further, he felt his legs start to buckle. His knees wanting so much to give way with the strain he was placing on his very body, as if every molecule was being taxed for its energy. It was incredible. Liberating almost.

  He felt at one with the power filling the room. A transient sense that was awash and aglow in the silver strands that belted around the room like lightening. It was both painstaking a
nd invigorating to wield such power, like it was a release of all the pent up anger in his bones. He would liken it to standing in the middle of a massive meadow and screaming at the top of your lungs. A complete and utter abandon, yet, it required such control to make sure he didn’t get too carried away with his onslaught against the wall. He wasn’t even sure why he was attacking the wall. Maybe it was all those detective movies with the two-way mirrors. But these aren’t mirrors, he tried reasoning. But even as he thought it, his mind countered, ‘But what if they are’. And it spurred him on to push harder.

  With that, the table was finally swept into the air. He was speechless when it took flight, not that he had anyone to say anything to, but the notion that he could lift such a massive and weighty object. A large steel table he wouldn’t have dreamed lifting by himself with his bare hands, and now, he had it swirling in the air. It was under his control.

  And with that control, he redirected the air currents, taking them off the circular spin he had set them on and pulled them back toward him, letting them, along with their load of glass, surgical equipment and furniture, pass around behind him toward the door before lifting them high above him and sending it all crashing forward toward the offending wall with such force, he felt the floor beneath his feet quake.

  There was no way the wall could have withstood the attack, metal or not. The cumulative debris and the force behind it all punched a hole through what Russell could now see as a durable, though thin metal divide.

  He let the silver strands disperse into the air and the rooms seemed to sigh in relief.

  On shaky legs, he moved forward to his newly created exit. The edges of the hole were peeled open, like the exit hole in a tin can after having been shot through by a bullet. Beyond that was another room, too dark to see anything, but he could hear someone.

  The glass was still tinkling as it settled after their wonderful aerial adventure, but over that, Russell could hear muffled moans. Had he hurt someone?

  Lifting himself up through the hole, his arms slightly unsteady underneath him, he hopped down into the dark area beyond. The light from the Operating room barely made a dent in the pitch black in here. There had to be other sources of light, or had they been damaged when the wall gave way?

  Russell edged deeper into the dark, keeping his arms out, hoping his eyes would shortly adjust, and giving him even a slightly better ability to see.

  Sure enough, with the light spillage, he started to make out various shapes.

  There appeared to be chairs knocked over, even tables. Nothing was completely discernible, but Russell was able to make a general map of the result of the explosion. Obviously the wind power behind his attack had followed through into here, the change in air pressure becoming a wall of physical force, sending everything flying away from the new exit, similar to the effect Russell’s power had had when it first manifested at the car park. A blast wave.

  “Hello?” He said it warily. Okay, it would draw attention to himself, but if someone was stupid enough to respond, it would give him an idea if he had actually killed anyone or not. That was one thing he didn’t want to do. Russell wasn’t completely sure, but he had the inkling that someone had died in the van crash. That had, in part been Russell’s fault, but more so who ever was driving the van. They had been speeding. Stacey, though he was following them, had only increased his speed after they had. He was not the cause, nor really was Russell. And if they hadn’t blown up the building, there wouldn’t have been a need to follow them in the first place.

  But right now, Russell was certain he didn’t want to be responsible for someone’s death, not through deliberate or accidental means with his bare hands or with his new powers. He didn’t want that sort of action on his conscience. Ever.

  Someone responded to his call. Another moan in the darkness.

  He started to move toward it, to see if they were okay when the room was flooded by a bright wash of light.

  From every corner, a floodlight flared against the dark, effectively blinding Russell. He sheltered his eyes with his arms, already blinded. He could see the bright red underneath his eyelids where his eyes had been affected. He could also hear a door slam open to his left and the sound of footsteps, not to mention feel the rush of more fresh air.

  Which he would use.

  They weren’t going to get him again.

  He shot out his arm toward the sound of their boots and pushed with all his might.

  The men yelled expletives as their feet were knocked from underneath them. He could hear as they fought against the wind, scrambling on the floor.

  Doing his best, Russell forced his eyes open to try and get an image of where to go and how to dodge the captors.

  Against the lingering blur of white, he only managed to grab scraps of the sight before him. It was going to be a tight squeeze. So, using what little energy reserves he had left, he called back the air and encased himself in a cocoon, similar to that he had back in the building only a couple of days ago, hoping it would be sufficient shielding against these men.

  And he ran.

  Blinking furiously in the hopes of clearing his sight, he was still able to find the direction of the door and pass through it. The men grabbed at him, their blows deflected by his force field, though as it was not tangible, they were managing to push through it. He could feel them reaching at him, breaking its surface as if the air itself was communicating everything it sensed back to him, though he knew that wasn’t the case, or did he?

  He managed to get past them and continued running. But he couldn’t see where.

  The corridor was still bright, mainly ahead of him. He wasn’t sure where the light was coming from, but he just kept running.

  Maintaining his cocoon, he pushed onward, his legs weak after so much action and running from earlier that day, not to mention everything he’d been through since.

  The light kept getting brighter, as if he were running toward heaven, or a very bright spotlight.

  When he broke through a pane of glass, he had a feeling which one he’d be reaching first.

  Glass exploded all around him and once more, there was a tremendous back draft. The floor disappeared from beneath his feet and Russell found himself floundering for a handhold, foothold, or absolutely anything.

  Where the hell was he? The cocoon around him dispersed in the panic that began to set in as he felt gravity start to work and he began to fall.

  Thoughts punched through his brain. How far, how long? What, when, why, how? Nothing coherent until he shut his eyes once more, not that he could see anything in the first place. But as he shut his eyes a calm settled over him. He felt at home, like he was surrounded by family and friends once more. He wasn’t sure if it were a life passing before his eyes experience or just that in these final moments he was going insane.

  The sensation of falling passed, stopped. Was this death? He felt so light, as if he were suspended by strings and made simply of cloth.

  He opened his eyes, and he could see once again.

  And the world was there for him to see.

  He hovered above the city, the activity of the day hustling and bustling below him.

  The earth stretched around him as far as the eye could see, every horizon visible from this vantage point, excepting, of course, those hidden by the massive sky scrapers nearby, including the one he’d just stepped out of.

  Drifting on air, the very silver strands he’d come to associate with his abilities were wrapped around his body, like a suit of armour. No more dancing or swirling. They simply held onto him, stopping him from falling. It was still draining what reserves of energy he had left. He found it funny he thought of himself as a battery now, but he was very close to being a dead one.

  Ever so simply, he turned and regarded the window he had just fallen out of. It was a few metres up, he wasn’t even sure what floor it was, but was over half way up the building itself. The CP2.

  Carefully, he eased himself upward and backward awa
y from the building until he was in line with his second makeshift exit. Framed by the broken glass was Deep Throat. As familiar and as collected as before. His arms folded. The faces of the men behind him, however, were awash with amazement and stupefaction. That was sufficient to make Russell smile.

  With that, he turned once more and drifted back down to the street below.

 

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When he was only a couple of feet above the crowded street he started to hear the gasps and shouts. Kids were doing the ‘look mum!’ and the ‘it’s Superman!’ thing. But Superman has nothing on this hero. For one thing, this one was real.

  If Russell had had any hopes of anonymity they had been blown up in the van, not to mention with the bridge episode. He didn’t want to brag about his powers, he just wanted to go home. But first, he needed his keys.

  He landed on the south entrance of Greyson’s, otherwise known as Murray Street, the one they had driven down only that morning, though at this end it was cut off from traffic and was now a pedestrian thoroughfare.

  A crowd had already gathered by the time he touched ground and Russell could hear whispers of “micro-jetpacks” and “test-drive”. He merely smiled, trying to push his way through the crowd and into the building.

  What he found was that he had a small crowd following behind him, like a procession march. It shouldn’t be too hard to lose them in Greyson’s however.

  He pushed through the Ground floor cosmetics department which was already filled with bodies, male and female alike, trying to get beauty tips from a spruiker doing demos as well as the floor staff giving advice and even demonstrations on eager customers.

  With the store being open on Sunday, and most of the suburban centres being shut, it meant Sunday was one of the busiest trading days. Russell decided to use this to his advantage to lose the followers and keep from being spotted by any of Deep Throat’s goons if they happened to be around.

  It took him fifteen minutes to get to the top floor, where his locker was located. By that time, he’d lost everyone and felt sure he was not being followed, watched or anything else.

  So it was with a general ease he strolled into the back reserve for sports wear and greeted a number of fellow employees coming out of the massive locker room. He had a certain anonymity in the store due to the fact it was so large and no one ever really got to know everyone else. But you had a lot of good acquaintances.