If that happened now, though, I probably wouldn't feel it. Ever since that night at camp -- which the stupid monster had screwed up just as it was getting good, damn it -- I'd been discovering all sorts of new abilities: I was stronger and faster than pretty much anyone I knew, and I could swear I was just on the verge of making out what my next-door-neighbor's dog was saying when he barked at me.
But Mrs. Osbourne wasn't alone. I kind of knew her from seeing her around school: she was very short, kind of round, and kind-of-sort-of looked like she might be distantly related to Queen Latifah. "Have a seat, Andrea," she said, her voice quiet and a little Texas-twangy.
"Okay." I put my bag on the floor and took the chair across her desk. That just made me have to look even further up at the man who was standing with her. "Did I do something wrong?"
Mrs. Osbourne shook her head. "This is Professor Wedlund," she said. "He's part of the anthropology department at Georgia Tech. He's asked to speak to you."
"M-me? Why?"
The counselor gave the Professor a look, and then gave me one, and seemed to be trying to communicate something with her eyes. "He says your parents signed you up for a pre-college program, and this is the only time you can be interviewed."
"But they--" I cut myself short, though, when I saw her expression. "Okay. I'll talk to him." I looked up at him. "To you, I mean."
"Thank you, Miss Collins." His voice was very mild, and there was an accent to it. Not Spanish -- I could speak that pretty well and he definitely didn't sound like that. I wondered where he was from. "Will you excuse us, Mrs. Osbourne?"
She took a deep, slow breath, and then let it out, before giving up her chair to the Professor and stepping out. "You call me if you need anything, okay?"
"I will."
And then it was just the two of us.
Professor Wedlund sat down in Mrs. Osbourne's chair. It was quite a bit higher than he'd expected, I think; I spent several amusing seconds watching him reach around under the seat for the height adjuster thingy. When it was where he wanted it, he folded his hands on her desk. "Miss Collins," he said, "I think you know why I'm here."
"I really don't."
He blinked at that, but recovered fast. "You're saying nothing strange has happened to you lately?"
"Nope." I wished I had gum, so I could pop it at him. "I mean, I aced an Algebra quiz. Is that strange?"
"Not for you." He took a moment to regard me. "Andrea, let me be honest."
"You're not here for a pre-college program. Yes, I figured that out." I sighed. "And yes, I do know why you're here. But I want you to say it."
"Very well."
I waited.
And waited some more.
"Look," I said, "if it's all the same to you, I really should get back to class."
"I expect you could be there in a few seconds."
"I could. But it's easier just to walk."
"Perhaps." He shifted in the chair. "So you know what's happened to you."
"Kind of. I know that I'm stronger and faster than I ever was, and I can heal faster too." To show off, I took the scissor from the cup on Mrs. Osbourne's desk, opened it, and nicked my palm. It hurt, but I'd been experimenting at home -- I wasn't a cutter or anything, but it was a way to test my abilities. Plus, I'd had enough practice already to be able to cup my hand just the right way and not bleed on anything.
Anyway, the cut was closed in seconds; I took a couple of tissues off the desk and wiped the blood off my skin.
"What else can you do?" he asked, suitably impressed.
"Just that, so far."
He nodded. "And have you given any thought as to why you might have these abilities?"
"There was the monster I killed," I said.
"What monster?" His voice became sharp and cool, like the scissor blade that had just sliced my skin.
I gave him a Cliff Notes version of the fight at summer camp, leaving out the whole thing about what Doug and I were doing -- and I was more than a little pissed about that, too, because after what we'd been doing I thought I'd have rated at least a kiss goodbye instead of an awkward "see you next summer" and a half-hearted hug. "I haven't seen any other strange things, other than myself. Oh, and this." I relaxed the control I had to constantly maintain, like clenching a muscle, to keep my eyes from glowing. "Can you make that stop? I'm starting to get headaches at the end of the day."
"You can take ibuprofen if you want, but there's always the chance of becoming chemically addicted. I recommend meditation."
"Meditation? Really?" I eyed him full-on, not bothering to damp down the blue glow. "You going to explain to my parents why I need that? In fact, are you going to explain anything to them? At all? Or am I just going to hide what I am from everyone except you?"
He held up a hand. "One thing at a time, Miss Collins. Let's start with the reason you're like this in the first place."
"Yeah. Good place. Tell me all about how I'm special, Professor Wedlund." I gave him what I assumed was a wry grin. "Does it go something like this?" I had this speech memorized; ever since last year, when some friends at my old school got me into Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I'd been watching every episode I could get my hands on and recording every rerun so I could see them again and again. "'Into every generation a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight--'" But that's where I stopped. "What exactly am I fighting, anyway?"
I wasn't sure how to interpret the expression on the Professor's face, but if he was going to be my Giles, I figured I'd better start learning. "Clearly you're well-steeped in popular culture. But this is not a television show, Miss Collins; this is real life, and no one's going to come along at the last minute to save you if you get into trouble."
If I'd really been like Buffy, I would've had a great quip ready to fire off as a comeback. But I knew I wasn't, and the expression on the Professor's face was deadly serious. "So tell me," I said, my voice quiet. "What am I fighting?"
"Now that your abilities are back," Gina asks, "what do you plan to do with them? What have you done with them?"
"Honestly? So far, I've gone for a hike in the mountains, cleaned my apartment, and clipped my cats' claws." I hold out my hand and turn it, front and back, so the camera can see. "No scratches."
"That seems rather prosaic for someone with as much power as you have. Have you considered joining law enforcement or fire-and-rescue services?"
"I have," I say. "But there's a reason fictional superheroes don't usually do that sort of thing."
"And that is?"
"They can't be everywhere at once." I turn to the camera, looking at the little red light on top of it. "Look, if you remember me from eleven years ago, you know that, while I helped a lot, I had a purpose: to fight against the Dark King. I defeated him, and I defeated those who stood with him, but I suffered great losses as well. And now that I have my powers again, I have to be on the lookout for..." I trail off, feeling a prickling on the back of my neck. It's been a long time since I've felt it, but I know what it means. "Sorry," I say, and I turn to Gina. "I need to go."
"Go? Go where?"
I flash her a grin. "Would you accept 'up, up, and away?'"
And, in an instant, I'm out of the interview room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE PUPPET SHOW
+++++
Getting out of CNN Center is easier said than done. I have no desire to break out a window -- broken glass hurts like hell, and anyway I don't think I'd endear myself to Gina or anyone else there if I pulled that kind of a stunt. Instead, I "flash" myself from the studio to the nearest staircase. Flashing, as I call it -- mostly because I can't think of any scientific name for it -- is when I move at full-speed for a moment, stop to get my bearings, pick my next stopping point, and zoom over there. To the average person, and to most security cameras, it looks like I'm flashing from place to place.
The stairs go straight up to the top of the North Tower, and
although I regrettably have to break the lock on the door, it's only moments before I'm standing on the roof of the building. And that's where all the meditation lessons Professor Wedlund made me take really come in handy.
Some of the Superman stories -- I'm thinking Smallville here, but I'd accept Superman Returns from anyone who wants to admit to seeing it -- have shown the camera focusing in on Superman's ear and adding a bunch of special effects to indicate what he's hearing and from what direction. When I clear my head and focus on the tingle at the back of my neck, there aren't any special effects. Not even in my head. Instead, I just start walking in a slow circle, maybe a few yards in diameter, concentrating, blotting out the rest of the world so the only thing on my mind is where the tingle is strongest.
It's not glamorous, and it's certainly not scientific, but back in high school it worked really well, and I'm actually kind of ecstatic that I remember how to do it without practicing first.
Good thing, too, because the mark only tingles like this if there's evil afoot.
I chuckle. "Evil afoot." I sound like The Tick.
I guess that's not too bad, come to think of it. Always did enjoy that show.
Well, whatever. The Tick isn't going to save Atlanta.
That's up to me.
Up, up, and away.
Once I'm in the sky, it takes me a moment to get my bearings again -- moving in three dimensions is much more difficult than it looks, which I think is why so many sci-fi movies have battle scenes on the same horizontal plane.
It's also uncomfortable up here -- there aren't any buildings or trees to block the sun, and it's turned out to be a very clear afternoon. Thank goodness I don't burn -- or, at least, that I don't burn for very long. But also I'm moving through the air, not enclosed in a vehicle or anything, at a fairly high rate of speed; the wind is continually trying to steal my breath away, and even though it's a pleasant 75 degrees or so at street level, there's no buildings or roads up here to hold the heat and that plus the wind makes it a fair bit cooler.
At least it isn't raining -- as useful as the old costume was, it didn't keep me very dry. My interview clothes definitely won't.
Okay. Enough mental wandering. I think I've managed to pick up the trail of... well, of whatever evil alerted me to its presence. I fly southward at a leisurely pace -- for me, that is, so it's about fifty miles per hour. I still never figured out how exactly I fly; it just sort of happened one day, and while I have -- okay, had, but I seem to be doing okay -- good control over it, the science escaped both me and the Professor. Maybe I could get Dr. Colibri working on that, if for no other reason than to keep me out of her hair.
The tingle in my neck grows stronger the closer I get to what I think is Henry County -- Bette Midler was right about how the world looks from a distance, and I'm not sure how I feel about still remembering the lyrics to that song. I know I'm on the right track, because I can feel the acid in my stomach rising up toward my throat. Ah, yes, such a wonderful side effect of my powers: the closer I get to evil, the more I want to barf. Awesome. If only my barf had a super-power as well, but no. It's just barf. I grit my teeth and sort of press the back of my tongue downward, and with the amount of proportional strength even that small muscle has, I can stave off the reflex to throw up. Good thing, too, because I'm coming in for a landing in a medium-sized construction site, and the last thing I need is a distraction.
I swallow hard as my shoes -- simple flats, not the boots I used to wear, the ones with the steel-reinforced toes for extra kicking power -- touch the packed dirt. Great; I'd feel really dumb if all these guys saw me fall on my ass. I take a moment to run my hands over my hair -- quite a mess, I think; I wonder if they still make the stuff I used to use, back when I was Alexandra more often, because if it still exists I'm totally buying the entire supply -- and then pick out someone who looks like the foreman. I walk in his direction, putting as much purpose into the steps as I can without actually moving faster than a normal human.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Alexandra."
His mouth moves a couple of times before he manages to speak. "Uh... hey. I'm Jay Pratt." He holds out his hand, and I shake it once, firmly. "Uh... can I... help you?"
I smile at him. By now I've forgotten that I'm wearing the mask, but clearly it's throwing him off a bit. It's one of the reasons I wear it. But maybe seeing me drop out of the sky and into the middle of his site has something to do with it. "Has anything weird been going on in the past... let's say fifteen minutes." He's silent. "Jay? Weird stuff? Fifteen minutes?" Oh, wow, even the speech patterns are back -- and yes, I admit it, I based them on Buffy's. She's a damn good role model. "Hello?"
He gives his head a little shake. "I haven't seen anything."
"That's good." I tap my stomach -- yeah, smart, let the big girl draw attention to her very best feature, right? Well, too late now. "You look old enough to remember the last time I was around."
"Y-yeah," he says. "I was working for my dad's company. I saw you... I think it was you... fly over a couple of times."
"You might have." I smile again. "Jay, listen: I'm back, and there's something going on here. As in, right here. I can feel it in my gut, and I came here to stop it. Whatever it may be."
"Can I help?" he asks.
"Just let me walk around, see if I can find whoever's doing whatever they're doing."
"Okay." He pauses, then looks over at one of those ubiquitous white trailers that's on every construction site. "Let me just get you a helmet."
"Helmet?" He starts to walk that way, and I follow him. "No offense, Jay, but I don't think I need a helmet."
"It's the rules," he says. We get to the trailer and he opens the door. "Just a sec, okay?"
I put my hands on my hips, but he's already inside. He returns maybe half a minute later with a dark-blue plastic helmet and hands it to me. I give him a long-suffering but short-in-duration glare and set it on my head, cringing as it presses my hair into new and exciting patterns against my scalp. "There. Happy?"
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's the rules."
"Fine. It's the rules." I think about the helmet for a moment longer. "Hey, you have any gloves in there that might fit me?"
"Gloves? Why?"
"If I said I was concerned about protecting my manicure, would you believe me?" He actually looks at my hands; I hold one up and shake my head. I haven't bothered with a manicure in a long time. "Just... yes or no?"
"Yeah, I think so." He goes back in and finds me a pair, and they fit almost perfectly. "Good?"
"Great. Thank you. Now, if you would, jump on your walkie-talkie thing and let everyone know I'm here. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea and try to kick me out, y'know?"
"Sure. Good idea."
"I know. It was one of mine." I know my smile has turned a little condescending, and I know my voice is way too saccharine, but all of this chatting is doing two things: first of all, it's reminding me of a certain series of vampire novels where the action is always blocked up by pages and pages of boring setup talk, and secondly, it's making me want to throw up again. The acid is bubbling like a Jacuzzi on high-speed -- oh, would that feel good right now! -- and I can suddenly barely talk.
Fortunately, I don't have to: Jay's walkie-talkie makes an insistent bipping noise and he puts it to his mouth. "What's up?"
"It's Benny!" The voice is loud and distorted. "Something whacked Roman!"
"Something?" Jay asks. "Can you be more specific?"
"Something huge! It's coming--"
The voice cuts off, and when Jay presses his talk button and asks for a response, the only answer is the slight hiss of a still-open line.
"Where?" I ask, barely trusting myself to speak without decorating the area with my lunch. "Map!"
He takes my shoulder and guides me to a large drafting table. With one thick finger he points to a region marked A-4. Judging from the picture -- I'm not in construction; I'm sure it has a name but I have no idea what it's really called -- there
's a deep pit in that area.
"Get everyone away," I say -- it's about all I can trust myself to say -- before flashing as fast as I can from the trailer area to the big, spray-painted sign that says A-4.
Then I see Roman and Benny and there's no point in holding back. I find the nearest trash barrel and surrender.
When I can think again, I walk slowly -- and more than a little shakily -- to where the two bodies lay. One of them -- he has an R on his helmet, so I guess he's Roman -- has a massive gash in his stomach and blood covers his chin where he must have spat it up, but it's the other -- Benny, by process of elimination -- who makes me queasy again. I have no clue what did this, but the side of his head is smashed. He only has one eye and half a mouth; the rest is a foul mess of...
And his remaining eye is staring right at me...
And...
Oh... oh God...
I drop to one knee and gag, and it's the only thing that saves me as a massive spool of wire sails right over my head, smashing into the bodies. At least they're hidden now, although I don't even want to think about how they look after that impact. I spin around, moving into a sprinter's starting position, ready to get out of the way the moment I see something else heading in my direction.
Something's coming, all right. Four somethings, and they're enormous.
Golems.
I know who I'm fighting now.
The week after my sixteenth birthday, when I was still figuring out exactly how to best use my powers, training with the Professor after school every day, I fought a creature who made monsters out of dirt, wood, rocks, and whatever other detritus it could find in the park where I confronted it. The creatures, Professor Wedlund told me at the time, were commonly called golems, and were animated with the maker's own life-force. It made the maker weak, and the key was to keep it on the offensive, keep it making more and more golems so that, when I finally got to it, one punch would be enough to kill it. When it died, the golems would die with it.
After The Apocalypse Page 14