Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  “No!” Talia shouted, sprinting toward the younger girl. She body-slammed into Julia, throwing them both on the ground. The gun skittered away while Talia quickly tried to get up. Julia snagged her leg as she ran, sending the reporter to the floor. Talia rolled onto her back, brandishing the revolver, as Julia pulled her other gun from its holster and fired.

  With a loud pop, Talia felt her hands grow lax. She was dimly aware of pain… in her stomach… but she couldn’t be sure. The second she heard the gun go off, she had tensed up… maybe the bullet aged too much to hit her, her reflexes working overtime to protect her organs… but when she started to convulse, she realized some small part of shrapnel must have ripped into her. Now, she was more than dimly aware of the pain.

  It was her whole world, whiting out her vision in brilliant strokes.

  Julia was stunned, horrified by what had happened. Nothing made sense anymore. Things weren’t adding up. Her father, the Fort, Claymore, Arbiter, Zombress, Arthur… and to top it all off, she had just shot someone. Yes, it was kill-or-be-killed… damn it… damn it! No matter what her higher self may have wanted, her lizard brain – honed by training – demanded her attacker die… and that’s the one her ability chose to listen to.

  She scrambled upright and half-crawled to Talia. The hole in her belly was bad, gushing, and there was nothing else to it. Julia could have done nothing. She could have watched Talia leave, or she could have fired from the holster just to startle her, or she could have shot a round off and directed it into the path of the one Talia may have shot at her. So many non-lethal ways to handle it.

  It was an accident. A fucking accident!

  A woman’s going to die because of me. Unless…

  Unless what? I stroll into a neutral hospital with a gunshot wound recipient with all my armaments dangling off me?

  Julia reached for Talia’s face and cupped it, making her look up. “Talia, please… don’t die.” It was a useless gesture, completely unnoticed. Her hand went to the wounded woman and tightened around the warm but slack digits. Talia’s eyes rolled backward, then flicked to her. “Please, just…” Julia shifted Talia and heard something heavy clatter to the floor, the sound making her panic as though she had heard someone’s approach. Her eyes went to the floor. A necklace, heavy with a blood red gemstone, stared up at her. It was surreal – no, beyond surreal. It was impossible. She picked it up, unable to process the sight… it was her mother’s. Her mother’s necklace that her father had said he kept in a locked box in a bank.

  “This is Overseer. Gunslinger, you have not completed your call.” Julia’s throat went painfully dry.

  She hit her earpiece and immediately started to strip off her vest. She was smaller than Talia, which would make it the closest she could get to a bandage at the moment. “This is Gunslinger. Multiple losses at the VWN station, pursuing suspect on foot.”

  “Acknowledged.” A chime sounded. “A squad of Enforcers is now en route to location: VWN Headquarters.”

  Julia worked to put the tight vest on Talia as the villain gave another shudder. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  She had no idea why she was doing it.

  Maybe it was Arthur.

  Maybe it was guilt.

  Maybe it was just needing to know how she got the necklace.

  She just knew she had to get Talia out of there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  PIECES

  ARTHUR BURST INTO THE SUBWAY TUNNELS, hefting the backpack more comfortably onto his shoulder. He couldn’t leave Mollie behind, even if it meant that he’d eventually have to tell her what happened. She liked Tim… as much as an unfeeling computer could like someone, anyway. The prospect scared him, but not as much as the people still arguing about their future chances of survival.

  The others could decide what to do without him. It was readily apparent that the more he tried to help, the worse everything became. What killed him the most was that all of this would have happened anyway. Even if he had never come up with the plan to assault the Fortress of Darkness, there would still have been that monument to his ambition to mock him, stuffed with his friends awaiting… whatever the heroes had planned.

  The gravel crunched under his feet as he moved. He had no idea where he was going. His sense of direction had always been awful, but it felt better to move than to wait around in some abandoned train station. In any case, the further away he was from Ariana, the better.

  Did she honestly think I enjoyed being the one to tell her? Or that I don’t already blame myself? Was there anything that got through her stupid, thick head?

  “Arthur!” The Irish lilt echoed off the walls, and he grunted in response. Stair’s footsteps crunched softly but urgently toward him. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “But… you can’t leave.” She ran in front of him and stopped, staring up at him with her green eyes. “They need you.”

  “No one needs me.” Arthur moved past her, not shoving her aside but brushing past her gently. “I’m no good for anyone.”

  She didn’t move. “You’re good for me,” she said softly, a tremor shaking her voice. Spinning on her heel, she turned to face his retreating form. “I need you, Arthur.”

  He stopped. “Everyone’s better off without me.”

  “I lost my ma.” The tremor became a plea. “I lost my home. I lost my pa tonight, you stupid man.” She inhaled with a shudder before yelling. “I can’t lose you, too!”

  Arthur didn’t want to look at her, but something compelled him to turn around. She looked so small and frail in the darkness, standing with her fists clenched. He scanned her face, tears welling up in her eyes as her chin quaked. Against his better judgment, he offered his hand.

  Colonel Morant watched from the Panopticon as more runaways were being brought into the courtyard. At this distance, it was easy to imagine that everyone below peacefully offered their freedom and, in return, the heroes graciously accepted their victory. But his knowledge of human nature made this mere fantasy seem dangerously distant.

  Arbiter’s refusal to allow him to capture the Capones and, presumably, the other masterminds was a dark sign of things to come when it had already appeared that life was no longer going to be bright at all. He had either sought to kill them… or simply deny Morant the capture as some sort of punishment.

  Twenty years of leading the Enforcers, upholding the legacy of One Shot… and this is how it would end. All because he hadn’t yet divorced himself from his humanity. He shut his eyes, hoping that the horror of the Apartheid War was not to come.

  Morgan tried to rub some warmth into her bare arms. The diner’s air conditioning was working overtime for what she could only rationalize as sadistic reasons. She had shed the orange top in the woods in favor of the more inconspicuous white tank top underneath. Steven had to steal a pair of too-large jeans for her in order to not appear like a freshly escaped convict. Which, sadly, she was. “What’s the plan…” She trailed off. It seemed so odd to be talking to Zombress, probably the most powerful Bestowed in existence, across a diner table. It was a bizarre spectacle, watching the t-shirt-and-jeans clad woman scan a menu of trucker food. The Queen of the Dead looked up at her, pushing a pair of small-lensed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know what to call you.”

  “Other than the obvious, of course,” Steven chimed in.

  Zombress cocked her head and smirked. “Gina.” She returned to her menu.

  The mobster to Morgan’s right looked positively joyous. “No, shit!” Steven said, louder than anyone was comfortable with. He checked over his shoulder to confirm they were still the only patrons, then looked back at Zombress. “You’re telling us your real name?”

  She snorted in annoyance. “I’m not a Gina.” Her eyes flicked back to the menu. “I’m not an anything. But it’s better than having the heroes called on us.”

  Steven’s face seemed to brighten. “Could we go back to the mo
b?”

  “No,” Zombress said, her voice flat and firm.

  Morgan and Steven looked at each other. “It was just a suggestion,” Steven said dejectedly.

  “You haven’t offered anything better,” Morgan said argumentatively.

  “Because there’s only one viable plan at the moment.” Zombress looked into their eyes, cold and clear. “Survival.” She resumed looking at the menu.

  Steven made a face. “And the Capones can’t help with that?”

  The waitress, an older woman with brown, frizzy hair, stopped by their table and eyed them up. “Are you ready to order?” No one said anything for a moment. She eyed Morgan and Steven. “Y’all aren’t… mobsters or anything, are you?”

  “Gosh, no!” Zombress was suddenly bright and chipper, like someone had thrown a switch in her brain. Her smile was wider than anyone expected. She leaned forward and touched Steven’s hand. “This here’s my lawyer, Mr. Daniel Laurie, and his wife Roxanne.” Her voice had developed a sudden Georgian accent. Zombress leaned in close to the waitress. “I’ma getting divorced.”

  “You poor dear.” The waitress’s face scrunched in what could be assumed to be sympathy. “I’ll send over some coffee.” She took a step away, then seemed to second-guess something. She leaned on the table toward Steven. “Take the backstabbing shit for all he’s worth.” A moment later, she was gone.

  “How did you…” Morgan started.

  “Indentation on her ring finger,” Zombress said casually as she examined the menu. “How could anyone call this food?”

  Morgan and Steven exchanged glances again. “I’m sticking with her,” Steven said. And, despite what she may have wanted to believe, Morgan couldn’t help but think it was her best chance at survival.

  Julia was grateful that her father had purchased property so close to the villain side of town. It made the journey with Talia’s body faster, though still laborious. Her grapple gun had been recovered and returned to her earlier that night, and she had never been more appreciative of the device’s knack for quick, almost undetectable transportation. Nevertheless, the threat of being seen was great and worrying enough without the weight of another person to carry.

  Talia stretched out before her on the dining room table, still bleeding. She couldn’t believe how much blood the villain had in her, but now that she was on the table, Julia had a chance to start keeping it where it belonged.

  She had some medical training, enough to work with simple stitches. It might be enough to save her. But she had to move quickly, disinfect her hands, and try her damnedest to get the bullet out and repair any damage she could.

  By the time Julia collected what she needed from the kitchen and returned to the dining room, Talia was still. “Fuck!” she screamed. In an instant, she was at the table and grabbing at the other woman’s hand. “Talia, stay with me, please.”

  Talia’s head lolled to the side, and she smiled faintly. “He loves you.”

  Julia shook her head in confusion. “What?” At that, Talia began to convulse. Julia squeezed Talia’s hand a final time before she grabbed the sewing kit. “Stay with me.”

  Ariana sat on the empty subway platform, fairly sure she had made it to the villain side of town through the tunnels. And even if she didn’t, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her nose leaked profusely, joining in with the seemingly endless rain of tears from bloodshot eyes. She was a mess, a horrible, angry, depressed mess. And everything in the world felt like it was tumbling down around her.

  She had no idea why she was heading back home. She didn’t know where home would be. The apartment was full of memories she’d just as soon forget. Her father’s house would either be watched or occupied by her letdown of a parent soon enough.

  There was no plan. There was nothing. No Tim. No mother. No father. No Arthur.

  Not anymore.

  Clutching herself with her arms, she curled up on the bench and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that she would never wake again.

  Electronica trembled in the medical wing of the barracks, hot wells of fury working her gut into knots. The doctors finished replacing her now-useless bandages and left her alone long enough for that scumbag Zealot to come in, self-assured and proud. He took a seat next to her and stared. The know-nothing hero wannabe just stared, smiling his dreamy, doped-up smile, watching her movements like she was some kind of display.

  Which, thanks to my fuck-up spawn, I am. Well done, girl. Here’s Wendy Severson on national news, proclaiming her late-blooming idiot daughter a traitor, turning her back on her family for a continued role in the Bronze Age… damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and a motherfucking spectacle either way.

  “Overseer informs me that you failed to apprehend or kill the fugitive Aquaria,” Zealot said, his voice ethereal, “even though she was within reach.” His smile turned into a sneer. “That does not bode well for the woman who claims to have cut ties.”

  “She had help.” Electronica turned to look at him. “Or did you not notice the army when you were choking the life out of a single villain?”

  “It is never wise to take your aggression out on those who may decide your future, Electronica.” Zealot leaned back in his chair and watched her with his cool, glassy eyes.

  Agent Diane Mast stared out the window of the D.C. bound jetliner, hand to her face in contemplation. Things were spiraling out of control. It was only a matter of time before things got even messier, and everyone would have to start worrying about the very real ramifications of what Arbiter was doing. There was so much at risk… the very system she had helped establish in order to protect countless lives had been reduced to a skeleton in a few short weeks.

  The BVH, employing scarcely one hundred agents yet responsible for the whole of the United States, was spread too thin, too poorly funded, and stymied by bureaucratic red-tape to handle this kind of emergency. Rumblings were beginning in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Houston. A few of the more anti-government types had already cut ties to the Bureau in what could only be read as preparation. The heroes were talking to each other, trying to whip up support for Arbiter and his vision. A vision that she had hoped he had abandoned years ago, despite his rhetoric.

  People like him, however, never changed. It was a lesson that she would not forget.

  Claymore’s eyes were hazy, and in his entire life he had never felt more like mere Dylan York than he did now. Ever since childhood, when his father had given him a practice sword, he knew he was special. He trained, avoided embarrassment, fought, and won. At the Academy, he was nothing short of perfect in all his physical activities, proving time and time again his devotion to himself and his fitness. Even when he had tracked down Zombress with Arbiter and the Enforcers, he had performed admirably despite feeling challenged for the first time in years.

  Now he slouched in a hospital bed, feeling less like a man and more like a shell. When he was able to slur that he felt shattered, the doctors told him not to worry. Thanks to Maelstrom’s notes, they could create a new hand and foot in a matter of days. He’d be at work again shortly, and he would quickly acclimatize to his bio-feedback appendages. After all, Erich Constantine reported great success with his.

  Even as he physically felt torn apart, his mind was turning against itself. He had too long to think, to remember in every lurid detail, the blood of the Enforcer splashing down on him. The bullets that should have been meant for him splattering into that degenerate… no… that girl’s father.

  Sleep was no respite. His fevered brain just played out the entire scene before punctuating his nightmare with that long, lying word drawn out to infinity.

  Rogue.

  Catalina Capone watched over the assembled villains from her seat on the stage. Having grown tired of the incessant arguing, she had pulled up an old chair from the back and plopped down on it. The bickering, raging conversations continued, offering no real solution to the mountain of horror they all faced. There wasn’t a whole lot of point. One by one, they would sli
p out, disappear. One by one, they would be captured and point the heroes right here.

  She drummed her fingers on the armrest. That was definitely one scenario she couldn’t let come to pass. Not when there was so much life left to be lived. Her hand drifted up to activate her earpiece.

  “This is Catalina,” she said, watching the crowd. She noticed that the remaining mobsters all brought their hands to their ears, cupping the sound inward in an effort to drown out the noise. “Prepare for evacuation.”

  “Shall we start informing the guests?” someone asked.

  Her eyebrow arched as she watched the crowd. Arthur had disappeared, much to her annoyance. The only high-tiered villain she recognized had been Aeschylus, and he had faded into the crowd after his daughter’s embarrassing meltdown.

  No matter.

  “No.”

  Arbiter sat at his desk, the mid-afternoon sun hazy as it illuminated the latest financial files in a brilliant orange. In a few short hours, a ceremony would name him High Consul for life. And why? Because I foretold a war which came to pass? A war which, without me, may never have happened? Am I only here because of the goodwill Dante Lovelass’s life imparted? Or, perhaps, it is the fear of death which sparked this sudden loyalty. Lovers have been irrevocably parted, children orphaned and parents rendered childless. All thanks to me.

  Yet, the chorus of voices was unanimous, carrying him into an office for the foreseeable future.

  Talia had promised a flash drive containing key members of the conspiracy and details on their knowledge of Project Northwoods, that ancient relic of a bygone era which haunted his every action. Instead, she murdered, in cold blood, six heroes and fled. Despite her best efforts, Gunslinger hadn’t been able to track down the runaway. Zombress was not among the dead or captured, nor was Aquaria. More and more, it was looking like the tendrils of corruption were as embedded in the villain community as he had always believed. The men and women… even the children… were nothing but animals.