Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Arthur perked up immediately and leaned closer to her. “Did he…”

  “No.” She blinked rapidly, fighting back more tears. “The Enforcers did it. Stabby McGee back there actually killed one of them… and then they sh… shot my…” She trailed off before breathing deeply and composing herself.

  It took a moment to process what she said, but Arthur was still confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” Stair half-snapped. “I’ve given up trying to piece it together.” Her legs stretched out in front of her, and she winced with exertion.

  His eyes immediately went to her ankle. The already dirty sock grew darker with blood. “Stair! Damn it!” He scrambled over to her.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “It’s not fine,” he responded. “I’m going to get you back to the apartment.” He moved to her side and slid his arm behind her. “Up.” It took a moment for her to gather her strength. “I’m sorry for this mess.”

  “This is bigger than you, Art.” She complied with his earlier order, grunting as she put her weight on her badly twisted ankle. “I should kill you for going into that convenience store alone.” Her words came out a little drunkenly, the mental exhaustion of using her ability catching up with her.

  He laughed. “And let you pass up a chance to kick some ass?”

  She smirked as they started down the alley, their path shaky. “I was pretty awesome, wasn’t I?”

  “The best.” Her weight on his shoulder grounded him, made him feel like he was a part of something important. Then, the sudden fear of losing her made him feel more helpless than he had ever felt before.

  Claymore watched the girl lead her male companion into the darkness, feeling like his internal organs had fled his body all at once. He had long since convinced himself that he had hallucinated her, that the stress of combat had rendered his ability to differentiate reality from fantasy shattered. Or that it was a mental coping mechanism, his brain’s way of dealing with the death which had surrounded him.

  She was there, again, and no one else seemed to notice her. And who was it that she was whisking away? She had seen what happened in the Fortress, she had known what the Enforcers failed to admit. He was the reason one of their own had died. He alone bore the responsibility of all those lost that night. And yet, no one said a word.

  “Sir?” He looked up. Officer Medina was kneeling in front of him, his handsome face clouded by the night’s chilliness condensing his breath. “You collapsed.”

  “Did I?” Claymore knew he had not fallen over. He had been pushed. What was more surprising was his lack of shock that Medina did not mention the girl and her cohort.

  “You should have waited a bit longer before coming back on patrol,” the Enforcer said casually. His words had a bit of edge to them. The relationship between costumed heroes and Enforcers had been strained since the night of the Fort. Not that it bothered Claymore in the least. Medina offered his hand, but he brushed it aside as he pulled himself up.

  “At the rate someone’s been picking you guys off, I figured you’d want the help,” he grunted.

  He walked inside the convenience store and grabbed the nearest neutral by the collar. “Hey, man, lay off!” The barks of protest were met with a violent shake. It was more awkward than anything else, feeling the metal hand clench within the glove and around the kid’s shirt. The bio-feedback loop told his brain how the interior of the glove felt, the weight against the metal, the sensation of the tightening fist. But it was all technical data, translated into surprisingly tasteless sensation.

  “Under eminent domain, this now belongs to the New York City Heroes’ Guild.” He began to drag the neutral outside.

  The neutral scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock.” Claymore rammed the belligerent kid into the doorframe as he led him out. It was an annoying task, escorting their dumb asses to the edge of the quarantined zone to be picked up by the cops. But it would give him time to think about how to identify the girl… maybe find her and talk to her before she had a chance to tell anyone but him the truth.

  A gentle buzz alerted him to a call. His free hand flitted up to his ear as he and his charge made their way down the street to an idling armored van. “Claymore.”

  “It’s Gunslinger.” The name filled him with equal parts annoyance and relief. He smiled dreamily, ready to take charge of the situation again.

  “What’s up?”

  The neutral whined an exasperated, inarticulate note of disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re taking phone calls.” Claymore flicked the kid’s ear with his free hand. “Damn it!”

  “Just wanted to say welcome back to the job,” she said matter-of-factly.

  The smile faded from his face. “Anything else?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “You want me to say something else?”

  He stopped in his tracks, the neutral nearly falling over on himself. “How about an ‘I’m sorry’ for not visiting me in the hospital?” Guilt was a powerful weapon.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” the kid shouted. Claymore yanked him backward.

  Another pause. “My father’s dead and my partner had chunks of himself amputated. You think I want to be reminded of that?” Before Claymore could say anything, Julia cut him off. “Look, I’ve been busy. The paperwork has been ridiculous since… well… that night.”

  “I guess I should be grateful I lost a hand, then?” he snarked.

  The sigh was audible. “I have to go.” The line clicked, then went dead.

  “That went well,” Claymore grunted as they reached the back of the van. He yanked the neutral up and guided him into the back.

  “Why don’t you just screw the bitch?” the kid said with a sneer.

  Claymore gestured the boy closer. Wary, the vandal crouched nearer to the hero. In a flash, Claymore brought his fist straight into the other’s face, the nose breaking on impact. Screaming, he fell to the vehicle’s floor, yelling obscenities. Claymore said firmly, “I’m the only one who calls her bitch, dickhead.” He slammed the doors shut, leaving the wailing teen trapped inside.

  “Come on, get out of the way,” Medina shouted. Claymore whirled around as the Enforcer brought another one of the kids toward him. “Hope you didn’t rough the shithead up too much. Overseer will want to compare photos to the villains he knows are still running around.”

  “Damn it,” Claymore cursed. “I forgot to take his…” He trailed off as an idea flashed in his head. “Picture.” His attention snapped toward Medina just in time to see him roll his eyes. “If I were to make a photo of someone, would Overseer be able to tell me who it is?”

  “Make a photo?” Medina looked at him with a cocked eyebrow as he reopened the back of the wagon. “I suppose. Why?”

  “Just… wanted to see something.”

  The Enforcer continued to stare at him as he shoved the teenaged hoodlum into the wagon. He slammed the back door shut before leaning against the back of the vehicle. “Look, you’ve been acting weird since you killed Dervish.”

  “That’s the thing,” Claymore said, lowering his voice. “I just…”

  Medina waved him off. “Will you stop already? You were in the clear. Asshole had it…” A small, round hole punched itself into Medina’s skull, spattering Claymore with blood. The Enforcer wobbled a bit before collapsing to the ground.

  Gunfire erupted from behind him as Claymore fell downward, reaching toward his comrade. The glassy stare was all he needed to see; Officer Medina was gone for good. He felt a hand wrap around his arm, and Austin pulled him up and back as she lay down suppressing fire.

  “Enforcer down! Repeat, we have a hostile sniper in Sector Nine-A, requesting backup.” Austin’s shouts were controlled, articulate, and, Claymore noted with dismay, completely ineffectual. Whoever had fired just needed a single shot, and that’s all they took. Although the Enforcer must have seen the muzzle flash and directed fire toward it, the shooter was long gone.

&nb
sp; CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TEMPERANCE

  July 5th, 2011

  Morning

  COLONEL MORANT WALKED THROUGH THE HALLS of the Heroes’ Guild, the early morning sun sending streams of light through the windows in wide beams. The normally packed corridors muffled the sound of boots tromping on the tile, but today his footsteps echoed loudly. It was one of his few moments of solitude since Arbiter took office. Crime has been reduced drastically, but at what cost? The social order is completely, possibly irrevocably, disrupted. Families, hero and villain alike, have been torn apart. Reputations are destroyed, and for what? These aren’t the days of unmitigated villain attacks and rampant destruction. What purpose does such harsh action serve?

  Zealot was waiting for him when he reached Arbiter’s office. The armor-suited man offered a tight-lipped smile before rapping on the door. A muffled, “Enter,” bid him to open the door and usher Morant in. To the Colonel’s surprise, Zealot followed him, shutting the door behind them before taking position in front of it. The High Consul stood in front of his windows, contemplating the cityscape on the other side.

  “You sent for me, High Consul?”

  “Indeed I have.” Arbiter did not move from his position, but merely scanned the outside world.

  A pause prompted Morant to clear his throat. “I believe we have finally located two of the escaped villains.” Arbiter said nothing in response. “Weston Marsh and Spitfire, sir. With Marsh’s purported links to Talia Illyanovich, I believe we can ascertain…”

  “You are hereby relieved of duty.”

  The colonel didn’t let his surprise show. He swallowed and cocked his head, trying to focus on what just happened. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  Arbiter took this moment to turn around. His eye contact was fierce, less a courtesy and more an accusation. “As of oh-seven hundred, the Enforcers are hereby disbanded until further notice.”

  Morant started forward. “What?” Zealot’s hand snapped around the colonel’s arm and yanked him backward. “What are you doing?”

  “After the debacle at Fort Justice, I have come to the conclusion that the Enforcers are outdated and poorly ordered.” Arbiter moved toward Morant, his unwavering gaze focusing to pinpoints. “Due to negligence in training, an undetectable and impregnable institution was overrun.”

  “I have run the Enforcers for over twenty years without a single problem, and this is how you thank me?” The colonel shirked out of Zealot’s grip. “We both know I am not responsible for this travesty!”

  “Then who is accountable for those who died within those walls?” Arbiter folded his arms slowly, sneering the entire time. “Or the fact that we have been finding others dead in their own homes for days? Where are the mighty Enforcers to counteract this?”

  “My men fought tooth and nail for the atrocity that your dead friend left us,” Morant snapped. “You have the Enforcers stretched thin and countless heroes facing loyalty tests, weakening us all.” He couldn’t help but raise his voice. “And for what? Some imagined blood debt to Dante for a war which no one can ever seem to prove villains started?” He regretted the words the moment they came out.

  Arbiter’s face twisted, angrier than before. “A villain sympathizer. I should have known.” He shook his head. “I trusted you. And you tremble before our just cause. Why? Some vestigial attachment to these animals?”

  “Human beings, Arbiter.” Morant’s mouth had gone dry, his rage pulling all the moisture from it.

  Arbiter walked back toward his desk, ignoring the argument. “As of this morning, all registered heroes, including every member of the Enforcers, will receive a review whereupon it shall be determined whether they shall return to duty as a uniformed hero or not.” He sat in the chair. “Unless it is determined you have more…” he seemed to enjoy pretending to struggle for the word, “villainous intentions.”

  “You’re already on thin ice with the loyalty tests you’ve demanded,” the colonel growled threateningly. “Now every hero is subject to your definition of justice?”

  “I am the High Consul for life!” Arbiter roared. “I shall determine what needs to be done and to my specifications!”

  Morant took a deep breath to suppress his urge to enter a shouting match. “With all the Enforcers pulled off duty,” he began coolly, “just who will be maintaining your patrols?” It was a valid question. “There’s a lot of city to cover.”

  Arbiter smiled. “I have already contacted SERAPHIM to take over those duties.” Morant’s face dropped. “The commanders have already shown great interest in picking up where you left off in tracking down the fugitives.”

  “You… you brought in mercenaries?” The concept filled him with disgust.

  “Your fear is misplaced. They are not mercenaries.” Arbiter leaned forward, weaving his fingers into each other.

  “They are a heroic private military contractor,” Zealot said with a barely contained glee.

  “Thank you, Zealot,” Arbiter said patiently as his smile failed. “I needed people I could trust to run the Fort for the foreseeable future.”

  Colonel Morant shook with anger. “You said that the Fort was temporary until the conspiracy was routed out!” He took another step toward Arbiter. “You’re planning on keeping them there forever, aren’t you?”

  Arbiter’s lip twitched. “That is no longer your concern.”

  “What justice is this?” Morant asked. “Men, women, and children being held without trial–”

  Arbiter bolted upright, startling the colonel. “What do you know of justice?” Arbiter shouted as he smashed his hand into the desk. Save for the muffled sound of wood splintering, the room was silent. “That is more than enough.” Arbiter straightened, regaining the look of stoic dignity. “Your heroism in South Africa only buys you so much clout.” He gently lowered himself back into the chair and looked contemplatively toward the man he had just fired.

  “And my years of service buy me none,” Morant mused aloud. He felt Zealot’s hand on his shoulder. Jerking free, he spun in place and jammed a finger into the hero’s face. “Do not touch me.” Morant grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. He turned back to Arbiter. “Just remember, Arbiter, that the leaders of Apartheid thought they were heroes until the end.” He left, heading down the hall toward the exit.

  By stripping him of his position, Arbiter must have thought he eliminated him as a threat.

  It was time to show him just how wrong he was.

  The rumbling of his stomach was the first indication that Arthur was awake. It was also the first indication that he wanted nothing to do with waking up. Even though the floor was hard and unyielding in his bedroom, it was preferable to dealing with the dead New York City outside or the ransacked halls of the apartment building. Everything that hadn’t been nailed down, including the box with his mother’s jewelry, had been taken or destroyed. Just thinking about his and others’ mementoes being hocked on a street corner somewhere was enough to make him want to sleep forever.

  He cracked his eye open slightly, gauging the quality of the sun in an effort to determine what time it was. Orange light and long shadows almost provoked a groan of annoyance from him. Instead he rolled on his side and covered his head with the pillow.

  The bed creaked as Stair shifted above him. “Arthur?”

  “Hm?”

  “I think there’s someone in the kitchen.”

  Arthur bolted upright, looking at the closed door. He looked at Stair, who had her weary eyes locked just beyond him. “Did you hear something?” The clink of ceramic drew his attention. Slowly, Arthur rose to his full height and grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the near wall. He walked to the desk and took the sleeping Mollie off before shoving her under the bed. Once she was safely hidden, he crossed to the door, then quickly glanced back at Stair. He motioned her out of the bed. “We do this together.”

  She smirked a little, but quickly hid it again under a serious face. Scrambling off the b
ed, she quietly hit the floor and approached him. Arthur took three deep breaths, mentally checking off each one, and, on the third, whipped the door open.

  He exploded out of it with a roar, bat above his head and Stair screaming bloody murder behind him. There were no thugs to greet them, no platoon of heroes, not even a squad of regular beat cops. Instead, a strawberry blond woman in a trench coat peered over her newspaper from her position leaning against the island, red sunglasses catching the morning light. Underneath the coat, she was wearing the same outfit that he had seen her in before, only the tie was a deep red. She smiled sincerely and brought a mug up in a cheerful greeting. “Good morning to you, too.”

  Arthur wasn’t too pleased to see her, more so out of general misanthropy than anything else. “Agent Mast.”

  “Landed about an hour ago and missed breakfast.” Mast pushed herself off the island and gestured to a pair of boxes resting on the surface. “So I brought coffee and bagels.” Before Arthur could protest, Stair launched herself at the box of bagels and grabbed one in each hand. The agent smiled as the girl took a large, suffocating bite out of one before nearly collapsing on the floor in joy. “Easy there, kiddo.”

  “Thank you,” Stair managed after swallowing the first unwieldy chunk. “Haven’t had real food in days.” She proceeded to devour the remnants of one bagel before turning her ravenous attention toward the other.

  “You’re welcome.” Mast turned to Arthur and gestured again to the box of coffee. “Come on, Art. At least have some coffee. I even bought some nice ceramic mugs.” She held up hers, examining the tacky logo. “Do you ‘heart’ New York? I figured you might, but I’m kind of rethinking it.”

  He didn’t move, preferring to stare at her. “What are you doing here?”

  She set her mug down. “You read the paper?” Stepping forward, she brought the newspaper toward him, which he didn’t bother to look at.

  “They tend not to deliver to post-apocalyptic neighborhoods.”