Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Who promised that?

  Arthur stopped, stomach clenching. He was having trouble remembering why he was running toward… something. He knew it was a she… right? A redhead, with green eyes, an accent…

  Don’t let her go, please don’t let her go…

  The image of… something… a person… became blurrier. His heart trembled. He knew, somewhere, instinctively, that he was forgetting someone monumentally important to him. And that it was his fault that his memory couldn’t… quite seem to… grasp whatever… it was… he…

  Arthur Lovelass shook his head for a moment, standing in the library. He looked back at the computer he was stationed at, the chairs around it askew. He didn’t think he had stood up quite so violently, but maybe his foot snagged on something. Or maybe he was just celebrating Mollie’s intrusion into the Guild computer.

  That was probably it.

  “Hey, buddy,” someone in the aisle to his right said. Arthur turned toward the sound, the man looking up at him with a degree of concern. “You alright?” Arthur felt his face flush for a moment as he became more aware of the weapons he held pinned to his chest. He shouldn’t be so conspicuous, even in a neutral library. He furrowed his brow. Why was he here, anyway? There was a perfectly fine internet connection in the Bunker. “Buddy?” The neutral’s eyes went to Arthur’s hands.

  Arthur cleared his throat, retraining the man’s gaze on his face. “I’m fine.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  Arthur was taken aback by the accusation, but brought his hand to his face. Sure enough, a tear, slowly making its way down his face, smeared onto his fingers. “It’s nothing,” he said distractedly.

  Colonel Morant stood in front of those Enforcers and Bestowed who had opted to appear at the theater. The word got out that he had a plan, and the call swirled through the hero community. The trustworthy elements had transmitted the thought like a virus, the meme of rebellion flowing through those of like minds. Arbiter had fostered enough loathing in his fellow heroes to warrant even those who had been the first to defend his actions to arrive and show their support for his overthrow.

  Morant had only expected a few hundred, but the seating in the auditorium was filled to capacity and filling further. Most were Enforcers, but numerous costumed heroes were talking amongst themselves. He checked his watch, waiting for the hand to bring itself to twenty hundred hours. When it did, he looked up and waved at his fellow Enforcer, Captain Lorentson, to come to him.

  She jogged up to his side. “Yes, sir?”

  “Numbers.”

  She nodded. “Seven hundred and fifty, sir.” She looked out over the assembled. “Not bad for avoiding social networking.”

  Morant cast a glance in her direction. “It would have been too risky.”

  “Agreed.” She took a step toward him. “Shall we begin?”

  He nodded, and she left the stage. “My fellow heroes,” Colonel Morant shouted, immediately quieting the murmur in the audience. “We have been stripped of our ability to determine our own future. The High Consul, a position which has been decided by popular rule, has been made into a permanent, despotic position by our own elected authority.” His gaze flitted over the assembled. “We have followed Arbiter into war. He has thanked us by not finding a promised conspiracy. By removing our right to call ourselves heroes. By disenfranchising and kidnapping citizens of the United States.”

  A small rumble broke out. “Man, fuck villains!” someone shouted.

  Morant’s eyes snapped to the source, silencing the uproar. “I know some of you are loath to fight in their name. No one was left unshaken by the attack on the Fort.” He paused. “But how much longer will you be considered a hero? Remember: none of us are now.” He let that fact sink in. “Every one of us is in limbo. Between villain and hero, waiting to be redefined by a man who determined that even the most loyal of us are to be subject to his definition of reality.

  “If you can stand by such insanity, then leave. Be the first to test your luck when he subjects you to a test where there can be only one right answer: fealty to the High Consul.” He inhaled deeply. “When he asks the lucky few to be the executioners of men, women, and children, you will envy the dead.”

  The auditorium was still silent. “I ask that you march against this madman at my side. We might not persuade him to stop, but we will show the world we were not content to stand by and allow this barbarism to continue.”

  “And what if he fights back?” someone shouted.

  Colonel Morant’s jaw shifted silently. “We will demonstrate on his doorstep, and we will remain content to draw the attention of our opponents.” He took a step forward. “Until they strike back.” He pointed to the audience. “Ours will not be the first blow, but by all that heroism stands for, ours will be the last. If they wish to start a fight, that’s their business.” He went back to his military-straight stance. “But ending it is ours.”

  The auditorium was silent for what seemed like an interminable moment. Captain Lorentson stood up, fist in the air. “I’m with you, Colonel Morant.”

  “Count me in, too,” came a gruff acceptance from a greying, heavy-set hero. “I’m too old to deal with shithead tyrants like Arbiter running things.”

  More Enforcers rose, their hands in fists. While some heroes quietly filed out, more were filing in, their hands in the air. Others were joining in, fists up in camaraderie. Soon, none were left seated, their calls of acquiescence rising above the previous commotion. Morant smiled widely and brought his fist up to join theirs.

  It was do or die, and Morant would be damned if he died.

  Stair sat on the curb, ignored by the world around her, as she cried. The backpack weighed down her lap, but didn’t make her feel any less like she was going to drift away at any moment. She wanted nothing more than to be alone, but her ability more than adequately made up for that. She sat, weeping in public, entirely unnoticed in a sea of humanity.

  For a moment, she felt rage well up inside of her, threatening to boil over. She wanted to grab hold of the nearest person and blink them out of history. Effectively end their lives. Remove all trace of their existence and influence. Leave them to wander in a world devoid of anyone who would recognize them.

  The thought terrified her. Not the act itself, but that she had wanted it, wanted to do it to someone, anyone. Watch as their entire family looked at them like strangers, make everything they had done, and would ever do, immaterial. Something so cruel… so merciless… the desire made her feel sadistic and unclean… the urge made her ashamed to be who she was.

  She balled herself up as tightly as possible, hoping to fade away entirely.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  STRENGTH

  Less Than Two Hours Until Midnight

  “I’M TELLING YOU, WE’RE MISSING A STUN BATON, body armor, one rifle, a damn grenade launcher, and a fucking gas mask,” Private Fuller said carefully as he spun around in his chair, back to the wall. Behind him, racks of equipment had been combed over for what had been a tortuous period of hours. In front of him, a laptop glared brightly in the dim room, clearly displaying the information he was trying to relay. “What exactly is the problem?”

  The line was quiet for just a moment, giving the SERAPHIM enough time to nudge the clipboard with a finger. “Every other Enforcer checkpoint in this city has their gear accounted for,” hissed Athena on the other end. “You have the only inconsistency.”

  “So?” he snapped, pushing himself away from the desk. “I have been at this for three hours…”

  “Eighteen minutes. I know, Fuller.” A pause marked his superior’s disapproval. “We all know.”

  “It’s not my fault these chucklefucks are disorganized.” The pause went on a little too long for the private’s liking. “Commander?”

  “Search that place top to bottom,” came the sudden response. “Again. If they have a fridge, look in it.”

  “For heroes’ sake…”

  “Fuller, if
you want a job in the morning, find the gear and get back here,” Athena growled.

  Fuller leaned forward on the chair and sniffed. “It could be they screwed up, you know.”

  “And it could be that you did. Out.” The earpiece went silent.

  In a moment of fury, Fuller whipped the device out of his ear and threw it at the table. “Bitch!” He rose to his feet, grabbing the clipboard as he went to the furthest rack. His eyes flitted over the wall-sockets for the stun-rods, not surprising him in the least when two out of the twenty were missing.

  Wait…

  Two?

  “Hey, asshole,” someone behind him shouted. He spun, dropping the clipboard and bringing up his hand, now sputtering with a brilliant phosphorescent light. He heard his attacker wail as their vision went temporarily white. It wasn’t enough to stop her from landing a blow with a pilfered stun-rod.

  The SERAPHIM hit the ground unceremoniously, heavy enough to make Ariana wince at the sound. The Enforcer who had taken him down was covering her eyes and hissing. “Shit, that’s an annoying parlor trick,” she managed, finally moving her hand from her eyes and blinking, shining black hair collapsing over her tanned shoulders.

  Another Enforcer, a short, mustachioed man with greying temples, shoved his way passed Ariana into the storeroom. “Move it, degen.”

  “Leave the kid alone, Rowsdower,” the woman said, casting a glance in their direction. Her eyes were bloodshot, but they seemed focused.

  “Fine, Berkeley. Have it your way,” Rowsdower grunted.

  Berkeley waved Ariana and the others behind her in. “Everyone take armor and a stun-rod. No firearms.”

  The man grunted as he strapped on his armor, making sure to eye up Ariana as she crossed to the nearest rack and pulled a vest off it. “There’s no need for them anyway.” Ariana imagined that it would be at this point he’d spit to punctuate his sentence if he was outside. “Arbiter’ll step down when he know he’s crossed the line.”

  “Because he’s been so rational thus far,” Ariana muttered.

  Berkeley tossed Rowsdower a weapon as others helped themselves. He caught the baton and clipped it to his belt. His eyes went back to Ariana, then floated beyond her. Ariana followed his gaze to Morgan. She immediately crossed to Ariana, the one person present she probably felt safest around at the moment. The man’s lip curled upwards in disgust as he jabbed a finger at them. “All I know is that if either of you had anything to do with Electronica’s…”

  “Does it look like they go hunting with a sniper rifle?” Berkeley snapped. She had two more weapons in hand, knocking into the man purposefully as she passed him.

  Rowsdower snorted in annoyance while securing his armor. “I just want my fucking job back.” His gaze fell to the floor as he tightened a strap. “Can’t afford to miss another child support payment.”

  Ariana finished clipping the armor into place when the woman offered her the baton. “You ever use one of these?”

  “I think I get the concept,” Ariana said, taking it and giving it a quick flick. The collapsible form snapped out and locked, currents of sparks dancing along its surface. Ariana examined it for a moment. “How do I get it to stop?”

  “Hit the button on the grip,” Morgan explained, showing Ariana where it was as she took her own gear. “You’ll have to push it down when the current is off.”

  “Don’t mess up the order,” Berkeley said, watching Ariana collapse the weapon back into its sheath. “It’s one fuck of a shock.” The woman reached up and clapped her hand on Ariana’s shoulder, making her realize just how tall she was in comparison to the Enforcer. Berkeley glided off to remind the others to only act in self-defense.

  “Hey,” Morgan whispered. Ariana turned to her. “I don’t think this is going to go over very well.”

  Ariana looked away. “Probably not.” Her eyes flitted up to her companion. “I’ve never been in a real fight before.” A smile forced her lips apart as she gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sober, anyway.”

  Morgan tightened her body armor, her tongue probing her molar as she contemplated something. “I had only sparred before this whole mess began. My only real fight ended with someone dying.” She swallowed and looked away. “Nothing really prepares you for it when you think you can actually die.”

  The villainess stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you.”

  The heroine cocked an eyebrow. “What for?”

  “Not telling me that everything was going to be alright.”

  The clear night illuminated the city streets around the Heroes’ Guild better than the petty streetlights ever could, two columns of white-suited mercenaries shifting from foot to foot and exchanging unheard banter. Each line of SERAPHIM was three people wide, the better to intimidate any who would question their authority. A crowd of plainclothes heroes had gathered, warily watching the sight of an almost motionless mass of humanity.

  Zealot stood by the fountain, his hands clasped behind his back as the wind fluttered his long tan coat. He had taken this watch, the longest of the evening, so he could potentially see the remnants of villainy make their way to have their freedom processed from their lives. Each moment brought the midnight deadline closer.

  It came as no surprise that no one had made an effort to save their families, their friends, their entire community. His lip curled up in a smile. Arbiter had always been right and, by his association with him, so had he. It was all so perfect.

  Movement down a street corner caught his eyes, a large shadow rolling along with the darkness of the night. Zealot’s hand went up to his ear, clicking the earpiece. “Do we have movement?”

  A pause as someone near the bottom of the steps disengaged from the column and moved toward the advancing shadow, the individual forms of human beings gradually becoming clearer. Zealot folded his arms at the sight, waiting for his subordinate to report. “Colonel Morant and the Enforcers, sir.”

  “Interesting,” Zealot growled. His arms dropped to his sides and he paced.

  “Shall I stop them?” the mercenary asked.

  Zealot chuckled. “Let’s see what the good colonel wants, shall we?” He sneered. “Return to your position. Seal off their retreat when they’re on the steps.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  Zealot watched their approach greedily, focusing on Morant as they reached the steps. His eyes flicked among the faces, some recognizable as Enforcers, others as costumed heroes. It was a colorful bunch, to be sure. As the rear guard advanced to the steps, the SERAPHIM moved to contain them. Heart palpitating with excitement, he fought the urge to dose himself with his narcotic, postponing the rush for what awaited.

  Colonel Morant drew closer, sending a shudder of ecstasy through Zealot’s body. “My dear colonel,” he began, voice slick with condescension. “What brings you to the Heroes’ Guild on the eve of villainy’s ultimate surrender?”

  The colonel stopped at his level, defiant. “We, the heroes of New York, desire to remove Arbiter as High Consul.” Zealot made a face and brought one hand to his mouth as the other supported his elbow. Morant continued, “His demand for loyalty tests and striking of hero status for the dedicated members of his constituency is counter to the republic he claims to represent.” He took a step forward. “And the use of the death ray is an affront to the humanity heroes protect.”

  Zealot chuckled. “Death ray? What death ray?” He pointed at Morant. “Do you mean the Freedom’s Sword? The last, great weapon in the fight against villainy?”

  “Call terrorism what you want,” snarled Morant. “Our position remains the same.”

  Somewhere in the distance, the thrum of helicopter blades echoed softly. “Terrorism? Would this be the terrorism that your elected officials, and by proxy everyone here, voted for? For that matter, Freedom’s Sword has only been used against the remnants of the Italian Mob, the ones responsible for the greatest loss of life at the Fort Justice.” The helicopter’s noise grew steadily louder, drawing the
scarred man’s attention.

  “Erich Constantine, if you do not deliver Arbiter to us, we will…”

  Zealot snapped forward, shouting, “You will what?” The helicopter’s drone grew loud enough to draw Zealot’s attention directly to the source. The aircraft shot over a rooftop to his right, swung about, and proceeded to move toward the Heroes’ Guild roof. “Dogs of the BVH?” Zealot asked. He swung about, laughing. “Do you truly think they’ll help you now?”

  “They represent the heroes…”

  “Heroes?” Zealot cut him off. “I see no heroes here.”

  Colonel Morant took a step back.

  The helicopter hovered in the air for a moment before disgorging six nylon ropes, three on each side, to one of the flat portions of the ventilation- and piping-scarred rooftop. Black armored agents leapt out, grasping the ropes tightly as they descended onto the surface of the Guild. Before they hit the ground, a black shadow leapt out of the helicopter and landed, smashing into the rooftop. Zombress stood upright as Mast touched down, followed by the five other members of the squad.

  “Morant has made contact,” Mast announced as she slung her automatic rifle from her back and brought it to bear. Two thigh holsters held her sidearms, spare magazines of ammunition nestled within them. “We need to secure Arbiter as quickly as possible.”

  “After you,” Zombress responded as the agents collectively nodded their heads in agreement.

  Before any of them moved toward the roof access, the helicopter gave a horrific squeal of metal rending apart. “Shit! Something’s wrong…” the pilot shouted over the headset. “I have to…” His voice was cut short as the fore-section of the vehicle crunched liked a giant’s hand had squeezed down on it, crushing it.