Beat Boxer rocked her body to one side as the bald man’s swiping punch sailed by. She leaned away and put some more distance between them with a back handspring as he followed up with another wild swing. The trails of light following the path of her feet obscured his view. But Beat Boxer’s vision showed only glowing paths leading her movements. All she had to do was connect with the rhythm of her opponents and go with the flow.
The stringy-haired thug attempted a clumsy front kick. Beat Boxer turned to one side, slipped a hand under his extended foot and drew a horizontal circle of light with her arm, dropping him into an unintended split before continuing her spin to face Baldy again.
The tearing of jeans, or muscle, or both was drowned out by the stringy haired man’s howls of pain. The bald man reached out to grab her hoping to slow her down. Beat Boxer stepped on the shoulder of the man practicing the splits and flipped over the one trying to get a hold of her. Keeping her momentum, she moved in between the two frightened fanatics and shoved the closest one into the bald man’s way. The bodies collided in a tangled mass of limbs, lost in the glowing trails Beat Boxer continued weaving, as she danced around them.
Speetah bent over forward and exhaled, hissing through clenched teeth as the husky attacker’s fist sunk into her stomach. She shuffled a half step forward, driving her forehead into his nose. The man held his hands over his face and took a step backward. With a leap, Speetah thrust a knee into his solar plexus, dropping his hands and knocking the wind out of him long enough for her to spin, whipping her tail across his thick jaw. The wet pop told her the tail strike dislocated his jaw, and the screams told everyone else the same.
Black Paralysis watched the brawl long enough to know that Speetah and Beat Boxer could handle the numbers. He sprinted down the street to take on another pair of Brotherhood trouble makers. The couple, a man and woman, took turns smashing anything in their path and cheering as their aluminum baseball bats rang off of cars, mailboxes, and newspaper kiosks.
“Is this your honeymoon?” Black Paralysis kept his distance, but let the young man and woman know he was there. He watched their reaction making mental notes of which was the greater threat. The woman was more athletically built, with short hair. The man was taller but lacked the muscles of his partner. The problem was that both were armed, and both seemed physically capable of handling themselves one on one. Only this was two on one.
“No, but you could say we’re celebrating,” the woman said, resting the bat on her shoulder as she moved closer.
“You’re more than welcome to join us.” The man followed close behind, keeping both hands on the bat, ready for action.
“Baseball is not my game,” Black Paralysis said. He raised his hands up to shoulder level, walking back to match their pace, hoping to put out the vibe that he was scared. He stepped around a van and onto the sidewalk.
“Don’t leave so soon.” The woman put on an insincere pout and followed him, while the other man circled the other direction to cut off a possible escape route.
“I suppose I can stick around until the food arrives. I’d hate to be a rude party guest.” Black Paralysis was successful in maneuvering the pair into a position that made it too difficult for both of them to swing their bats without hitting each other. He moved in to strike before they realized they were at a disadvantage.
He took a quick step, bridging the gap with the woman, but she whipped the bat off of her shoulder in tight arc much faster than he expected. She had real skill, using the baseball bat as a weapon, and not just for batting practice. Black Paralysis skidded on the concrete as he leaned his body back. The tip of the bat made a deep whooshing sound as it passed by inches from his face. With one smooth motion, she grabbed the barrel of the bat with her other hand and thrust the knob at the end of the handle at his ribs.
Black Paralysis side stepped just far enough for the woman’s strike to miss. He grabbed the handle with his right hand and jammed his left thumb into the side of her neck. Wasting no time bringing his powers into the mix, he unleashed a pulse of his focused chi. Her head drooped to the side, as she lost her balance, slamming into the van. She released the bat to absorb the impact with her arms.
The other man looked at his partner, then back at the hero squaring up to face him. Black Paralysis held the bat in both hands, spaced apart like he was holding a samurai sword. “You ever watch any Kurosawa movies?” he brought the bat up high over his head. “I love Seven Samurai.”
The BoA fanatic wound up and swung the bat. Black Paralysis dropped his own bat, trying to absorb the blow. The rattling clang of aluminum on aluminum sent a wave of pain through his hands and his ears. His bat clattered on the ground, as the stinging in his fingers was too much to bear. His attacker saw the opening and attacked again. He swung from the same side, with the same speed and technique, allowing Black Paralysis to estimate the path of the weapon. He shuffled in pushing off hard with his rear leg to get as close as possible to his opponent.
Standing at the sweet spot of a baseball bat guaranteed a visit to the emergency room. Inside the swing, closer to the handle, was the sweet spot for the defender. Black Paralysis let the man’s arms whip into his body, wrapping one arm over the man’s hands, and grabbing the back of his neck with the other. Using the power of the man’s attack, he redirected the fanatic’s face into the side of the panel van next to them. With both arms clinging to the weapon, eyebrows, nose, teeth, and chin struck the metal body, in that order.
Black Paralysis looked down at the man writhing in pain, covering his bloodied face with his hands. “This would have been a good place to hit you with a one-liner. Like, That’s what I call Van Damage, or something.”
The scraping of a metal bat snagged his attention. Black Paralysis watched as the woman struggled to cover the distance. Her head leaned on her left shoulder as she dragged her weapon behind her. She brought it up with one arm, looking like a marionette with a few strings cut.
A pink glowing whip lashed around the barrel of the bat, plucking it from her grasp, complete with post-production whip-crack sound effects. The woman spun around, and Black Paralysis leaned to the side to get a view of who stood behind her.
It was a lion tamer. Or at least a young lady dressed as a lion tamer, complete with top hat, tailed tuxedo, and a glowing pink thin curly mustache. He couldn’t tell if the woman was tall, or if she just exuded an aura of height and intimidation. The BoA fanatic moved toward the newcomer but was stopped short by a massive 400 pound, glowing pink lion, roaring and baring fangs longer than Black Paralysis’ fingers. A single swipe of its massive paw sent the woman against a wall, unconscious.
The lion tamer wound her whip up and approached. When she reached Black Paralysis, he saw that she was about Beat Boxer’s height, but felt much taller further away.
She extended a hand “Hi, I’m Genevieve.” The glowing mustache danced across her lips as she spoke.
The last message Nolan received was from Abby, saying her corner was also clear. Minutes later chaos erupted. He could hear people screaming, chanting, and shouting, making it difficult to pinpoint the trouble.
“Nice phone.” A deep, gruff voice from behind caught his attention.
Nolan turned to face a group of three Brotherhood fanatics. Their faces were unshaven, covered in a week of growth. Soot and grime from nearby fires covered their skin and clothes.
“Uh, thanks,” Nolan said. “It’s still under contract, so I can’t get a new one yet.” He did his best to buy time to plan his escape.
“That’s fine. We’ll take good care of it until you get a new one.” The man with the gruff voice approached with his hand held out.
Nolan slid his foot to the side, feeling for the plastic gallon jug of water he kept nearby. He had already absorbed one jug when he reached the corner and wanted the other on hand for just this occasion. He stepped forward and motioned to place the phone in the man’s hand. Instead of dropping the phone, Nolan rushed the man, hitting him with a so
lid shoulder check. His body enhanced by the absorbed water, gave him enough mass and strength to push the lead man into his two cronies, knocking them back.
Nolan turned, snatched the jug of water, and ran around a nearby corner.
“Get him!”
He pocketed the phone and twisted the cap off of the jug. Leaning against the wall, Nolan poured the water into his mouth, swallowing what he could while letting the rest overflow, cascading down his shirt for his body to absorb.
By the time the jug was empty, the three goons had rounded the corner standing face to face with H2Grow. He stood an inch taller than he was seconds ago, and his shoulders had broadened. The change wasn’t as noticeable visually, but his increased strength and durability were much easier to verify.
The group’s informal leader sunk his shoulder deep into H2Grow’s torso, trying, but failing to tackle him. The next swung a makeshift club, striking him in the shoulder, sending a sharp pain through H2Grow’s body, followed by a dull throbbing ache. He wrapped his arms around the upper body of the man still trying to drag him down, and turned, using the attacker’s lower body to sweep his friends away. He released the gruff-voiced man after one full turn, sending him rolling across the side street.
H2Grow continued trading blows with the other two men, giving and receiving on equal terms. Once the leader got back to his feet, he knew it was only a matter of time before he would fall to the continued assault.
Even now, using his power to some degree, Nolan lacked the fighting experience and skill to take on multiple opponents. He dug deep and found a store of rage he could tap into long enough to drive a wedge between himself and his attackers. His wild swings didn’t land but accomplished the goal of pushing his foes away. H2Grow stepped back, still facing the enemy, and watching them match his retreat step for step keeping their distance fixed.
The man with the club shouted a quick war cry and ran in, winding up for a finishing blow. A dull wooden thock sounded out, as his now empty fist finished in its path. Dumbfounded, the man stared at his hand before opening his mouth to scream. He dropped to his knees letting out a long, high-pitched tone instead of the guttural shout Nolan expected. The tip of the fanatic’s pinky was missing, and blood trickled down his hand and forearm, speckling the asphalt.
“Yeah sorry, mate.” All eyes turned toward the new voice, a vigilante dressed in a sleek outfit that was equal part black woven mesh, and metallic green carbon fiber plates. “It’s kind of hard to hit a moving target.” He wore shooting glasses with one full mirrored lens, and he held a bow in his hand, the arrow nocked and drawn.
The two remaining fanatics, and H2Grow all faced him with their hands held up.
The archer addressed Nolan while keeping his bow trained on the other two. “You’re cool, man. I’m here to help you get away.”
“Thanks,” Nolan said, noticing how dry his voice sounded.
After a long pause, his rescuer continued. “Any time now, I can’t keep this thing drawn all day.”
“Oh, right.” Nolan ran down the street to safety.
“Why don’t you two stick around and make sure your buddy is alright,” The Archer said, lowering his aim. “I’d hate to put one through your leg. Well, I wouldn’t hate it. I’m quite sure I’d enjoy it.”
He took several steps back, released the tension and returned the arrow to the quiver before following Nolan.
“The task force isn’t here,” Boost said.
“I don’t think they planned on bringing them,” Patrick added. He pressed his lips together watching the officers on scene doing their best to deal with the now swelling numbers of Brotherhood of Armageddon members.
Weed approached and crouched on the sidewalk next to Patrick. “They’re drawing the cops away. I think something’s about to happen.”
“I’d say so.” Striker pointed to a group of nearby fanatics.
The group, dressed in BoA clothing, were picking up the abandoned cameras and microphones left by the reporters that fled to safety.
Patrick looked around and saw that Weed was right. Whoever threw the smoke bombs now seemed to be moving away, causing the police to thin their numbers to deal with more isolated incidents. He spotted two more men sliding two long canvas duffle bags up onto the front steps of city hall, while the others set up their stolen filming equipment.
“Guys,” Broadband said, “the hosts of the party have arrived.”
Before anyone could respond, towers of sparks and flame erupted from the two bags. Whistling, crackling, and popping filled the air, as two hulking brutes stepped off of the city hall roof. Even over the pyrotechnics, their impacts on the concrete could be heard and felt. The showers of sparks and explosions were at their peak when the two men stepped through.
Both men wore fitted black and gray pants made of a thick, durable fabric, and rough looking boots that came halfway up their shins. A title belt designed as a mockery of the World Wrestling Organization tag team titles adorned Warhead and Ground Zero’s waists. The belts were a patchwork of leather and scrap steel bolted together, covered with scrapes, dents, and grime.
Studded leather straps ending with a fingerless leather glove covered Warhead’s right arm. His left forearm had a thick tow strap wrapped from elbow to wrist. Muscle striations, scrapes, and scar tissue crisscrossed his exposed chest and stomach.
Military grade webbing straps covered both of Ground Zero’s arms, ending just below his deltoids. A dirty fabric wrapped his fists, like the hands of a back alley boxer. His body lacked the definition of his partner, but there was no doubt to the muscle tissue underneath his scarred flesh.
“That’s some entrance,” Striker said.
“Tell me about it,” Boost replied.
“Broadband, you need to get a hold of the others and let them know,” Patrick said, watching Warhead and Ground Zero descend the steps. “Armageddon is here.”
CHAPTER
10
Patrick looked at his teammates, then back at Warhead and Ground Zero. “We’re ready for this, right?”
“Hey man, I’ve always wanted to be a tag team champ,” Boost said. “I’m ready for anything.”
“Those guys are bigger than they look on TV,” Weed said.
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Manerpillar’s voice lacked the confidence in his statement. He spread his arms out, as his body was enveloped in a cocoon of silk webbing, taking on his super form.
Smashing his fists together in front of his enormous frame, Warhead flexed muscles seemingly made from steel cables, as he let loose a guttural roar, announcing their arrival. The sounds of chaos around them lowered in volume, as if on cue.
Warhead’s voice boomed with intimidation and authority. “The walkin’ weapons of mass destruction are here! Point yer stinkin’ gazes at the two baddest supers roaming this pathetic planet!” his eyes locked on the heroes standing before them. “We told you to bring the biggest, the toughest, and the best of yer bunch to face us. What are we lookin’ at, brother?”
Without missing a beat, Ground Zero shook the air with his answer, “All I see are little kids in costumes. This ain’t Trick or Treat! I don’t see no bombs. I don’t see no tanks. I don’t see no way you could ever beat Armageddon!” He slapped a giant hand on Warhead’s chest like they were tag-team speaking. Warhead stepped forward and pointed at the assembled heroes.
“You little boys and girls, in yer superhero pajamas, should go home now. Tell yer mommies and daddies that we understand why they didn’t want to come here and fight us. We’re the last two people I would ever wanna fight, too!” Warhead said.
The two villains began pacing back and forth, eyes fixed on the group. Their posture and movements made it clear that their agenda was ill-intent.
Broadband called the others. “I still can’t get in touch with the rest of the team. I think they’ve got their hands full with the Brotherhood goons running around the city.”
“Looks like this is a straight up
tag match,” Boost said. He grabbed Patrick’s arm by the wrist, held up his hand and “tagged” himself in.
“Boost, wait, I don’t think that’s—”
He turned away from Patrick and ran toward Ground Zero, the first of the villainous duo to reach the bottom of the steps.
Patrick turned to Striker, Manerpillar, and Weed. “Get these people out of here. You’ve got to help the police clear the area.”
“You got it,” Striker said.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Weed said, with a concerned look in her eye.
“We’ll just keep them busy until you guys get back.” Patrick was catching up with Boost, speaking over his shoulder and feigning confidence.
Boost and Patrick reached Armageddon, standing between villains and the crowds they hoped to protect. Patrick looked around at the Brotherhood fanatics surrounding them. Looks like there’s no way of keeping our blindspots clear.
“So when we beat you guys, we get the belts, right?” Boost pointed to the makeshift leather and steel accessories around the waists of Warhead and Ground Zero.
Warhead stepped in front of his tag team partner. He wore a half scowl, half smirk on his face. “If you two weasels beat us, it’ll be because you’re in a coma, dreamin’ about bein’ the real champs.”
Patrick stepped in. “We’re here, alright? That’s what you wanted, so let’s just discuss this, so no one else gets hurt. What is it that you guys are after?”
“What are we after? The only thing that matters. Beatin’ people up, and bein’ the best.”
Ground Zero put a hand on Warhead’s shoulder and stepped in front. “Let’s stop wasting time here, and get to the part where we plant you two shrubs into the concrete.”
Two Percent Power (Book 2): Spilled Milk Page 6