Two Percent Power (Book 2): Spilled Milk

by Brian Manning

  “I know you guys didn’t spend your Saturday mornings sitting on the floor watching pro wrestling, but I did,” Boost said. “I’m not saying that Battlelord is the kind of guy we can trust, but I know Nathan is. When the cameras stopped rolling, he was always out helping others.”

  “That didn’t last, did it?” Speetah asked.

  “Can you blame him for being mad at the world, after what he’s been through?” Boost asked. “I’m just asking the rest of you to give him a chance. He’s in no shape to take on Armageddon by himself.”

  “What if he’s just using us to get his hands on the XGH?” Speetah asked.

  “What if he’s telling the truth, and helping us cut off the supply lines? That’s more probable. If he was still with the BoA, he could get his hands on the stuff anytime he wants.”

  Striker said, “I’m a sucker for a good redemption story.”

  Manerpillar nodded. “I believe him, too.”

  “Look, Crystal, none of us are saying just let him roam free,” Striker said. “We’ll keep him on a short leash, and make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

  “I can watch him,” Manerpillar said.

  Speetah looked at each of the heroes. “This could be the break we needed. Let’s run with the plan.” She crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Tilting her head back, she breathed in the chilly night air. I think I see why Patrick is so overwhelmed by this

  CHAPTER

  29

  Speetah, Boost, and Striker approached the warehouse. Manerpillar stayed in the van with Battlelord.

  “Are you sure it’s still here?” Speetah asked.

  “I don’t see any trucks parked out front, so it’s hard to tell,” Nathan said. “You’ll have to look inside to know for sure.”

  “Any preferred method of entry?” Striker asked.

  “Do we even have time to pretend we’re selling girl scout cookies?” Boost asked.

  “Direct approach,” Speetah said.

  Striker slipped a beanbag shell in his shotgun and snapped it shut. “That’s what I was hoping you would say.”

  They reached the metal door next to the large rolling entrance. Striker stepped up and slammed the weapon’s grip several times getting everyone’s attention.

  “How many people are in there?” Boost tried to get a look through the slim vertical wire reinforced glass in the door.

  “Enough to give us problems, but not enough to stop us,” Speetah said.

  A face appeared in the window as the deadbolt clacked open. The man’s eyes widened, realizing he unlocked the door before checking to see who was knocking. Boost grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, grunting from the effort. The BoA fanatic dug his heels in but still slid across the floor. As soon as the entrance was wide enough, Striker slipped by the man, followed by Speetah. Boost snagged the fanatic by his collar and yanked him off the door.

  His fist connected with the man’s face as the hollow pop of Striker’s shotgun rang out from inside. Everyone inside scattered, shouting warnings and orders. Brotherhood goons tossed boxes aside and picked up anything that could act as a suitable weapon.

  Speetah darted toward the nearest group, not letting them prepare for the fight she was bringing right to them. Striker shoved his firearm into his holster and pulled the polycarbonate bokken from its scabbard. Boost grabbed the nearest opponent, belted out a loud grunting battle cry as he hoisted the flailing man overhead, and tossed him at a pair of fanatics.

  Speetah alternated blows between four different opponents, using her speed and strength to drive a wedge between each member of the group, keeping them separated. Her vicious strikes rained down, dropping each one with elbows, hooks, and solid kicks to the body.

  Striker cracked his weapon off of anything in the path of his swings. He parried repeated attacks and slammed the edge of his replica katana on forearms, hands, wrists, and skulls. A whirlwind of confusion and contusions.

  Boost barreled into another group, absorbing everything they threw at him, and lashed out with wide haymakers of his own. He cackled in delight, trying to intimidate his opponents. Several were unfortunate victims of professional wrestling moves too dangerous for Boost to use against his friends on the playground. Inspired by his newfound belief in Battlelord, back on the right side, he drew from his childhood hero’s arsenal of techniques.

  “They’re opening the main doors!” Manerpillar shouted.

  “Bro, you don’t have to yell,” Boost plucked his earpiece out.

  Two trucks roared to life, as the steel rolling entrance rattled up. One of the trucks took the lead and sped off. The door clanged against the panel truck as it rolled underneath before there was enough room to make it through.

  “Manny, you have to get in the way,” Speetah said.

  She turned to run, but two fanatics held her back. One wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet, and the other grabbed the tail on the back of her head, pulling her to the ground.

  “The other truck is taking off too,” Striker said.

  “I’ll take that one,” Boost said, running for the entrance.

  He reached the driveway as the truck rumbled forward. It lurched as the driver struggled to shift gears. Boost dropped his shoulder and planted it into the grill before the vehicle could build up speed. He hooked his fingers under the front bumper, planted his feet flat, and straightened his legs and back. His agonized shouts competed with the revving engine. The front wheels scraped rubber streaks on the concrete floor before they were lifted completely off the ground. Boost repositioned his hands to get his elbows underneath the bumper, bracing it with his palms and chest.

  The veins on his face and neck bulged as he screamed, equal parts pain and anger. The truck tipped to one side, as Boost turned his body to his left, driving with his right arm and leg. The occupants scrambled around the cab, unsure which way to position themselves. The passenger window shattered, and spiderwebs climbed the front windshield as the panel truck slammed into its side.

  “Whoa,” Striker said.

  He and Speetah stood over the unconscious bodies of the two fanatics that tried to hold her back.

  “That was amazing,” Speetah said.

  Boost wiped his hands together, getting the dust and grease off of his palms, only succeeding in rubbing it in deeper. His face showed a well-deserved smug look of self-satisfaction.

  “I lost them,” Manerpillar said. “I wasn’t able to block their path.”

  “Which way are they headed?” Speetah asked. I’ll stop them.

  “Maybe that’s not the best idea,” Boost said, pointing to another dozen fanatics rushing them with all manner of improvised weapons in hand.

  Recurve leaned hard into the turn. H2Grow squeezed his arms tighter around his waist, fearing the idea of falling off and becoming a red smear at high speed. Recurve tapped his toe up on the clutch, shifting gears before opening up the throttle.

  “Which way did you say they were headed?” he asked.

  Broadband answered over the comms “If you stay on your present course, you’ll intercept them in the next mile.”

  Recurve smiled under his helmet, leaned forward, and plotted his course through the upcoming traffic. H2Grow’s grip tightened even more.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Beat Boxer said.

  She and Ringmaster were nearby, taking the rooftop route to cut the truck off.

  Recurve cut a swath between cars, splitting the lanes. He reached the intersection just as the truck sped through. He released the throttle and bled off speed. Weaving back to the outer lane, he made the right turn. It was harder for him to corner with a passenger, and he didn’t want to dump Nolan off the bike. By the time they rounded the bend, the truck was already nearing the next block. Recurve opened up the throttle, blasted through the bicycle lane and kept his eye on the speeding truck.

  The driver made a left, but Recurve was unable to make it through the traffic, so he skidded the bike to a stop, d
ropped the kickstand and pulled his bow off of the front mount on his handlebars. He snatched an arrow from the quiver and took aim at the driver side front tire. His view was obstructed by a car turning left. Without any hesitation, Recurve shifted his aim and raised it to account for the new distance. The arrow took flight as the string twanged off of his wooden bow.

  Recurve focused all his concentration bending the projectile’s flight path. He was able to guide it far enough before pulling its arc to the right. The broadhead point slammed into the hard rubber, tearing a wide gouge, and shredding the tire. The truck swerved, losing control. Recurve swiped the kickstand up again and took off. “Hang on, kid.”

  Nolan resumed his death grip as the bike coughed up plumes of smoke from the burnt rubber. By the time Recurve was back in pursuit, the driver had regained control of the truck but wasn’t able to build up any more speed. When they were within several car lengths, a flash of pink light whipped into the rear passenger tire, bursting it like a cheap balloon. The truck kicked up sparks as it slid to a halt.

  Ringmaster and Beat Boxer dropped to the street level.

  “That still counts as my capture,” recurve yelled.

  Nolan stepped off the motorcycle, wobbling on his feet before running to the sidewalk and clutching a garbage can.

  The driver and passenger side doors opened, and both fanatics stepped out, hands raised in surrender.

  “We give up.” The driver was staring at Recurve’s arrow, pointed at his chest.

  The passenger, a woman, turned and put both hands on the side of the truck.

  “We’re not the cops,” Beat Boxer said. “I’m not going to frisk you.”

  “Open the back,” Recurve said.

  “Alright, just don’t shoot me.” The driver’s voice cracked.

  He moved to the back of the truck, hands still in the air. Recurve eased the tension on the string and nodded to the latch. The man reached down, turned the handle and shoved the door up. The boxes in the back were scattered around, piled on top of each other. Nothing remained stacked like when they left the warehouse. Recurve noticed some movement from under the pile.

  He drew the arrow. “Step back,” he yelled to the driver. “Whoever is in there, come out with your hands up.”

  The boxes burst forth as a beefed up XGH enhanced fanatic dropped to the street. Recurve released the arrow, watching as the tip buried itself into the wild man’s shoulder. He rushed Recurve, slamming him back into a car that the occupants abandoned when the truck stopped.

  The Brotherhood super solider’s flesh was a bright red, almost glowing. Drool streamed from his lips as he pressed his hands around Recurve’s neck. He was hot. Too hot for an ordinary healthy human. The carbon fiber shaft embedded in his muscle did little to slow him down.

  Blackness closed in around Recurve’s vision. He got his feet up to his attacker’s chest and shoved him away before the wild man could choke him unconscious. The kick only gave him a couple of feet of space, but his neck was free. Recurve reached down to his belt and pulled one of the throwing spikes, ready to plunge it into the XGH crazed fanatic.

  A fist crossed Recurve’s vision as the red man’s head snapped to the side. He staggered away as H2Grow stepped into view. Recurve kept his vision fixed straight ahead as H2Grow turned back and ran away, The muscular thug gave chase. With a groan, Recurve turned to his side to get a good view, in case he had to throw the steel spike.

  Red streaks flashed between H2Grow and the XGH super soldier. Beat Boxer stepped in and unleashed a series of spinning kicks and punches, driving the man backward. He lashed out, clipping Beat Boxer with a desperate punch. It disrupted her flow, as she staggered then regained her footing.

  Before the fanatic could continue his attack, a massive glowing pink lion pounced and drove him to the street on his back. The telekinetic manifestation roared, the sight and sound telepathically projected into all of their minds. The hallucinatory beast presented a gaping maw big enough to swallow the man’s head. Ringmaster stepped up, dressed as a lion tamer, and placed a hand on the lion’s shoulder, giving it a couple of pats.

  Recurve slid off the hood of the car and stumbled over. He could see the driver and passenger secured with flex cuffs, tied to the bumper of the truck.

  “Great job, Nolan,” he said. “You saved my skin back there.”

  “Thanks.”

  H2Grow wasn’t much bigger than his usual build but remembered to drink a gallon of water before they headed out. Recurve didn’t bring up how he ran away after landing the sucker punch, knowing how tough the super soldiers were. It took real guts for the young hero to step in with only the slight enhancement in his size and strength.

  Recurve pulled his helmet off and twisted his head side to side, feeling the soreness in his neck. “I’m going to need a chiropractor after this.” He snapped his bow back onto the handlebars of his bike and fiddled with his earpiece.

  “The truck is down.”

  Battlelord and Manerpillar stepped out of the van parked in front of the overturned truck. Battlelord struggled to step down, leaning heavily on the door. Manerpillar helped him over to a stack of boxes to sit. The fanatics inside were all rounded up. The heroes gathered anyone still conscious in the center, securing their hands behind their backs. They strapped the sleepers to the warehouse’s support beams, using heavy-duty webbing straps and flex cuffs.

  One of the fanatics looked over at Battlelord, scrunching her face up in anger. “Traitor.” She spat on the floor at his feet.

  Speetah drove her fist into the woman’s face, flush on the mouth. She collapsed, landing hard on the floor. A trickle of blood came down her chin and dripped on her shirt.

  “I’m sorry, what was that you said?” Speetah crouched and leaned in.

  The BoA foot soldier looked up, eyes smoldering with hate. Speetah tucked a finger behind her ear and bent it forward.

  “Nothing else to say? Ok, so now that we got that out of our systems, let’s talk.”

  “You guys are gonna play ball,” Striker said. He paced back and forth, twirling a nightstick in each hand. “We’re going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to give us some answers.”

  Boost kicked a few more boxes out of the open area, collecting them all in one corner of the warehouse. Manerpillar joined him, picking up the smaller containers that spilled out during the action.

  “There are a lot of XGH inhalers here,” Boost said.

  “I can’t imagine how much they were planning on putting out on the streets. Two full trucks were ready to deliver their shipments, and all of these boxes are still here.” Manerpillar turned a cracked plastic inhaler over in his hands.

  Striker belted another fanatic in the bread basket with the end of his baton. “You guys still think this is a joke.” He waved one of the nightsticks at the group. “You’ve only got two choices here, our way, or the highway.”

  “My way,” Boost called over to him.

  “What?”

  Boost approached. “It’s not our way, it’s my way. That rhymes with highway.”

  “Do you ever shut it off?” Striker let a little too much venom bleed into his voice.

  Boost raised his hands and backed away.

  During the whole interrogation, Speetah watched each member gathered in the group. She singled out one or two in her mind. Weaker members that they could break. A younger, thinner man tried to squirm behind the others every time Striker passed by. Without saying anything she walked up and grabbed him with a rough grip around his upper arm and pulled him out of the group. His eyes lit up, and he scrambled to get away.

  She was taller and stronger than the man by a good margin and had no trouble dragging him away from the others.

  “You and I are going to talk in private,” she said, not even looking in his direction.

  “You better not squeal, little pig,” one of the other fanatics called out.

  “Yeah, snitches get—”

  His mouth was glued sh
ut by a blob of Manerpillar’s silk.

  “Thank you for that,” Striker said. He walked up and thrust a knee into the stomach of the first one to yell out. “The rest of you shut up, while my friend over there has a nice little talk with your buddy.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Patrick stood on a rooftop looking down to the street below. “Is this the right way?”

  “It should be reaching you any second now,” Broadband said.

  “I see it.”

  The truck went with the flow of traffic, not drawing any attention its way. Patrick finished drinking the rest of the milk from the small cardboard carton and crushed it, dropping it next to the other half pint container. He picked up the extra gallon he brought along. Patrick whipped the jug into the air and leaped off the edge. He could feel each droplet of the liquid in front of him. He willed the liquid to burst free of its plastic container, forming a white rope whipping through the air. With his mind, Patrick “grasped” the milk and hooked one end over the streetlight above the traffic, and enveloping his arm, from hand to shoulder, with the other end.

  A surge of cold passed through his body. It was soothing and gave him a sense of calm even as the asphalt rushed up to meet him. His feet made contact with the ground, and he ran a few steps to drain the rest of the momentum. The truck approached as Patrick gathered the milk into a large spiked ball on the end of his fist. Inside the milky white mass, he pulled the tab from his glove and swung his arm out in a wide arc.

  The spiked ball swung out, connected to Patrick’s arm by the thick white cable spooling out from his bracelet to control the distance. On impact, the solidified milk morning star split and peeled the truck’s tire away, and for an instant, bucked the vehicle up onto two wheels. The blow rocked the vehicle causing the driver to lose control.

  Patrick pulled the milk back around his forearm and hand and approached the truck. There was no one in the passenger seat, so he formed a large three taloned claw and punched the top two through the glass as the third pierced the metal door. With his mind and some torque from his hips, the door pulled free. Wow, I didn’t think it would be that easy.