Two Percent Power (Book 2): Spilled Milk

by Brian Manning

  “Look out,” Ringmaster’s tone was casual and her movements smooth as she launched the remaining projectiles, one at a time, hitting the two Brotherhood members that Weed took down earlier.

  “After you,” She gave them a deep bow and extended her arm toward the door to the stairwell.

  Speetah took off, kicking up a spray of debris as she launched her body forward. Recurve had already peeled out on his motorcycle, peppering her with dust and pebbles and delaying her start. Within seconds she was already eating up the distance between her and the archer on the bike.

  “Beat Boxer got her team in. The Silo is on high alert now,” Broadband said.

  Speetah didn’t reply. She kept her jaw pulled shut, pulling in as much air through her nose as she could.

  “Sounds like we get to crash the party while it’s in full swing,” Recurve said. His motorcycle stood upright on its rear wheel, engine howling in delight.

  Traffic was light at dawn, and the sun was just starting to cast a red and orange glow between the buildings. Speetah tucked her chin, increased her breathing, and clawed harder at the street beneath her feet. As she passed Recurve’s motorcycle, she could see him glance over from her peripheral vision. His engine whined and growled as he poured on the speed.

  They were neck and neck by the time the Missile Silo came into view. I really hate this guy. What’s he trying to prove? She tried to stay focused on the task at hand. What am I trying to prove? She eased up as they approached. Recurve looked over his shoulder as he passed. He whipped his head back to the building, and then cranked on the brakes. The cycle shimmied and shuddered as he slowed. Recurve lost control and dumped the bike down on its side, kicking up a shower of sparks. He rolled to a stop just shy of slamming into a parked car, but his motorcycle caught the curb and flipped over smashing into the lobby window of the Missile Silo.

  Speetah reached Recurve and helped him to his feet. “You idiot! Are you ok?”

  He flipped up the visor grinning. “I got my bow.” He held up the recurve bow. He was able to pluck it off of the handlebars before spilling over.

  Speetah pointed to his quiver. Snapped arrows and shredded fletching littered the street. A single projectile remained where the others used to be before they took off.

  “Come on. We need to head that way,” Speetah said, pointing to the small side entrance.

  A group of BoA members streamed out of the broken window, hollering and screaming, thirsty for blood.

  “I’m right behind you.” Recurve pulled the last arrow, drew it back and fired it. The broad head tip snapped as it struck the blade of the knife one of the fanatics carried. They all cowered away, ducking for cover in case he unleashed another missile in their direction.

  “Either I’m slipping, or your guilt trip is making me lose my taste for vengeance.” Recurve dropped the bow and ran after Speetah.

  They reached the door and Speetah tugged at the handle.

  “Locked.” She looked at Recurve. “Let me have this for a second.” She pulled his helmet straight up off of his head.

  “Ow! I think my ears are still in there.”

  Recurve watched as the goons regained their nerve and ran in their direction again. He pulled a throwing spike from his belt and flung it with a sidearm throw. The spike twirled through the air in a long curved path. The heavy steel projectile intercepted the group, sinking into the lead man’s thigh. He toppled forward, screaming as his buddies tripped over him.

  “Still got it.” Recurve blew imaginary smoke away from his finger gun.

  Speetah smashed the glass door with the motorcycle helmet and used it to punch away some of the shards left in the frame. She dropped it and stepped through. Recurve looked down at the helmet pouted a little and followed.

  Striker watched as Recurve put his bike down hard on the street.

  “That idiot.” He turned to Battlelord. “Buckle up, this is going be a bumpy ride.”

  He shoved the stick shift into first gear, releasing the clutch as he eased the throttle. The car headed straight for the entrance to the underground parking garage. The rolling gate was still down, preventing anyone from going in or out. Striker let out a little whine as he shifted into second gear and stepped on the gas pedal. The Justice Mobile caught air as the sloping garage entryway dropped out from underneath them. The black muscle car hit the gate just as its front wheels slammed back down onto the asphalt. The gate sheared away, and a shower of sparks shot out from underneath the reinforced chassis.

  “It’s ok. I’ll make it up to you when we get home,” Striker said.

  “Are you talking to me?” Battlelord kept his eyes up front, holding onto the dashboard.

  “No.” Striker stomped the clutch and cranked the wheel hard to the left. He released the clutch, hit the gas, and drove deeper into the structure. The angry roar of his engine echoed around them.

  Two trucks, like the ones from each of the XGH warehouses, sat next to one of the elevators. The car skidded to a halt, drawing two arcing black rubber paths on the smooth concrete. Striker and Battlelord whipped their seatbelt off and hopped out of the car.

  As they ran for the elevators, Striker stopped. “Just a sec,” he said as he thumbed a key fob. The Justice Mobile chirped, letting him know the doors were locked.

  “Are you serious?”

  “This isn’t the best part of town,” Striker said. “I hear masks are running around right now.”

  Battlelord shook his head and emptied the XGH inhaler with one last breath before discarding the plastic disc. They stepped into the elevator and pressed a button for the tenth floor.

  The LCD counter showed an “L” when the elevator stopped and chimed, announcing their arrival to the lobby level.

  “I guess someone else needs a lift too,” Striker said.

  The door opened revealing a large group of angry and groggy Brotherhood of Armageddon soldiers. The first unlucky soul buckled as Striker’s short barrel shotgun thumped, hurling a beanbag into the man’s stomach. Battlelord caught him hard under the jaw with an uppercut, tossing him into the air into two others.

  “We’re taking the stairs,” Battlelord said as he rushed the group.

  Striker grabbed a nightstick in each hand and stepped out to join him.

  Battlelord hooked an arm around the waist of a man and woman in front, carrying them back as he plowed through the crowd. The bodies staggered back as he stood in the center, punching, stomping, and head butting anyone within range.

  Several attackers tried to single out Striker and found themselves on the wrong side of a cyclone of pain. He lashed out at any limbs dangling in the open. The cracking of his hardwood nightsticks meeting bone filled the lobby as he slammed his weapons into shins and wrists. Almost as soon as it started, the two heroes stood victorious over nearly a dozen foes.

  “Did they get you?” Striker asked.

  A trickle of blood dripped from Battlelord’s nose. “I guess so.” He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “How about you?”

  Striker gave him a thumbs up, still holding one of the night sticks. “That was fun right?”

  “Yeah, it was. Let’s go.” Battlelord moved to the sign designating the stairwell. As soon as they pushed the steel door open, they could hear footsteps echoing from several flights up.

  “Great I think there’s another welcoming party,” Striker said. A split second later, he could hear his own voice in his earpiece.

  “Is that you, Striker?” Beat Boxer asked.

  “Yeah, where are you?” He kept his voice low to prevent the annoying delayed digital echo.

  “Just passing floor five now. Want us to wait up?”

  “No, just keep moving. We’ll be right behind you.”

  The two groups rushed up the flights of stairs, heading for the XGH supply stash.

  “They’re inside now,” Manerpillar said. “Let’s move up.”

  He started the van and drove ahead several blocks until they could see the Mis
sile Silo. A plume of smoke poured out of the east side of the lobby where the front of Recurve’s motorcycle poked out. A group of fanatics was heading into the side entrance. One of them limped, struggling to keep up.

  The van popped up onto the curb, rolling along until they reached the short set of concrete steps leading to the front courtyard of the building. Manerpillar turned the van to point the side door toward the Missile Silo. H2Grow pulled the sliding door open and pulled the lids off of the five-gallon buckets they brought with them.

  Patrick stepped out the passenger side and crushed the empty half-pint milk carton, tossing it back into the van as he shut the door. H2Grow drained the first two buckets and moved on to the next two. His body filled out, adding mass and size. His suit conformed to his expanding shape, adjusting the width and length of his sleeves and pant legs.

  “I forgot how soothing this is,” H2Grow said. His voice warbled and gurgled as it passed through his liquid enhanced body.

  “Just be careful, ok?” Patrick patted him on the back, feeling the “flesh” underneath ripple out like an old-style waterbed bladder.

  “I’ll follow your lead this time. No more maverick stuff.”

  “Let’s let Armageddon know we’re here.” Manerpillar already assumed his battle form, the seven-foot tall caterpillar with Manny’s face and charming personality.

  He carried a small digital music player and attached it to the speakers mounted on the roof of the van. The speakers crackled as they tried to maintain the volume and intensity of the music Manerpillar played. It was all fast driving guitars, a deep pounding baseline, and some angry, growling, utterly undecipherable lyrics.

  “Is that...Battlelord’s entrance music?” Patrick had to lean in and yell his question.

  “Figured it would be fitting, considering the circumstances.”

  Patrick’s face lit up, and he felt the rush of excitement like he was still a kid watching a live WWO event in person.

  H2Grow stepped back from the van, edging out Manerpillar in height. Even through the smoothed out almost alien facial features, Nolan’s grin shone through as he nodded his head with the driving beat of the music.

  Patrick laughed and reached in to grab the two spare gallons of milk they brought with them. He turned to see a group of Brotherhood fanatics rushing out to greet them. Two of them were enhanced XGH super soldiers. Patrick bent his arms to hoist the plastic milk jugs up to chest height. The white liquid punctured both sides of each container, half wrapping around each of his forearms, and the other half extending beyond his fists.

  He rushed to meet the oncoming soldiers, with a battle-axe over one hand, and a war-hammer over the other. H2Grow and Manerpillar lacked speed and mobility in their respective battle-ready forms, but Patrick knew it would only take a moment for them to catch up once the fighting started.

  A big XGH fanatic with a shiny shaved head wound up, ready to swing. Patrick caught him off guard by launching the head of his war hammer, like a rocket, into the man’s muscular chest. His foe hit the ground hard, struggling to suck in a breath through his clenched teeth. The head of the hammer flew back, pulled by the shimmering chain attached to Patrick’s arm. It was enough to stop the rest of the opponents long enough for H2Grow and Manerpillar to take up positions by Patrick’s side.

  “Who’s next?” Patrick slapped his weapons together. They let out a strange chalky clack, like hitting two rocks together.

  “No one?” Manerpillar asked. “Looks like we’ll just start picking our volunteers from the crowd, then.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  The flashing lights and piercing klaxon jerked Sight from his sleep. His head spun and ached. He did his best to kill the sound with his hands pressed to his ears as he made his way from the penthouse suite to the adjacent office. The phone at his desk was flashing, showing that someone tried to reach him, leaving a message.

  He grabbed the handset and called the person monitoring communications. A frightened young woman answered and had to weather the barrage of angry commands he hurled at her. She did her best to keep up, giving him quick grunts of affirmation, ending with “yes, sir,” when he finished.

  “And kill the alarm.” He slammed the phone down and turned to go back to his room.

  By the time he pulled a robe on the shrill sirens had ceased. He tied the fabric belt around his waist, securing his garment, as a pair of Brotherhood soldiers entered. One held a stack of loosely collected sheets of paper, and the other held a mobile phone.

  “How did they get in the building?” Sight asked, not wanting to waste time with some inane back and forth.

  “It happened all at once. From all directions,” The man with the papers said.

  Sight looked up. “You mean those heroes are on the roof too?” He failed to contain his fear, but the fanatics were too nervous to notice.

  “No, they hit us from all four sides,” The other man said. “And from the underground parking lot.”

  “Where are Warhead and Ground Zero?”

  “They sent us to get you somewhere safe while they deal with the capes,” The phone man said.

  “Go fetch Tension.” Sight walked back to his room.

  “He’s with Armageddon, sir. They’re bringing him downstairs to fight.”

  “No.” Sight whirled around, his robe flaring out like a sinister cape. “Get him, and tell him I need him up here.” Sight’s voice started shaking. He angled his eyebrows down and put on the sternest look he could muster so that it would come off as more frustration than fear.

  “Yes, sir.” The man saluted with the hand holding the papers and they both turned to leave.

  As they passed through the still splintered door frame, Sight’s stomach dropped. There’s no way to keep those meddling heroes out here. His hands shook. Sight balled them up into small fists. He exhaled to relax and felt the shaking subside. He opened his hands and rubbed them together to get the blood flowing again.

  This is just a minor setback. There is no way that mischievous milk-slinger and his rabble rousers can get beyond the mountain of fury that is Armageddon. Sight’s smile returned.

  Warhead and Ground Zero were securing the various straps, buckles, and adornments of their battle outfits. XGH super soldiers, members of the Brotherhood of Armageddon, stood at attention. In front of them, Kill-O-What, Fear Mongrel, Hair Devil, Man-vil, Bull Dozer, and Pulverati stood, waiting for their orders.

  Warhead addressed the masks. “Split up and take some of these soldiers with you.” He pointed to the group in the back. “Grab some more bodies downstairs and take these chumps out.”

  “These worms crawled into our house, and now its time to squash ’em,” Ground Zero said. “Get a team to the west stairwell, the back entrance, and the east entrance.”

  “What about the group out front?” Hair Devil asked.

  Even this high up, the music from Manerpillar’s van rattled the windows.

  “We’ll greet those guests,” Warhead said.

  Kill-O-What stepped forward and broke the group up into teams. “Fear Mongrel, Hair Devil, you two grab some men and take the east entrance.”

  They nodded, singled out a few XGH super soldiers and headed out the door.

  “Man-vil, Bull Dozer, Pulverati, make sure you give the capes in the stairwell a warm welcome.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.” Man-vil clanged his iron fists together.

  “I’ll greet the heroes at the back door.” Kill-O-What recruited his team and ordered them to follow.

  The room cleared out, leaving Armageddon with the stacked boxes of XGH.

  Ground Zero peered out the window, judging the height. “How should we make our entrance? Big impact, or casual?”

  “Casual. Let’s let ’em stew while we head down.” Warhead grabbed his wrist and twisted it in his other hand to tighten the tape wrapped around it. He scooped up his unsanctioned title belt, settled it on his shoulder and walked through the exit.

  Ground Z
ero watched the scene down below for a few more seconds before following.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Boost’s fist slammed into the chest of a huge XGH fanatic. The big man brushed it off and wrapped his arms around the hero’s waist. Boost threaded his arms inside his opponent’s grip and clasped his hands behind the man’s back. He turned his body one full rotation and screamed, gritting his teeth as he released the BoA super soldier into a support pillar. The decorative marble tiles cracked and crumbled away.

  Black Paralysis ducked underneath the punch of another fanatic, this one of the normal off the shelf variety. He came up as the fist passed, throwing a tight hook, cracking his foe’s jaw. He could see Boost’s opponent pushing himself up off of the pillar. Black Paralysis shuffle-stepped to close the distance and threw a side kick, targeting the big beefy ribs. His foot planted hard, but the soldier turned his body and caught his foot. A meaty hand shot out and grabbed Black Paralysis by a handful of his jacket, while still maintaining a grip on his ankle. He rotated around and drove the hero into the pillar he had just slammed into earlier.

  The air shot out of Black Paralysis’ lungs, and he dropped to his hands and knees. He looked up to see the Boost stepping in with a solid left then right hand. The powerful punches were more than enough to dispatch the musclebound fanatic.

  Boost offered his hand. “You ok?”

  “I will be.” Black Paralysis got to his feet and pressed a hand against the small of his back. “I don’t know how much more we can handle, though.”

  “What are you talking about? These are just squash matches. The main event hasn’t started yet.”

  “You really are a nerd. You know that?”

  Boost smiled. “Thank you.”

  They moved through another hall, looking for the stairwell when a crackling and popping buzz stopped them in their tracks.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Black Paralysis asked. “Great.”

  Kill-O-What turned the corner, heading down the long hallway in their direction. With each step, his crackling electrical field grew wider, brighter, and louder.