by Ben Bequer
Now it all made sense. Apogee was going to marry him. The Senator would have spoken to her, tried to console her, and talk her into leaving me to rot. He was almost her father-in-law, and she would have listened. She might’ve been swayed by the man, convinced that she was suffering some sort of Stockholm syndrome, and reminded of her responsibility to his dead son.
I also remembered something Apogee had told me. “They wanted me to kill you.” I inferred that to mean Braxton from the NAS, but now I knew whom she was referring to. Senator Asshole, who no doubt had a hand in picking the team to come after us, sent his almost daughter-in-law at me, frothing at the mouth, for the kill.
“Crazy, huh,” Brutal said, savoring his ice cream and enjoying his reveal almost as much. “See, they had me in a special prison. My powers are unique, so they couldn’t just toss me in general population, with all the other crazies. Imagine what would have happened with me and a thousand other madmen.”
“In a way, I’m glad I missed out on Utopia,” he said. “You know they actually built that place for me? But once it was set, they were too afraid to move me. I was safe and sound in my little South Pole prison.”
“The South Pole?”
He laughed, “It’s as remote as it gets. No one out there for me to – you know – play with. The facility was isolated, run by robots, and they kept me busy. Like you, in Utopia. Except their idea was to overload me, strapped to a machine and tied to thousands of inputs at once. Seeing, feeling…all the senses, all at once, like a thousand ants burrowing into your brain.”
Brutal paused, enjoying my grimace.
“I’m sure Senator Asshole had a hand in the design…he’s pretty clever. Clever enough to avoid me these days, I can’t find him anywhere, but don’t worry, my friend, he’s going to get what’s coming to him soon.”
“He heard you were out and hid,” I said.
He nodded, wide-eyed and menacing. “He can’t hide out forever. Not from me.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I said as the waiter returned with my plate, which featured four large scallops, seared and layered with an apricot butter sauce reduction, and a small pile of tiny potatoes and carrots. Enough food for a small child.
I didn’t have to look up to see our exchange wasn’t fun for him any longer.
“You haven’t even heard my offer,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
I ate without much care for manners, but I didn’t make a total pig of myself – except when I smiled at him through a mouthful of the scallops.
“I don’t like being brushed aside, Blackjack.”
In two bites, the whole plate was empty.
“I have my own fish to fry, buddy,” I said, wiping my mouth and taking a long swig of the water. “I don’t have time for you.”
As I stood, he shot up.
“I would be careful, if I were you,” he shouted, calling us to the attention of everyone in the restaurant.
I leaned right into his face.
“Go play your games with the Senator,” I shot back. “It’s none of my business. I don’t give two fucks about the guy.”
“You should,” he said. “He’s the man that ruined your-“
I heard a knock, deep in the table’s cheap wood, and I knew it was an arrow. I could discern an arrow’s impact from pretty much any sound in all of creation. It sat at an angle almost exactly between Brutal and I. The arrowhead was one of my designs, and I had second to recognize it before it exploded.
It was the Nuke.
* * * *
I had only begun to feel the heat from the billowing flames, to see the blinding flash of the forthcoming explosion, when the compression wave hurled me like a kite in a tornado. Engulfed in the massive explosion, I threw my arms up in a futile gesture to shield my face as momentum sent me tearing through several doomed buildings, plowing through brick and concrete until I broke into open air, a flaming missile streaking across the sky.
My parabolic arc sent me crashing into another building, careening through a wall into one of the higher floors, gravity and friction not enough to stall me as I blasted through the floor with enough force to splinter the wooden frame and came to rest on the ground floor. I tried getting up, but the office building gave a great heave as an alarm rung, the foundations grinding from the impact and giving way.
“Oh fuck,” I said, as tiles crashed around me, the roof slanting laterally and sloping onto me.
I raised my arms for cover, again in vain, as the entire building collapsed. Tons of material pinned me, and I barely had time to register the floor buckling as I realized I wasn’t on the bottom floor. With a crack that resonated in my bones, the floor opened into a vast chasm, and I was just another piece of rubble falling through it.
The sound was horrible, a thrumming that shook the ground as the dead building swallowed me, then covered me in tons of rubble. The grinding continued long after I came to rest, and I could only think that other buildings on the block had suffered a similar fate. The flames on my clothing and hair had gone out, and I figured I was bald and eyebrow-less again. That was part of the fun of being Blackjack. But a sort of paralysis had taken me, a numbness that was slowly subsiding, replaced by aching pain all over.
At least I had answered a question that had always bugged me: I could take the nuke. I had designed it with so much explosive that I was never sure I could shoot it far enough to clear of the blast. I had only ever used it as the last ditch effort to stop a tortured man from destroying the Earth. Now it had been used against me, those poor souls in Hotel Sofitel, and who knows how many more.
Above me there was a light scratching, even as more and more material crumpled onto the pile, as if someone was trying to dig me out. Maybe Brutal was trying to help me, though I had no way of knowing if he had survived. Hell, the whole thing might’ve been his idea. He might’ve been working with Haha the whole time, and what better way to draw me out of my little hole in the ass-end of the world than to threaten my family? Being the naïve idiot I am, I walked right into the trap.
I was still numb which was bad. It might be the nascent moments of shock, a reaction to the overwhelming trauma. My cells would slowly start dying as my body shunted blood to my vital organs. With my enhanced stamina, I had a few minutes, maybe. Taking stock, I didn’t think I had been impaled, which was a wonder, but the trade-off was being sandwiched between two huge, flat surfaces.
I was in a terrible position; my legs splayed out to the sides and dangling. I felt a burst of empathy for the Wicked Witch of the East, and barked a laugh, inhaling all sorts of toxic silt that sent me into a fit of coughing. The scratching above me became more persistent, so I steadied my breathing, inhaling through my nose, exhaling through my mouth and tried to move my arms. Here I had gotten luckier, in my attempts to shield against the rubble; my arms had ended up tucked beneath me at forgiving angles.
I was lacking leverage, but raw strength was enough to create some space to move. The real trick was not shattering the fragments I lay upon. That would cause another collapse that would likely finish me. I tested my legs and found them whole and free, but dangling, my toes scraping a ledge no more than a foot below. That was bad. I was already weakened and battered, and I didn’t think I had enough strength to move the mass on top of me with upper body strength alone.
Tensing my legs, I did a push up, a stream of light breaking into the newly opened space, motes of dust and ground concrete illuminated in the dark space. I felt weight settle on my legs, heavier than what was above me, but I looked between my legs and saw enough space to wedge them beneath me. I was tempted to lower myself, but was afraid of dislodging more rubble, so I locked my elbows and started working my legs.
I started with my right, which felt less encumbered, though something had snagged the boot’s tough leather. I rolled it out, feeling a tear as I moved it laterally, trying to figure out if the space widened. My plan was to find a larger crease to slip the leg through and get a kne
e under me. My tendons creaked as the leg reached the point of maximum extension, but I thought my plan had a chance.
Bending at the knee, I brought the leg in, arching my back to make some more space. The pile lifted, and I tried to quickly snake my leg underneath me when I heard a crack from above, and felt more rubble crash onto the pile. The impact knocked my hands from under me, and I barely got my elbows underneath me, and ended up in a planking position, weight on my elbows, back straight. The plank position immediately put immense stress on my core, the muscles there swelling as they tensed with the effort, which amounted to keeping roughly a foot of space between my face and the surface beneath me.
Worse still, I felt weight pressing against my ankle, and when I wiggled it, there was no give. I tried pulling the foot through and accomplished little more than shifting the detritus collected above me. My breathing was coming in hurried gasps, and I felt my throat spasm as I coughed up a syrupy string of gray black ichor. Letting it dribble out of my mouth, I opened my clenched fists, and lay them flat again and pushed.
Nothing happened at first, the quivering of my muscles the only sign that I was exerting any force at all. I tried to pull my foot through and it also did not move. Sweat dripped from every pore, pooling with the silty spit, and that pain started radiating outward from my hips again, except this time I wasn’t trying to stroll through a train station. Razors sheared at muscle, tendon, and ligament with equal fervor, and I felt my palms start to slide against the rough surface below.
I could hear my heart beating in my ear, and I counted off a dozen ticks. Still no movement, and what’s more, I could hear more debris crumbling from above, waiting for its chance to increase my burden.
Stupid! How could I be so stupid? Facebook. What the fuck was I thinking? I basically sent Haha a text with my location. It was the same thing, over and over. I got arrogant, and then I got sloppy. I sure as shit showed that old gangster who was boss, though. He was probably laughing at me from hell, cleaning off the seat next to him for my impending arrival.
More weight shifted above, but it sounded like rubble was being cleared. I didn’t hear any voices, but the movement sounded closer. I couldn’t hold this position forever, but they would hit a point where they would have to stop and bring in the heavy equipment to continue. I would be long dead by then, from asphyxiation, if nothing else.
No. Fuck no. I was not going to die like this. Haha would not beat me. Bearing down, I heaved, bucking at the crushing weight. I heard a crack from below, but my relative flooring held as the weight above shifted again.
“Come on,” I said through a groan, the pain still trying its best to deflate me. I yanked my foot through the crease, and felt something crackle and pop as it edged through. My thigh lay flat at an odd angle, but I was able to wiggle my toes with minimal pain, and using the space I already created, squeezed it under me, the knee and thigh both creaking as they stretched past their safe capacity.
Pain and relief mingled as I was able to balance some of the weight onto my leg and hip. That small pivot was enough to extend my arms all the way, and return to my initial push up pose. With my knee under me, I was able to arch my back further, the weight above sliding as I attempted to get my other foot under me. Turning the ankle, I tried to wiggle it through the space, but the edges of my huge boot held it prisoner. My groan matured to a scream of rage as I lifted higher, the awkward angle costing me power. I felt some of the load slide backwards, a loose piece striking my foot with enough force to render it numb. I ignored the blooming pain, filing it away with the mind rending agony still emanating across my hips and back, and feeling a little give, forced my foot through, the seams tearing around the sole of my boot.
Finally afforded a chance to use my strength to its full potential, I used my legs and back to hold the section of wall as I brought my arms up and dug my fingers into the concrete that it was composed of. I heard more rubble coming loose from above and powered to a standing position, the concrete giving way to my left and right, broken wings of the stuff snapping off and spilling tons of rubble around me.
What remained was shaped like an uneven diving board, and was much easier to manage, providing me with some shielding against the rubble that came crashing down from above. I looked past it and saw sunlight pouring from a hole the size of a basketball. Between my efforts and whoever was helping me out there, a decent sized cavity had been hollowed out. Using my remaining strength, I lay the plank against the inside wall the basement I had fallen into and digging handholds along its length, climbed toward the sun.
The hole widened again, gloved hands pulling away more rubble, and I whooped in joy. The makeshift ramp shuddered under my weight, suffering from its own trauma, and with about ten feet to spare, I tensed, my finger indented deeply into the sturdy concrete, and then jumped. I cleared the ten feet easy as the concrete split in two, falling to join the remainder of the crap below.
I punched through the hole, tumbling to the ground in a roll, coming to rest in a tangle of limbs. The sun burned bright above me; the air was tinged with the powdered concrete and ash, but still tasted sweet. I got to my knees, trying to stand when I saw an outstretched hand. I took it without looking, my eyes still adjusting to the lack of darkness. I was about to voice my thanks when I looked up and saw it was Blackjack 2.0
Chapter Thirteen
“You,” I said, but he was readying a furious haymaker, intent on taking my head off.
I pulled him towards me hard, making him swinging wide and managed to sidestep the blow without much grace. My muscles were dough, but I managed to dig my boot against a fallen beam and loop a fist that caught him flush in the face. He flew away from me, through a partially collapsed structure nearby and was lost from sight.
I fired my rocket boots and pursued, hoping the torn sole would hold, and watched him storm through the pile of rubble. I finally got a good look at him and I saw it was me. Or rather, a version of me while I had been one of the Impossibles. He was wearing my old costume, with the face cover and goggles. This was the first suit I had ever worn, before we found the costume-making machine on Dr. Retcon’s Rocket Flyer. It was a simple tactical rig designed for minimum fuss, head-to-toe black, with a chest harness loaded to bear with gadgets.
I landed next to him, and grabbing a handful of his tactical rig in one hand, lifted him.
“Who are you,” I demanded, but his attention was fixed over my shoulder.
I felt it before I saw it, like a thousand tiny pinpricks assaulting me. Still holding Blackjack 2.0, I turned my head and saw a green-white glow peaking. It started as a candle in the dark, flaring brighter until it eclipsed the early afternoon sun, encompassing the whole city as it radiated from its flashpoint in a huge, perfect sphere. At the nexus of the sphere was Brutal, carried aloft by the energies at his command, basking in the glory of his birthright.
From below, I could see he was being attacked, though it didn’t look like anything was getting through. He roared; his voice amplified to the point where I heard its full thunder, bellowing his insane rage. Around me, I heard thousands echoing his bellow, but in pain not rage, the collective agony of a city dying. I saw him clench his fists, and arch his back in mid-air as Amsterdam perished in a thousand streaks of green-white light drawn towards Brutal.
He didn’t move as the streaks converged on him, and I understood his power, why descriptions of it were always vague recounting and nebulous theory. He absorbed life force, adding it to his own reserve of power. I felt Blackjack 2.0 spasm in my hands and turned to see green-white light streaming from him, his face strained with pain, but making no sound. I let him fall to the ground as I saw Brutal’s power also affecting me. The same power that was killing my impersonator was barely harming me.
“Dear God,” I said as I reflexively moved towards Blackjack 2.0. I let my guard down as the man dressed in my clothes curled up into the fetal position, his pain obvious. The effect suddenly ended and I turned to see Brutal’s new sun
fade to nothing as he flew towards the horizon.
He had killed the whole city.
I turned to see Blackjack 2.0 roll to his feet. He feinted for a gut punch, lashing out at his real target, my groin. The shot lacked any power, which was good because I didn’t want my balls mashed to jelly, but it was still enough to double me over. He followed it up with a straight kick that caught me in the chest, knocking me on my back and sending me skidding across the asphalt until a pile of rubble stopped me.
“What the fuck,” I said as he reached into one of his pouches. If his set up mirrored mine, he was grabbing for an incendiary charge. Reaching behind me, I grabbed the heaviest thing I could find and hurled it at him. It was a piece of concrete that rotated as it sped at him. Slow to respond, the missile caught him in the chest, exploding into dust and rubble as he flew backwards.
I threw myself at him, pinning him beneath me. He caught my arms and tried to wrestle me off, but even in my weakened condition I was much stronger than him.
“Just you and me now, buddy.”
He kept trying to grapple with me, but I forcibly kept him on his back. Whatever leverage that provided wasn’t enough to overpower me, but he continued to struggle.
“Why are you doing this,” I shouted. “Why are you pretending to be me?”
I already knew the answer. Who he was didn’t matter; he was doing this on Haha’s behalf, probably for a lot of money. This guy was a hired gun; a nobody with few powers and a minimal grasp of archery.
I was going to break his forearms. I was going to rip his arms off and hang him by one of the nearby light poles as an example to Haha. I turned my grip on his arms, wrenching them in the process, pulling them tight to might chest and dug my knees into his stomach. I was going to crack this bitch in half.