Virus Attack

by Andy Briggs

  Silence filled the car as the friends thought about the situation they were in.

  Toby nodded. His decision was made. “Okay. We’ll do it.”

  Lorna looked at him in astonishment. “We will?”

  “Come on, Lorn. This is a real chance to help.”

  “He’s right,” said Emily. Toby was surprised at his ally. He looked at Pete, who shrugged back.

  “I still think we should be getting paid real money to do this. But okay. Let’s save the day. Again.”

  Lorna exhaled loudly. “Okay, while you real superheroes cower away in your hideouts, what are we supposed to do?”

  Mr. Grimm gave her a polite nod. “So you are all in. Perfect. It appears that there are two villains behind this plot. They intend to recruit others to their cause of bringing down the Hero Foundation. They have recruited one already, Trojan. We suspect they will try to free an inmate in Diablo Island Penitentiary next—someone who would be perfect for their cause.”

  “A prison?” asked Pete.

  “A very secure prison for supervillains, and the occasional hero who crosses to the wrong side of the law.”

  “So who is it they want?”

  “A very lethal customer with a unique talent. If we can stop our suspects before they try to release the prisoner, then this whole affair will be quickly quashed.” Mr. Grimm met their gazes in turn. “Everything depends upon your success.”

  Pete shattered the solemnity of the moment.

  “So. No pressure then?”

  “How do we get to this Diablo Island?” Emily asked.

  “You fly, of course,” Mr. Grimm replied.

  “Cool, so we definitely have flying powers?” said Pete with a grin.

  “No. I meant: you fly.”

  Pete was suddenly aware that the SUV had stopped. Mr. Grimm opened the door. They were in the middle of the countryside, parked on a dirt track. Sitting in a field was a black Bell/Agusta tilt-rotor aircraft—the massive helicopter-style wings were already whirling. Once in flight the rotors would swivel forward like a traditional aircraft. It was the ultimate in luxury transportation.

  “Oh,” said Pete, feeling somewhat disappointed. “You meant fly like that.”

  Huge storm-surge waves pounded the shore, soaking the bronze Nematode, which had surfaced atop a cliff. An abandoned church stood close by, the rusting bell adding a mournful note to the strong winds.

  Inside the craft, Worm, Basilisk, and Trojan peered through the curved canopy at Diablo Island offshore, almost lost in the curtain of rain. They were off the coast of Iceland, in a spot chosen because its constant foul weather made any air assault difficult. The island was composed almost entirely of iron rock that made Worm’s superpowered transportation skills impotent and would probably damage the Nematode if it tried to dig through.

  The walls of the prison were attached snugly to the cliff edge and sloped outward in a V-shape so that if any daring rescuer managed to scale the cliff, they would then be faced with a one-hundred-foot, smooth titanium-coated wall that overhung the jagged rocks below. The wall was topped by an assortment of advanced sensors and surveillance cameras, and the interior was bathed in bright floodlights that ensured it was as bright as midday throughout the long Arctic nights. In short, it was one of the most impregnable places on earth.

  However, it looked as if somebody had managed to break out.

  The Nematode’s observation windows magnified their target like a set of giant binoculars. “Lens magnifiers! My own design.” Worm beamed proudly, but his companions didn’t seem at all impressed.

  “It may have been state-of-the-art a hundred years ago, Gramps,” said Trojan with a sly smile. “These days we’d use a camera.”

  Basilisk stared hard at the island. “There is no bank vault more tightly guarded.”

  A large hole had been melted through one of the walls and construction teams were in the process of patching it up, watched over by an entire platoon of tough-looking armed guards—Enforcers: a secret army created and funded by the United Nations and dedicated to keeping supervillains in check.

  “Looks like we may be too late,” quipped Worm. “Your boy may have already fled.”

  “Escape is supposed to be impossible,” said Basilisk, never taking his eyes from the island.

  “Escape was supposed to be impossible,” said Trojan. “It was some new guy they had in there. You guys aren’t very clued in to current events, huh? Very uncool. How’re you supposed to know what’s going on in the world around you?”

  “Worm’s television is a couple of decades out-of-date,” muttered Basilisk.

  “They’re calling him the Hunter. There’s a big search on apparently.”

  Unease crept over Basilisk—and for somebody whose gaze can turn a man to stone, that was a rare occurrence.

  “The Hunter? Who is he?”

  Trojan shrugged and turned away from the magnified screen. It was starting to give her a headache. “Dunno. Some newbie hotshot. Course they’re all saying how impossible escape is. But I don’t believe anything’s impossible. I’ve yet to come across somewhere really impregnable.”

  If the Hunter was who he thought, then Basilisk would have to watch his back from now on.

  Worm looked away and rubbed his eyes. “So how do we get in now that the guard has doubled?”

  Basilisk composed himself and extended a hand toward Trojan. “There are very few places in the universe that Trojan can’t walk right into. And she’s taking us along too.”

  The aircraft rocked as it hit a pocket of turbulence. Emily gripped the overhead luggage compartment for support. She was returning from the bathroom, where she had changed from her school clothes into the plain black canvas pants and black thermal jacket they had all been given.

  “More appropriate hero attire,” Mr. Grimm had said.

  Their benefactor had shown them a presentation highlighting what was known about Basilisk, Worm, and Trojan. They had watched a video about Diablo Island. It reminded Toby of some kind of elaborate commercial with swelling music and a narrator who spoke every line with a sense of awe. But in a nutshell they had learned all about the Enforcers and the island prison that had been built to contain supervillains.

  Toby realized they hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the amazing new world they were immersed in. Pete was oddly quiet, but at least Lorna had brightened up when they were offered some fruit to eat during the flight. She polished off almost the entire bowl.

  Even though the main site was off-line, Mr. Grimm had been able to access Hero.com’s RSS news feed, or Really Simple Syndication–news headlines that are common across most Web sites and displayed the latest news and gossip. The headlines described the aftermath of the Hunter’s escape from the island.

  They were all given a small mobile-phone-size wristband, with a touch screen on top. Mr. Grimm explained that it would attempt to control the energy storm that was rampaging through their bodies at the moment. He warned them that it was experimental technology and not one hundred percent reliable, but it should allow them to use the powers they had inadvertently downloaded. Although without the control pulse from the Hero.com Web site, there would be no telling just how long the powers would last or exactly how controllable they would be.

  Mr. Grimm indicated a small touch screen with a single button. It was a teleport power that was stored in the device. He tapped a transparent cylinder on the side of the casing. A brownish liquid sloshed around.

  “That’s a raw superpower?” Pete asked, amazed.

  “Yes, an artificially created power,” said Mr. Grimm.

  “Looks like sewage.”

  “It’s just strong enough to get you back home. It’s already been preprogrammed so you don’t have to visualize where you want to go.”

  Toby put on the bracelet. The strap immediately constricted around his wrist, and he winced as he felt several pinpricks. Mr. Grimm confirmed they were biosensors injecting themselves into his skin.
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br />   A soft chime came from the craft’s PA system and the unseen pilot alerted them that the penitentiary was just ahead and they had been cleared for landing. Lorna and Pete cupped their hands around the portholes. Through the rain-lashed glass, they could just see lights as they circled the island.

  “Just for once I’d like to go somewhere that’s hot,” grumbled Lorna.

  The tilt-rotor aircraft rotated, the twin engines gracefully angling into a vertical position so that it could descend onto the raised helicopter pad.

  Inside the sound-dampened aircraft, nobody could hear the sudden warbling alarm echo across the island. Nor did they see the energy bolt rip out from ground level and destroy the starboard wing in a massive orange ball.

  Toby ducked in shock as the wing next to him exploded in a massive fireball. Shrapnel smashed against the fuselage, shattering windows and tearing huge holes in the body—inches from Toby’s head. The entire aircraft lurched ninety degrees to the side and dropped like a stone.

  Cellblock H261 was an ultra-high-security wing designed for solitary confinement and built in the center of the island. Branching corridors radiated out in a starlike pattern from the central security hub, which was only approachable by an underground guard hut that boasted over twenty separate security checks.

  Trojan bypassed it all as she stepped out of the wall and into the middle of the long sterile white corridor. Her huge cloak billowed impossibly large, revealing Basilisk and Worm walking out of the material as though they had simply strolled through a tunnel. Which, in a manner of speaking, they had.

  Trojan had tried to explain that her supergift was nothing as primitive as teleportation but involved quantum tunneling; just as Worm burrowed through the ground from one point to another, she could burrow a short distance through space. Worm nodded in understanding, although her babbling was as clear to him as Basilisk trying to explain the Internet. How much simpler life was in the forties, he mused. People only had war to contend with.

  Basilisk’s cane clicked on the smooth metal floor as he led them down a corridor that had nothing other than a pair of security cameras in it. The architects had not thought anybody could get this far without triggering an alarm. At the end of the corridor was a lone door—Cell G. Basilisk knew that beyond the door there was a nullification field that would render their powers useless if they entered the cell, so even Trojan couldn’t simply walk in and whisk their prize away, since she would be trapped too. They had to get through that door and retain their powers. He turned to Worm.

  “Okay, your turn.”

  “Me? How can I get through that?”

  Basilisk pointed to an electronic keypad at the side of the door. “Simple. Just worm your way into it.”

  Worm pressed his hands against the panel and allowed his fingertips to atomize and burrow into the pad’s components. He closed his eyes, wincing at the pinprick sensations stabbing his fingers as he sensed every twist of wire or logical gate in the electronic processors. It seemed as though he was picking an old-fashioned combination lock blindfolded—except the combinations were digital. He didn’t even have to try to calculate the complex codes, which could have taken months. He simply willed his probing atoms to pass through like water along an aqueduct. The lock bleeped, and after several seconds a loud clunk from within the fortified door signaled that the heavy mechanical bars had unlocked.

  With a hiss, the vacuum-sealed door swung back on hydraulic rams. The chamber was circular, lit only by a single recessed light. A solid steel block with a thin mattress formed a bed. No need for blankets, as the room was climate controlled. A young man sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the new arrivals.

  “Greetings,” said Basilisk.

  “This is him?” Worm asked doubtfully.

  Basilisk’s voice oozed admiration. “You are looking at one of the most destructive forces on the planet. This is Viral.”

  Viral was no more than twenty-five, dressed in dirty black jeans and a crumpled black shirt. His long hair was ruffled, and his stubbly face was gaunt and pale with black-rimmed eyes. He looked like an ill Goth, which was an amazing achievement by anyone’s standards. He regarded his saviors with a jaundiced eye.

  “Who’re you?”

  “We’re your ticket out of here. But you must do as I ask.”

  Viral considered for a moment as he gazed around his bare cell. “Not like I’ve got much going on here.” He stood up and couldn’t help but smile when his three rescuers quickly stepped backward. He gave Trojan an appraising look up and down as he shielded his eyes from the extra illumination in the corridor.

  He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “What’s the plan?”

  Trojan shrugged. “I can get us out of here, but it’s going to take a couple of minutes for me to recharge.”

  “Recharge?” Basilisk said impatiently. “You’re a Prime!”

  “Tunneling through walls or across open space is easy enough, but the more difficult the obstructions, the more it takes out of me. Takes a little while for me to get my energy reserves back. All teleportation powers are like that.”

  “We don’t have a couple of minutes,” intoned Worm, as the door at the far end of the corridor clunked open and a dozen armed Enforcers pushed through, having been alerted when they had finally looked at their security monitors. Seeing their prisoner escaping, they raised their heavy assault rifles.

  “Open fire!”

  Trojan gripped the hem of her cape and threw it in a wide arc—it expanded in size to almost the width of the corridor and then suddenly held rigidly in place. The bullets hit the solid cloak, some ricocheted off into the walls and ceiling. Sparks erupted at the feet of the Enforcers as some bullets bounced right back at them.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” one of them yelled.

  Trojan looked at her companions. “That’s bought us several seconds. Now what?”

  Basilisk pushed past Trojan, her cloak dropping to the floor like a heavy sheet and retracting to its normal size as though made from elastic. The Enforcers were now faced with Basilisk, who was peeling his hood back.

  “Open fire! Open fire!” yelled the same man who had just told them to stop. The Enforcers were confused by the conflicting orders—and that hesitation cost them dearly.

  Basilisk’s eyes gleamed. To the Enforcers, it was like looking into the sun, as they felt pain rack their bodies. The initial sudden jolt was replaced by a cool sensation like drifting in a frigid ocean. They were unaware that their bodies were being turned to stone from the outside in.

  Only four of the Enforcers had the presence of mind to look away—but eight of their companions turned pale gray as their skin petrified. Within seconds they were nothing more than highly detailed stone statues.

  The remaining Enforcers backed quickly through the door, and whoever was watching the security camera monitors had the presence of mind to hit the alarm.

  Worm looked around as a siren warbled through the complex. “Not bad. Just another hundred or so more guards and we’re scot-free.”

  “This escape plan sucks,” sniffed Viral.

  Basilisk ignored the jibe and advanced toward the hub. They would have to bide their time until Trojan could reenergize her powers. As he entered the hub he brushed past the petrified guards, who crumbled to dust. In the meantime he might as well have a little fun.

  The hub was a massive hemispherical chamber with other high-security doors leading to a gallery of evil. In the middle of the room was an elevator column. The reinforced elevator doors swished closed, shielding the four fleeing guards. It was the only route out.

  The other villains entered the room and Basilisk took several steps before he noticed that the security cameras in the room had swiveled round to face him. Seconds later, heavy-duty auto-guns lowered from the ceiling. Trojan threw up her cloak to protect the others, but Basilisk was beyond her reach and was forced to leap aside as the powerful sentry weapons tore up the floor around him.

  The guns swiveled to
track his progress, spent shell casings clattering to the floor. Several shots blew Basilisk’s carbon-fiber cane apart and clipped his stone arms. Basilisk howled out in pain, but he didn’t bleed. The bullets had merely cut grooves across his forearm. The hem of his cape suffered tennis-ball-sized holes. He responded by unleashing an energy blast from his fingers. An auto-gun exploded and fell, still suspended from the ceiling by thick cables and sparking electronics. The remaining two guns swiveled on him. He skillfully took them both out with an energy blast before they could take aim.

  Trojan lowered her cloaking shield and Worm brushed dust from his robes.

  “Impressive,” said Worm.

  Followed by Viral, they walked past Basilisk, who had his hand extended, expecting to be pulled to his feet. No assistance was forthcoming, so he painfully hauled himself upright and limped toward the elevator.

  “Below this is another high-security chamber that will be heavily guarded. That will lead us outside into the compound.” Basilisk spun to face Trojan. “By which time I expect you’ll be ready to take us out of here.”

  Worm looked him up and down. “There will be plenty more guards waiting for us. You can’t face many more. Look at the state you’re in. And my talents do not lie in direct combat.”

  Basilisk met his gaze. That was something he had been wondering too. He had hoped Trojan would simply be able to transport them out, but as usual there were unforeseen problems. They could sit and wait, but that would mean giving the Enforcers more time to regroup and form a containment plan.

  Viral spoke up, his voice no louder than a harsh whisper. “Leave them to me. I owe my captors for locking me away for so long.”

  * * *

  The lower section of the hub was essentially the bottom part of the whole sphere. The walls curved inward to a wide floor space. The only exit was a sloping corridor that led to the inner-prison quadrangle, and yet more automated security.

  The elevator came down in the center of the room, nothing more than a tube that lowered from the ceiling. Here there were no elevator doors to open; instead the tube simply rose up again to reveal the elevator’s occupants like a kind of magic trick. This meant that, unlike the room above, there was no central column behind which an escaping felon could hide. The designers had called it “open-plan security.”