The leader looked them over, his gaze finally resting on Chill. “You’re one of those mutants we hear about on the radio, aren’t you, boy?” He glanced at the rest of them. “How about your buddies here? They muties too?” He held up the knife, turning it slowly so the sun glinted off the polished metal and into Pound’s eyes. “You don’t look like much. Wonder if any of you bleed green?”
This caused a round of laughter in his gang of thugs. The leader took a step toward Pound.
Pound bolted, running away from the highway toward a chain-link fence ten yards or so away. Two of the locals, Chain and Tire Iron, took off after him.
Recall looked frantically around for a weapon, but saw nothing. He knew that even if they hadn’t been armed, he probably wouldn’t stand a chance against the larger thugs. The locals were between them and the car, and they had no place else to go that they couldn’t be run down.
Chill didn’t seem to be doing anything. Then Recall saw the slush balls forming in his friend’s hands. This had barely registered when Chill spun into action, slinging the first slush ball unerringly into the leader’s face. It was much larger and harder than the one he’d pelted his friends with earlier, and the impact threw the man’s head back.
Dashing past him, Chill put the car between himself and the remaining thugs. He plastered another one in the face with his other slush ball, then jumped into the backseat of the Cadillac. The remaining thugs ran toward him, weapons swinging.
The leader was bent over, still blinded by the slush ball, trying to wipe out his eyes. His head strayed under the open hood. Chill made his move, leaping over the top of the front seats, bounding over the windshield, and bringing the hood down hard on the back of the leader’s neck. The knife clattered to the asphalt.
Recall grabbed the fallen knife, the polished wood of the handle alien in his hand, the weapon frightening him almost as much as the men attacking them. The other three were trying to catch Chill, who had bounded back into the car to evade them.
He looked to see where Pound was. He’d made it halfway to the fence before being tackled. One of the thugs had grabbed the waistband of his pants and was using it to haul him backward. The pants pulled down just enough for Pound’s tail to pop out.
“Tail!” Chain yelled, laughing as he did. “The freak’s got a tail.”
Recall started to go to his friend’s rescue when something grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him onto the hood of the Caddy. He saw the leader’s dripping wet face as he wrested the knife from Recall’s hand, then tossed him off the hood like a used toothpick.
Chill was standing on top of the windshield frame,
“I’ve been working on the movement dampers. I thin
“We’re trying on clothes,” added Paige hastily.
Chill was standing on top of the windshield frame, distracted by his predicament, when the pitchfork handle hit the back of his legs, making him fall. Before he could recover, one of the other locals had his neck pinned to the hood using the baseball bat.
Recall flinched as the leader marched purposefully toward him, knife held out, but then he moved past him, toward where Pound was now being held facedown in the dry grass. “So he’s got a tail, huh? That’d make a right nice souvenir hanging from my rearview mirror!”
Chill yelled something unintelligible. Recall struggled to get his breath back, to do something, anything, to help his friends.
Then something big blew past, like one of the semis, but this something angled onto the shoulder just ahead of them and left four smoking black streaks on the pavement as it slid to a stop. The door of the stopped RV flew open, and Recall saw the three male students of Xavier’s School jump out.
Another motor home pulled in behind them, making a more orderly stop. The door opened, and the three female Xavier students emerged, two walking, one flying.
Time seemed to slow as the six converged on the Cadillac. Pound and Chill were released as the locals focused their attention on the newcomers. The leader smiled, seemingly not too concerned that they were outnumbered. He looked first front, then back, tossing the knife from one hand to another as he did. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got us a freak show and a babe fest. Either way, it’s a party. Take ’em boys!”
The leader and three of the thugs went after the Xavier guys, the other three went after the girls, and it was obvious that this time they weren’t pulling punches.
Pitchfork was the first to strike, stabbing the tines of his weapon into Jono’s chest. The metal spikes penetrated a few inches into the fiery energy that was Jono’s body before that energy recoiled, blasting off the business end of the pitchfork, which spun back to embed itself in the hood of the truck. The horrified local stood staring at the handle.
Recall glanced at the girls in time to see one of the thugs swing hard at Monet with the pipe wrench. She raised her hand and stopped the swing casually, the thug losing his grip on the wrench, which ended up in her hand. She casually bent the wrench until it snapped in the middle, then tossed it aside.
The guy with the baseball bat advanced on Jubilee, but before he could even swing, a shower of colored sparks shot from her fingertips, and the bat shattered into toothpicks.
Everett had latched on to Angelo’s skin power, and was busy wrapping himself around Chain and Tire Iron, who fell in a tangled heap to the gravel.
Angelo himself was advancing on the leader, who waved the knife threateningly. Angelo just smiled so hard it looked like his face would split. He didn’t seem inclined to use his power at all, yet he didn’t hesitate in his approach. “Mutant or no,” he said, “don’t ever, ever, pull a knife on a bad boy from the barrio.” He dodged, stepped inside the leader’s swing, expertly grabbed his wrist, and brought it down hard against his knee. The knife flipped through the air, where the skin of one of Angelo’s fingers flicked out and caught it by the grip. The knife slapped back into his hand, as though by a rubber band. He held it up at the leader and laughed.
Pitchfork took a swing at Jono with the handle, but a beam of energy shot out of his chest, and the handle was instantly vaporized.
That left one thug, the one with the metal rod. He looked skeptically at the weapon, then at Paige, who was advancing on him. He tossed the rod aside and made a break for the truck. Paige ran after him. He managed to reach the truck and get the door open, but Paige was only a few yards behind.
Then things seemed to slow down even more as Recall saw him turn, saw the short, ugly barrel of the sawed-off shotgun come up behind the door’s window, saw the glass explode as the shotgun spat fire and lead, saw Paige stumble back as the blast hit her, pieces of her blown away by the force of the blast.
Somehow he was on his feet, yelling some animal sound, running toward her as more pieces seemed to fall away from her body. And then he saw that she was tearing them way, exposing something as bright, polished, and hard as the knife blade that Angelo held in his hand.
Husk, he’d heard one of the other students call her, but he’d never imagined why.
She grabbed the edge of the door, effortlessly folding it forward against the fender of the truck, taking the gun from the cowering man and crushing it in her hand.
And then Recall was at her side, his hand on her shoulder, asking her if she was okay, even as she turned to him, her face like a statue of a goddess, and he realized how foolish the question was. And then she did the most devastating thing, a thing that nearly made his knees give way underneath him. That perfect metal face smiled.
Things were well over by the time Sean and Emma climbed down out of the larger RV and walked over to inspect the aftermath. Sean felt the touch of Emma’s mind in his. Emma, do you think we did the right thing letting the students handle this?
Emma sent only the most imperceptible glance in his direction. They handled themselves well at the airport. Besides, after what happened to Chamber, they were ready for some payback. Call it therapy.
Sean bent to examine the remains of the shotgun.
Emma paused behind him. “That was sloppy of me. My only excuse is that even the ruffian didn’t know what he was going to do until he did it. In any case, Husk handled it well enough.”
Sean tossed the smashed gun onto the floorboard of the truck. “Let’s clean this up and get out of here.” He walked over to where Dog Pound was straightening his clothes. He seemed to have taken the worst of things. “Ye all light, lad?’?
Pound nodded. “Got some bruises, but my dignity is hurt more than anything.”
Sean gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “No need for that. Considering you were outnumbered and outgunned, ye lads did pretty well for yourselves.”
Pound chuckled nervously. “Never a genogoth around when you need one.” Pound seemed to suddenly notice that his tail was still hanging out, and quickly tucked it back into his pants, checking to see if any of the girls were watching. M and Husk hadn’t noticed, and Jubilee was busy pretending not to.
Chill slid in close to Pound. “Pounder, I am really, really sorry for anything rude I ever said about your tail. ’Kay?”
Pound managed a half smile. “I knew you never meant anything by it.”
Sean saw that Emma had the local lads dancing like puppets on her strings. They lined up by the road, blank expressions on their faces. Emma leaned in until her face was only a few inches from their leader, and a hint of awareness came back into his expression.
Emma’s smile was grim and humorless. “You aren’t going to remember this, but you are going to have some exquisitely terrible nightmares for a long time to come.”
Sean sighed. It was a shame they simply couldn’t turn the boys over to the local law, but there was no guarantee how biased the closest sheriff or state trooper might be, and they’d probably have to return and testify in a trial to have even a hope of conviction. He could just imagine some defense attorney working over Jono or Angelo on the witness stand, fanning antimutant sentiments in the jury. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Justice was not a concept well served on mutants these days.
No, this way was probably better, fairer, to everyone concerned. He considered the truck sitting empty behind the Cadillac, and realized that he could add a touch of his own.
Paige watched as Mr. Cassidy walked over in front of the locals’ truck. He opened his mouth, and Paige heard a piercing sound, at a frequency barely audible to human hearing. He noticed Pound covering his ears. Then there was a muffled whump, and the truck’s engine exploded as though someone had dropped a grenade in it. The hood flew in the air, flipped over twice, and landed upside down in the truck’s bed. Pieces flew everywhere, a few landing in the highway, where they might have presented a hazard if Cassidy hadn’t then taken care to blast each one off onto the far shoulder with a focused sonic blast.
Cassidy walked around the Cadillac to where Chill was closing the hood. “Is this thing drivable?”
Chill nodded. “I think it’s cooled down enough. We should stop up the road and get some water.”
Everett, overhearing, glanced at Mr. Cassidy. “I’ll fill up a jug in our RV.”
Cassidy nodded. “Do it, lad.”
Paige ran her fingers over her left forearm, feeling the odd sensation of stainless steel skin. Her mutant abilities still amazed and frightened her sometimes, especially when she called on them so instinctively. It would be some time before she was able to husk back into her normal form.
She looked up and saw that Recall was staring at her. He’d acted so oddly after she’d been shot, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. She wasn’t sure what to make of him now.
He seemed to realize he was staring, and jerked his eyes away, but only for a moment. His cheeks reddened.
She suddenly felt embarrassed, too, though her transformed body didn’t so readily show it. ‘i’m sorry. Does this bother you?”
Recall looked surprised. “Bother? N-no. It’s just—” The words seemed to hang in his throat. “It’s just that, looking at you like this, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Paige was completely taken aback. She’d had many reactions to her transformations in the past, ranging from shock to respect to horror, but this was the first time anyone had ever called her beautiful.
Recall looked at her, seemingly unsure what to do next. Then he seemed to get an inspiration. He reached up and fumbled with his collar. He removed a small enameled pin, the sign of the six-fingered hand. He presented the pin to her. “I want you to have this. It’s a M.O.N.S.T.E.R. pin—my M.O.N.S.T.E.R. pin, actually.”
She let him drop the pin into the palm of her hand, but didn’t draw her hand back. “Recall, I really can’t take this. It’s just too, well, personal.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “I have a box of them on the dresser at home. Giving one is considered a sign of friendship, Some people say they’re good luck.”
She considered the pin. “Well, in that case ...” She smiled and closed her hand over the pin, drawing it to her chest. “Thank you, Recall. I’m touched.”
She noticed Jono watching them from beyond the Cadillac. She thought about saying something, explaining things to him, but then she thought of the genogoth back at the M.O.N.S.T.E.R. house. Let him sweat a little. Besides, Recall is awfully sweet.
She walked away from where Jono stood, and saw Angelo marching back in front of the row of now-terrified locals as Monet watched from the sidelines. As Paige walked closer, she could hear him talking.
“What I want to know before the nice mutant lady wipes your brains out like dirty ashtrays, is how did a bunch of Idaho bumpkins like you find out about mutants, much less learn to hate them?” He turned abruptly and put himself nose-to-nose with the leader. “Huh, spud-boy?”
The leader’s lips trembled, but the words were a while coming. “R-radio. Walt Norman on th’radio.”
Angelo’s face went stone cold serious and he stepped back, turned, and walked away without a word.
Its radiator refilled, the Cadillac was purring again as the Musketeers roared down the interstate. Recall sat sideways in the backseat, thinking of Paige, wishing he was with her.
Mr. Cassidy had offered to let them caravan with the two RVs, but macho pride had taken precedence over common sense. No, Chill had said, they’d be fine, and Pound and Recall had backed him up. Now, sulking the miles away, Recall couldn’t imagine what sort of madness had possessed him. “We should have stuck with the Xavier crew.”
Pound shrugged and nodded.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Chill, “but it’s too late now.”
Recall considered for a moment, then used his power to feel for the two RVs. It was much easier this time, and he realized that it was easier to track the big vehicles at a distance, rather than the people inside. He was starting to get the hang of things. ‘ ‘Maybe not. I think I can keep us close without getting us too close.”
Chill held up his right fist in mock triumph. “Plan,” he announced.
Pound chuckled. “No telling when they’ll need us to get them out of trouble again.”
CHAPTER SIX
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[piano music under vocals]
“Mrs. Dale.”
“Yes, Walt?”
“Did I tell you my neighbor once had a mutant dog?”
“No, Walt, I don’t think you did.”
“It was so ugly, they had to shave its butt and walk it backwards!”
[sound of snare drum and canned laughter]
“Mrs. Dale.”
“Yes, Walt.”
“How do you tell if there’s been a mutant in your refrigerator?” ,
“I don’t know, Wait.”
“Easy, just look for flipper prints in the butter!”
[snare drum and more laughter]
—transcript from The Walt Norman Show
Ivan glanced down at the screen of the laptop computer resting on the passenger seat next to him. The narrow lane-and-a-half road looked as
though it hadn’t been repaved in decades and seemed as if it might dead-end straight into a tree trunk around every curve, yet the map screen assured him he was right on course. He topped a small rise and the trees thinned, allowing him to see a collection of corrugated metal buildings clustered around an ancient military hangar, vintage army markings just barely visible in its peeling paint.
Though there had been no sign of guards or lookouts, indeed no signs of life at all, the huge doors at the end of the hangar rolled open just enough to beckon him inside. As he drove through, the hangar seemed dark and empty, but then he recognized the heavy velour blackout curtain that spanned the width of the hangar just a few yards inside. He pulled to a stop as the doors rolled closed behind him, and a pair of heavily muscled men lifted the bottom of the curtain enough for his car to pass.
He pulled his car into a line of closely parked cars and trucks, doubtless belonging to the technicians and workers here. He climbed out and inspected the scene before him. Though from the outside the building looked abandoned, inside it was a buzz of activity.
Stacks of wooden crates were tended by burly workers, a pair of forklifts, and omnipresent guards armed with assault rifles. Stencils on the boxes indicated countries of origin all over the world, Russia, China, South Africa, Latveria, Israel, Genosha, Transabal. Some also indicated the contents: rifles, ammunition, grenades, rockets, flares, mines, bombs, energy weapons, body armor—a one-stop shopping center for mass destruction.
This was their bread and butter, Expatriate and he. From this and other covert storage and distribution points around the country, as well as in Mexico and Canada, they maintained an ever-growing trade in arms and military hardware, and business was booming. They found no shortage of customers, both those in the country desiring weapons, and foreign interests wishing to obtain advanced U.S. technology. Many of their customers were from the former republics and satellite countries of his own Soviet Union. They catered especially to revolutionaries, terrorists, militia groups, even the occasional “super-villain” seeking hardware too dangerous for conventional purchase, yet too mundane to have specially constructed.
Generation X - Crossroads Page 7