Not Against Flesh and Blood (The DX Chronicles Book 1)

by Brian Cody

  “Yeah, that means they’re not sure about what his power can do, but that’s not what caught my attention”, Turrisi replied as he stepped forward. “His second number—his law enforcement record? He’s thirty-eight for fifty.”

  “What!?” Shawn coughed as he looked to the document’s second page. “Oh shoot; B-money’s been a little busy.”

  “A little busy?” Turrisi replied, “That’s more law enforcement acts than both Erik and I combined.”

  “But that percentage isn’t very good”, Nate noted. “Seventy-six percent—it’s well above even, but, compared to all of ours, which have been in the high eighties to flawless, it’s a little under par.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what bothers me”, Turrisi replied. “They didn’t figure out his identity until towards the end of his senior year in high school. In order for B-money to have so many attributed acts of vigilantism without having been identified, the space between each act had to have been greatly extended; otherwise, the government would have caught onto his trail sooner—simply put, he has to have been doing this for, at the very least, a good four or five years.”

  “Yeah but”, Shawn began as he rubbed his chin and looked to Turrisi, “why ‘Lynx of the East’?”

  “What? Shawn”, Nate groaned as he slapped his left onto the desk, “it’s because he’s B-money, that’s why.”

  “Because he’s_”—Shawn paused. He looked to David, who shrugged; then to Turrisi, who tilted his head and lifted his arms. Shawn then faced forward, rubbing his chin and sounding out that pseudonym. “Makes sense”, he blurted.

  “Yeah, agreed”, David replied.

  “Did someone call me?”

  The recognition of the origin of that remark—foreign in that it came from the hallway—caused all four of them to seize at once; then, in motions bordering superhuman for three of them, they rushed in opposite directions. Nate lunged from Turrisi’s chair, with his leap taking him across the small room until he landed and spun to the entrance; Shawn lunged for Turrisi’s mouse and motioned the cursor for a swift exit, but his erasure of incriminating evidence was superseded as Turrisi hopped over his back and slammed shut his computer’s lid. David skipped and spun, turned and glanced, before bolting for the door, but, as he opened it—intent on rushing past the interloper—his shoulders slouched and his fidgety motions degraded to a halt, weakened by locking onto Bryen’s languid, glass-covered gaze.

  “It’s okay”, David began as he stepped back and turned. “It’s just B-money.”

  “Do I…want to be in here?” Bryen asked as he watched Nate step from the wall.

  “You’re fine, we’re just CORGI-ing you”, David replied.

  “You’re doing what to me?” Bryen asked as he looked to Shawn and then Turrisi, who was dropping his jacket onto his laptop.

  “Why ‘Lynx of the East’?” Shawn asked as he stepped from Turrisi’s desk.

  Bryen seized. He leapt from the door, and, with a leftward spin fast enough for Turrisi, Nate, and David to discern as superhuman, slammed the entrance shut.

  “So you’re actually aware of that name?” Turrisi asked as he crossed his arms and leaned on his desk.

  “Uh…” Bryen looked back and watched the shadow of a passerby move along the aperture below the door. His ears honed in on the diminishing paces, and his mind translated the sound as the hall denizen moving on.

  “…B-money, B-money, B-money”, David repeated.

  “Hi”, Bryen replied as he scanned the room with unsteadied eyes.

  “Why ‘Lynx of the East’?” Shawn asked once more.

  “Oh, right…uh”, Bryen inhaled and lifted his right to scratch the side of his head. “I figured that I needed an identity, so…I left a notecard at one of the first car-jackings I busted with that name written on it.”

  “Yeah, but what about the name?” Nate asked. “Why a lynx? Why not Lion of the East, or Leopard of the East, or another large cat that’s actually impressive?”

  “I…just like lynxes, I guess”, Bryen replied as he pocketed his hands and scanned the floor.

  “Doesn’t surprise”, David noted, “But hey; if it’s any consolation, it’s not your name I’d be afraid of if I were a carjacker. It would be your pretty awesome record. Fifty law enforcement acts is pretty sweet, if I might say so myself.”

  “Who knew good ol’ B-money was a beast at pummeling evil?” Shawn exclaimed.

  “If that doesn’t get you street cred, I don’t know what will”, David continued.

  “Why would I want_?” Bryen paused, silent while both Davids glanced to one another and then looked back, “Fifty?”

  “Yeah, fifty? Is that not right?” David replied.

  Bryen’s right arm squeezed, his hand tightening inside of his pocket to an almost painful crush as he inhaled. The milliseconds, in his mind, passed at a sluggish rate, while the clasp of his hand tightened further; finally, he eased his fingers’ hold, and, with only a second having passed, replied, “No, that’s probably right. I guess I just don’t keep count.”

  “Hello?” Bryen spun, and with him, the other four jumped as they heard the call and looked to the silhouette beyond the door. “Is anyone in here?”

  “B-money, lock the door!” Shawn muttered as he and David backed towards the window.

  “It’s Erik”, Bryen replied as he opened the door.

  “Why’s everyone in Turrisi’s room?” Erik asked as he stepped in, his medium-grey book-bag on his back, and a striped, blue, dress shirt, black tie, black pants, and a pair of black Oxford shoes covering him.

  “We’re CORGI-ing B-money”, David replied.

  Erik tilted his head, stepped, and slammed the door behind him. “First of all!” he grunted, “We should agree that ‘CORGI-ing somebody’ does not sound right or appropriate. Secondly, the window’s open, and thirdly, the door was unlocked!”

  “Erik, chill”, Nate called as he stepped forward. “First of all, barely anyone ever walks by that side of the dorm. Secondly, we all (except for Turrisi) have powers and know how to use them. If anyone were to ever figure us out, we could just threaten them into silence.”

  “What!?” David blasted. “Shut up, Klinge!” he bellowed as he leapt and chest-bumped Nate. Nate coughed as he left the floor, but, as he found the strength to inhale, he slammed into the left wall, with his back impacting, and his legs following. “Yeah!” David roared as Nate fell.

  “Oh frick!” Turrisi yelped as he pointed at the foot-length crack darting along the wall from Nate’s impact.

  “Piekarsky!” Erik wailed.

  “Erik, don’t worry; the government will pay for it”, David replied.

  “The government won’t pay for that!” Erik roared. “And the window’s open!”

  “Garcia, calm down or you’re next!” David proclaimed before looking to Nate dragging himself to his feet. “Since we all know about each other’s powers, I don’t have to hold back on any of you anymore!”

  “Untrue!” Shawn wailed.

  “What about me? I don’t have powers!” Turrisi exclaimed.

  “I’m going to close the window”, Bryen remarked as he stepped past Shawn.

  “Dave”, Erik began as he stepped forward.

  “Yeah?” Turrisi replied.

  “No, I meant Piekarsky, I—dang it”, Erik paused and listened to the squeal of the closing window. “Piekarsky, you’ve kept your powers a secret for almost twenty-three years. Don’t ruin it now. I can understand that you’re a little stressed, but you need to blow it off, go see Clare, play some hoops with me later on, anything to keep you from compromising us.”

  “You’re right”, David replied as he closed his eyes. “I need to blow off some steam”, he continued as he opened his eyes, looked around the room, glared at Nate, who was still catching his breath, and then turned to Erik, “and the best way to do that is by looking for bad guys in Lynchburg.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Erik coughed.

  “Who wan
ts to patrol the city with me?” David asked.

  “Pass; I have to work in another hour, and, you know, make sure my sternum’s not cracked”, Nate moaned.

  “Whoa!” Erik exclaimed as he stepped back, “you can chest-bump Nate into a wall and log into CORGI using someone else’s password, but patrolling the city is where I have to draw the line, sir.”

  “Garcia, come on, it’ll be fun!” David proclaimed.

  “Dude, Piekarsky, for real; we’re not allowed to act until we’re given clearance by the Attorney General or someone else with enough money-slash-political power to defend our actions in court, if that ever becomes necessary.”

  “Garcia, come on. We won’t get caught, and we won’t kill anyone or cause any major damage, I promise!” David replied before turning to the window, “B-money, come on, let’s go beat up thugs!”

  “I don’t do anything before sundown”, Bryen replied as he looked out to the late afternoon. “It’s way too difficult for me to hide otherwise.”

  “Okay, okay; I’ll accept that excuse. What if we did it later tonight? Instead of looking for bad guys to beat up, we’d go for a short flight or something. Albert, you up for it?”

  “I don’t know, man”, Shawn sighed. “I kind of have homework I need to do.”

  “Come on, Albert; just a few miles”, David replied as he tapped Shawn on the shoulder. “Come on. I bet you’re pretty fast in the air.”

  “Oh, I’m speedy all right”, Shawn replied with a nod.

  “Prove it”, David uttered.

  “Shawn, don’t do it!” Erik called.

  “Come on; unless you’re a little baby-flyer”, David replied.

  “Shawn, dude”, Turrisi began as he stepped to Shawn.

  “I’m no baby-flyer!” Shawn retorted with a stomp.

  “Prove it!” David proclaimed.

  “Oh, don’t you worry; soon, I will!”

  “Prove it now!” David bellowed.

  “Shawn”, Erik called.

  “Prove to me that you’re the greatest flyer since the Wright Brothers!”

  “Really?” Bryen interrupted.

  “If you beat me in a flying race, maybe I’ll agree that Sterling Blue was raised in Jersey”, David suggested.

  Shawn gasped, his gaze flashed, and his arms spread from both hips. “Oh, man!” Shawn began.

  “Awe, crap”, Bryen mumbled.

  “Shawn, seriously, don’t”, Erik spoke as he stepped to him.

  “Garcia just wants Jersey to sit by the wayside. Come on, Albert, you’ve got it in you; don’t you? Or is Jersey just a safe-haven for pansy-baby-flyers who_” a rumble pulsed along David’s right leg, driving him to reach into his pocket and to clasp his phone. Another rumble followed, and David extracted his phone and examined the screen. “Oh, Clare’s calling me”, he began as he put the phone to his ear, “maybe later”, he whispered as he walked towards the door and hummed the words “hey!” before opening the door and exiting.

  “What am I supposed to do about my wall?” Turrisi inquired as he closed the door.

  “These dorms were supposed to be temporary; just say your room is falling apart. Maybe you’ll get free tuition”, Bryen suggested as he turned from the window.

  “Did I almost just agree to a flying race with Piekarsky?” Shawn asked as he looked to the ceiling.

  “Yes, Shawn”, Nate replied as he opened the door, “Yes, you did.”

  February 2010

  Chapter Eight: Monday, 8 February [Part One]

  He adjusted his mirror to slight the afternoon glare. After turning right onto a street then empty but for parked cars, and gliding through the shadows of the surrounding office buildings, the patrol officer looked back to the corner from which he had turned. He slowed. While rolling his eyes, he snatched his radio from the dashboard and placed it before his mouth. “Do y’all want to accelerate to catch me?”

  “Too fast.”

  The officer braked to drop to a single-digit crawl and lowered his radio as the lumbering shape of a white truck, cuboidal and armored, turned from the corner and inched after him. “Did I not read your deadline correctly?” the officer asked as he inched on, accelerating to eight miles per hour.

  “Yes, but do you know what we’re carrying?” was the reply. “Does he know what we’re carrying?” was murmured.

  “You’re still holding the speaker. He can hear you.”

  “I read the itinerary”, the officer replied. “I am going to accelerate to ten miles per hour, but once we get out of the business district, we’ll have to get up to thirty to keep from obstructing traffic. Accelerate slowly if you have to, over?”

  “Over; just give us more time to accelerate.”

  The officer returned his radio and nudged on, inching past nine miles per hour, but looking back to the rearview as the white truck sped towards him. Grunting, the officer accelerated past ten miles per hour, crawling to eleven and then twelve. He looked to his rearview and, while flailing his arms, found the truck once more losing distance. He slowed below ten miles per hour; with the truck one hundred feet behind him, he stopped at an intersection’s stop sign and, peering to the road’s southwesterly continuation, squeezed the wheel.

  “All units, be on the lookout for several inoperative garbage trucks on Lakeside Drive.”

  The officer grabbed his radio while looking to the roadway cutting in front of him. “Currently at Lakeside but occupied with escort duty.” He lowered his radio and looked back to the truck still inching from fifty feet off. Rolling his eyes, he released his brake and crept into that intersection.

  “Too fast.”

  “I will wait for you at the other side of this intersection.” The officer glanced right, while an activating engine groaned to his left. “Please accelerate to ten miles per hour.” He turned as his left side was enshrouded by an accelerating shape, and he squeezed the wheel and reached for his brake as that shape extracted its front-loader. He blinked.

  The clang of metal contorting metal and the screech of sliding rubber blared down the road but were superseded by the cruiser jouncing thrice and coming to rest on its back. Within the cargo truck’s cab, the three occupants, still and pale, glared at the interjecting green and white shape resting perpendicular to them, the rightward prong of its front-loader tipped in a dripping scarlet. As that garbage truck shifted into reverse and then angled towards them, they reared back. The driver, first slamming the brake, reached for the throttle while the first passenger, beside him, reached for the radio.

  “Dispatch, we have_!” A growl overtook his words and sounded through both windows as headlights flashed from adjoining alleys. The three occupants turned, finding two more garbage trucks, one per alley, bulleting at them. The driver slammed his foot into the petal but, in unison, the two garbage trucks slammed the cargo truck’s sides, thrashing the three men about and cracking the glass. Battered and shaken, the three men looked up through the windshield. The driver, still pressing his foot into the accelerator, found his movements held fast by the two impacting vehicles, while, before him, the first garbage truck turned towards them, inched to twenty feet off, and deactivated.

  “What are you doing?!” the driver howled as he looked to the tinted windows of those three vehicles. “Do you know what_?” He silenced as the first cargo truck’s doors were slung ajar, and as its occupants poured out. Dropping to the ground were four men, shielded in black masks and draped in brown jumpsuits. The driver shook his head as those four men shifted black rifles along their torsos, and he reared back and slammed his foot into the accelerator as they stepped towards him. “No, no, we don’t have anything…!”

  “What are they saying?” one of the gunmen inquired to the first garbage truck’s driver.

  “Can’t hear”, the driver replied as he cracked his neck. He pointed to the second and third garbage trucks and waved back. Then, he looked to a third gunman and pointed him to the cargo truck’s passenger side. As the two garbage trucks groaned in
to reactivation and loosened their brakes, and as the third gunman ran to the passenger side, the driver clicked the safety of his rifle, ran to the driver’s side, dropped to one knee, and aimed at the window. “Now.” The driver and the third gunman loosed, in synchrony, a momentary, three-bullet burst that slammed into the parallel windows, marred and jostled the glass, but failed to penetrate. The four gunman, at the clangs of ricocheted rounds, covered their heads until the bouncing shapes dispersed and the cries of the cargo occupants were reinstated.

  “Glass is bulletproof”, the first gunman remarked.

  “I can see that”, the driver replied as he stood.

  “We should use it”, the fourth gunman called as he stepped for the first garbage truck.

  “We don’t need it”, the driver replied as he stepped onto the cargo truck’s running board. While “Go—go now!” sounded behind the battered pane, the driver thrust his rifle’s barrel thrice, goring its tip through the brittle pane and, for a moment, magnifying the overlapping wails of the three men within. The driver reached for the trigger as the sound of turning keys were heard, and, while tensing, he fired in three bursts. The cries surceased. Replacing the horrid exclamations were the taps of rounds leaping and slapping against the cab’s interior. The garbage driver dropped down and stepped back as the windows were smacked and further cracked. After thirty seconds, the taps diminished, and the driver, once more stepping to the running board, hammered his rifle’s stock into the glass to rend it from the sill. With the odor of lifeblood emanating from the three corpses against the passenger side and filling his nostrils, the driver reached for the ignition, removed the key, and unlocked the doors. The driver stepped down as the passenger door was opened. He opened the driver’s door as the three gaping bodies poured out to the asphalt, and he stepped in and reached for the console while glancing through the battered and painted windshield to the police cruiser.

  Inverted and slanted, the officer peered through his gaping windshield, past his bloodstained ceiling, and to the quartet of trucks. Holding his left side and the puncture wound drenching his azure uniform in viscous scarlet, he, with a sustained pout and gaped eyes, unhooked his service pistol, unlocked the safety, and aimed, but his grip, over moments, shook and writhed, trembling from diminishing strength and then falling limp. Wheezing and feeling the terminal daze creep over his senses, he looked, instead, to the coil hanging before him and, while gritting his teeth, he grabbed his radio and squeezed its sides, while, before him, the three trucks were activated and shifted.