To put it as the poet Milton might have, “They also serve who only lie on the floor and wait for it to be over.”
In a low voice, the woman in the lab coat spoke to the bank manager. “You—open safety deposit box 2106 and fill these men’s bags with money.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Breathing heavily, the man got off the floor and footsteps click-clacked down the hall.
A mystery safety deposit box? That sounded interesting. Plus, if Clown One and Clown Two were carrying bags of money, they weren’t going to find pointing guns at people easy. Haley had a pretty good chance of taking them alone and with me, well, even better—providing we were willing to reveal ourselves to the world.
But since we weren’t, waiting was still the better idea.
Bro Clown stood with Dr. Clown and a glance upward showed that they were holding semi-automatics. Part of me wanted to point out that guns didn’t fit with the crazy clown theme. They should be using obviously fake guns that did something unexpected but evil.
Haley was breathing normally by then—which meant that she at least wasn’t worrying about monstering out.
All we had to do was wait them out and it would all be okay. At least that seemed possible; the businesswoman on the floor near us was watching the gang of clowns and mumbling to herself, but she wasn’t completely freaking out.
The bank manager came back carrying a small, black box, giving it to Dr. Clown. When she took it, she pointed to the floor and he dropped back down with the rest of us.
“Good job!” She said. “We’re ahead of schedule. We’ve got one minute until the Heroes’ League shows up—if they show up—and five minutes until the police show up. They have a 17-minute average response time.”
“I love how you love the boring shit,” Bro Clown said.
She gazed deeply into his eyes, smiling.
Great, I thought, evil love.
As Dr. Clown mentioned response times, Haley raised an eyebrow and shook her head.
I got her point. The police department was down the block and this bank had to have a silent alarm. Assuming that Dr. Clown was some kind of mad genius because of the lab coat, her area of expertise was probably physics or chemistry. If there were mad geniuses in sociology or criminology, they never got any press. On the other hand, they wouldn’t leave the police department’s location out of their calculations.
I was willing to bet that the cops’ response time to this bank would be much lower.
The Clowns stepped away from the tellers, their bags full of money.
“That’s what I call service,” Bro Clown said. “Nothing’s going to stop us now.”
He should have known better. Within seconds, sirens wailed outside and a man’s voice shouted, “This is the police. Drop your weapons and walk out of the bank with your hands in the air!”
Muttering, “Fuck it,” Bro Clown reached downward and yanked Haley into the air as she froze. He’d gotten lucky. She might have reacted unthinkingly and disemboweled him. Still, he held her up in the air in front of the window with one hand. Interesting. How strong was he?
As much as Haley’s self-control put my mind at ease, I had to exercise my own when Bro Clown put the pistol to her head.
I must have made a noise because he said, “Shut up!” Then he shouted out to the police. “You see what I got? You see what I got? Come in and she dies! Now back off!”
“We’re backing up,” the cop with the microphone said, and they backed up to the line of cars in the road in front of the bank. “See? We’re not pressuring you. No one’s pressuring you. We’d just like to talk.”
Bro Clown shouted, “Gimme a second,” and pulled Haley behind the section of wall between the door and the big window. Then he turned to Dr. Clown, “Now what do we do? Do you have more drugs?”
Dr. Clown tilted her head, peering at him. “Yes.”
She acted like she was on drugs, but I had a bad feeling the ones he was talking about were the kind that gave powers.
“You,” Bro Clown motioned to Clown One, “Point your gun at her where the police can see you.” Then he pointed to Clown Two and the bank’s back door. “Go check the back.”
Dr. Clown started rifling through the pockets on the inside of her lab coat. While she did that and Bro Clown watched the front door, I gave a pull on each sleeve of my t-shirt. They extended, and to all that anyone saw, I was now wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. With one more touch, the sonic weapons reformed near my wrists.
I pulled a control pad out of the end of my sleeves, hiding it inside my palms. If I knocked out the cameras, we’d have more options, and I needed to do it quickly. Haley wasn’t going to be able to hold out forever.
“Speed,” Dr. Clown held out a handful of patches in plastic wrappers. They crinkled in her hands.
Two cameras, I told myself. One hung above the lobby and tellers and the other at the end of the hall. I set the sonics to use frequencies above human hearing and to narrowcast the sound. Then I chose a set of frequencies that would work well against lenses.
Angling my left arm toward the far end of the hall, I tapped the control pad on my palm and felt the sonic warm against my forearm. Then I watched the gang out of the corner of my eye.
Even Clown Two didn’t hear anything at first, just turning back to tell Bro Clown, “There are cops back here too. We gotta hurry.”
Bro Clown barely seemed to notice, just saying, “Got it,” and turning back to Dr. Clown.
She said, “Speed won’t last long, but it will get us away from here.”
As she said it, the camera on the far end of the building made a small noise. It was hard to say whether it was a click or a crack. Clown Two looked up at it but didn’t say anything.
I didn’t move.
Outside, the man with the megaphone said, “We know you don’t need everyone in there. How about you let a few of your hostages out as a gesture of good faith. It’ll be easier for you too. What do you think?”
I’d taken out one camera, but I’d barely had to move to do that. If I moved to point my arm at the camera in the middle of the room above me, they’d notice when they reviewed the footage.
Keeping his voice low, Bro Clown said, “Hostages out the front. We run out the back?”
Dr. Clown passed him two patches. “Yes, but we have to put them on now. Speed takes a minute to work.”
He ripped open the wrapper and stuck it to his arm. Then he shouted out the door, “We’ll give you some hostages. Wait a second!”
Then he turned to us, “All of you to the front. Don’t care if you stand by the window or the door. Just stand where they can see you, okay? Do that and nobody’s going to get hurt.”
Near me, the other customers began to get up as Clown One took a step back from Haley. He kept the gun out, but it wasn’t next to her head.
This was my chance. I got up from the floor and used the deposit/withdrawal slip table to pull myself upright, aiming both sonics at the camera at once as I did it.
The half dome of glass shattered, falling behind the tellers’ counter with the crash of breaking glass. One of the tellers gasped and Bro Clown started shouting, “Who did that? What was that?”
Dr. Clown put her hand on his shoulder saying, “Pookie! Stop it. We’ve got to get out.”
At the same time, Haley stumbled as Clown One stepped away, almost falling, steadying herself, but brushing Clown One’s shoulder with her hand.
He didn’t fire his gun at her. He just said, “Watch out,” took a step back, and grabbed a patch from Dr. Clown. As threats go, a five-foot-tall college freshman (freshwoman?) barely rates. I’d seen something that he hadn’t been looking for though—her poisoned dewclaw being absorbed back into her right hand.
As the patch touched his arm, he blinked—which was more of a reaction than the others had shown.
Bro Clown said, “Everyone ready? I’m beginning to feel it.”
Clown Two closed his eyes, “Yeah. I feel it.”
Clown One stumbled but didn’t fall as he said, “Mmm-hmm.”
They’d begun to walk down the hall when Clown One landed on his face, taken out by paralysis poison before the speed drug could work. I hoped they didn’t interact too badly.
Bro Clown picked up his bag of money. “We have to leave him.”
Clown Two’s face froze for a moment, but only a moment. Then he took his money bag in one hand and gun in the other.
Thinking about the police that had to be back there, I knew what I needed to do next. When they turned toward the door, I set my sonics to a frequency I knew would resonate with bone. Then I tapped the control pads, sending frequencies outside of human range down the hallway.
Haley winced, but no one else noticed.
I didn’t see what happened after that because all three of them blurred as they went out the door. I learned later that even as Clown Two and Bro Clown took their second and third steps they knew something was wrong. By their fourth and fifth steps, bones broke throughout their legs.
Dr. Clown must not have run as quickly or maybe I missed her. Either way, her bones didn’t break. She stayed with the other two when they fell and didn’t resist when the police cuffed her.
* * *
It was more than two hours later when we finally stepped up to Zach Patel’s food truck. Gleaming silver, it sat a block down from the bank. We’d had to go to another bank’s ATM for cash, but that one had charged me an extra two dollars for the privilege.
That was on top of spending an hour with the police. We’d omitted some key details but told most of the truth. The part that we’d skipped could be explained as the side effects of experimental drugs anyway.
By the time we got there, any reservations I’d had about mixing Indian food with hamburgers had disappeared. It smelled amazing—the spices of India mixed with the grease of a diner.
Zach recognized Haley as we got to the head of the line. “You’re in luck,” he told her. “Electronic payments finally work!”
Haley glanced over at me. “We’re so lucky we came today then.”
“Yeah,” I said, “lucky us.”
We ordered and even though I had cash now, I paid with my Heroes’ League card—the one that looked and worked like a personal card. As far as I was concerned, this date was now team sponsored.
Haley glanced around and said in a low voice, “I’m glad you wore your suit but I hope you don’t need it next time.”
“Me too.”
We walked down the street toward the park and an empty section of concrete bleachers in the amphitheater. The smell of curry floated upward from the paper cartons in our hands.
-~o~-
BIO: Jim Zoetewey grew up in Holland, Michigan, near where L. Frank Baum wrote The Wizard of Oz. He has yet to meet a munchkin, talking scarecrow, or wicked witch, but he’s working on it. Jim’s gone to school for degrees in religion, sociology, and information systems and worked in technical support, system administration, and web development. He writes The Legion of Nothing, a book series about teenagers recreating their grandparents’ superhero team. It can be found on Amazon and at http://legionofnothing.com .
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A Wight on the Town
T. Mike McCurley
Two hours ago I was toe to toe with Minotaur, trading punches and kicks while he tried to stop my “nefarious scheme,” as he called it. Y’know, for a giant cow, the boy’s got a decent vocabulary. Now I’m sitting in a hard plastic chair in the middle of a room full of other band parents, listening to some bleached-blonde soccer mom tell us about the record keeping necessary to run the band boosters organization. I think I would be better off still fighting the cow and his gold parachute pants. Behind me, somewhere in the mass of a hundred kids, I know Georgina (my bad—Gina. Because, “Daaaaad! Georgina is just so bourgeois!”) is sitting with her friends, probably making fun of the woman who continues to ramble from atop her cheap wooden podium, because I seem to remember that that’s what teens do. Me, I’m picturing how easy it would be to turn the room into a slaughterhouse, even though Gina says I have to be nice. Imagining it doesn’t count, right?
It feels like it’s about ten million degrees in this room. I’ve got sweat running down my back in a steady stream, and there’s so much on my legs that I can feel it pooling in my boots. It stings like fire when it runs across the abrasions and cuts from the Minotaur fight. It’s amazing, when you think about it. You can take a right cross from a Gifted cow the size of a truck and get back up to keep throwing punches, but sweat gets in a cut? All bets are off.
Bleach Girl is still up there behind the flimsy fiberboard podium, stumbling through her attempt to explain how the kids will be selling candy bars as this year’s fundraiser project. Meanwhile my skull is pounding like a speed metal bass line. I hope the ibuprofen I chewed up before I sat down kicks in soon.
The kids behind me are getting progressively louder as they whisper. I can see several people turning to glance back at them. The band director is standing and trying to quiet them with the force of his presence. He could use lessons. Repeating, “Students . . . Students . . .” over and over is about as effective as one would expect.
I half want to turn around and snarl at the little brats, maybe let the beast out for a second. I can imagine their expressions, and it isn’t a happy thought. Well, y’know, for them. Ahead of me, I see a dad turning to survey the group that is creating the noise. He’s going to stand up. Figures. And yep, there he goes. Look at his bearing. High school football hero. Probably not happy that the kid beside him with the matching crew cut is in the band and not flinging the ol’ pigskin. I’ll give him credit—his glare is more intimidating than that of the band director. A couple of kids actually fall silent in the face of it.
Crew Cut Senior sits back down, smiling with pride at having managed to bluff a couple of freshmen into silence. I guess two is better than none? I sigh as the Director keeps chanting his mantra. Each repetition is like a punch in the temple.
I turn in my chair, hearing the faded red plastic squeak beneath me with a sound like a strangled fart. I ignore it and look for the one I want. There. Centered in the group, surrounded by teens all angled a few degrees to face her. Newest, most fashionable clothes. Hair and makeup just so. Surprise: even Gina is part of her little group.
“Hey kid,” I say, just loud enough to carry. My voice is unpleasant at the best of times, and right now it sounds like the growl of a soul being pushed through a food processor by an angry demon. She looks at me, and I see a look of disgust and ill ease cross her face. She arches an eyebrow, which I interpret as apparently Clique Leader Speak for ‘yes, sir?’, although it’s probably her way of saying she doesn’t appreciate being interrupted in the middle of super special gossip girl time.
I don’t bother lowering my voice when I talk to her, making it clear that I could care less about the meat in this room. “Look, I got a headache that’s getting worse in this heat. Every minute I gotta hear this crew of idiots talk is another minute that I feel like my skull’s gonna shatter. So, I tell you what: You keep your crew here quiet and help us wrap this shit up quick, and there’s half a grand in it for you.”
That gets her attention. Eyes of sapphire bug out as she leans forward. I wrangle my wallet out from the pocket and spread the leather lips open like a distressed puppet between my pale hands. The amount of green jammed inside brings a gasp from the kids. Message sent. I close up the carrot and bring out the stick.
“On the other side, if you keep yapping and making my head worse, I’m gonna find your car out in the parking lot. Looking at you, I’m thinking a baby blue hybrid thing, but a hundred bucks dropped in someone’s hot little hand will point me the right way no matter what it is. Once I know, I’m gonna go out to my truck, get a big-ass crowbar, and go to work on your little ride. When you get there it’ll look like Spring-Heeled Jack used it for a trampoline. So, your choice, sweetheart. Cash or crash?”
S
he hisses a couple words that are alien to me—some kind of teen code, I suspect—and every kid in the area nods. The silence that had fallen with my monetary display remains. I wink at her and turn around. Parents and faculty alike are staring at me like I’ve suddenly erupted into flame.
“You can go on,” I tell Bleach Girl. She nods and stammers into the next section of her lecture. Behind me is a distinct lack of sound.
My head feels better already.
I sit through the next forty-five minutes, baffled as to how some of these people keep breathing on a daily basis. It would have been so easy to just say, “This year, we’re selling candy bars,” and be done with it, but no. Twenty minutes describing how some other band made a fortune with this method. News flash, band dude: No one out here cares. We all just want to go home, where the whiskey lives.
At long last, the director takes his place on the podium and says that we’re pretty much through. I take a long breath through my nose and shove my hat back onto my head.
Nope. Not through yet. Now we’re going to discuss electing new members to the Band Boosters administration. Come on, people. Repeat after me: Aye. Aye. Aye. Keep this shit moving. I swear, if I hear the words, “Point of Parliamentary Procedure” or anything close, someone’s getting their hands ripped off.
“Here ya go,” I tell the Clique Leader as people all start standing. She takes the proffered cash with an almost predatory meeting of my eyes. Her fingers stroke mine in a manner that leaves no doubt: She’s one of those. I cut my eyes to the side and favor her with a crooked, inviting grin. She bites her lip in response, holding the gaze a little longer. I give her the patented call-me-in-a-couple-of-years wink. She looks up into my eyes again, and I can see it: that flash of recognition. Like a rabbit looking into the eyes of a wolf. Her demeanor changes and she slips away.
Georgina is staring at me, and that look on her face is a direct hand-me-down from her mother. I’ve seen it more than a few times. It’s the look that says, “You just stepped on your dick. Again.” and follows up with the unspoken, “You’ll never be the same in my eyes.”
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