by Blou Bryant
Wyatt, his brain foggy, still remembered the day that Teri had saved him three years earlier. Her ability to generate electricity, to control the field around a person and turn it against them, had saved him. He hadn’t seen her in three years, but now, here she was, and once again she’d saved him from certain death.
Criggs fell to the ground and spasmed several times, his arms jerking up and down. His face was inches from Wyatt’s. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, red flecks covering the whites, his iris’s a dark gray. His tongue lolled out of his mouth.
Wyatt tried to smile, blood dripping from his lips. “You’re here,” he said and struggled to his knees. “Teri, you’re here.”
“Cmn,” Teri said, or something that sounded like that. She looked different. Taller.
That’s weird, he thought, leaned forward and coughed up blood. He fell forward into his own bloody vomit.
She said something again.
“What?” Wyatt replied, with a shake of his head to clear things, but it didn’t work. Ow, that hurt, he thought as he rolled over. She was with him now, but he couldn’t see her, couldn’t make her out.
“Come on!” said Teri. Her voice was strange, garbled.
He stood and almost fell. She caught him and helped him walk to the car. “You’ve grown,” he said, surprised she could hold him up.
“And you’re an idiot.”
He heard and felt the car start up and race away from the HUC and Criggs. He passed out.
Chapter 24
Wyatt drifted in and out of consciousness, he was aware enough to know that. As he came to, he tested his muscles and was surprised at the lack of pain, given the beating he’d suffered. The room smelled of lavender. He passed out again.
The second, or perhaps it was the third time he woke, he turned and admired a quilt on the wall. It was bright with reds and blues that formed a beautiful geometric pattern. That sealed it, he wasn’t being held by Jessica; she wasn’t the quilt type. Bearded men in Vermont. Single ladies with cats. Grandmothers. All of them loved quilts. Crazy psychopaths sharing their heads with damaged AIs… not quilt people. He let his eyes close and returned to sleep.
The next time he came to, Wyatt managed to keep his eyes open. He slowly let things come into focus and managed to get his head off the pillow to inspect the room. An antique dresser with a shelf for a candle next to the mirror was beside a small sitting table. There were flowers on a stand by the door, this wasn’t a threatening room. It was like his old Aunt Irene’s guest room except the bed didn’t sag as much in the middle.
Wyatt tossed the sheets back and looked down. Naked. A quick glance around the room didn’t reveal any clothing left for him, so he took a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around himself. Cautiously, quietly, he walked to the mirror and examined his face. The right side was black and blue, puffy, but not enough to close his eye. There was a cut across the lip and another on the forehead, but both had closed up. Wyatt stuck his tongue out at the mirror and noticed a cut there, but it was closed up as well. He grinned at the mirror, strangely pleased at the gap where he’d lost a tooth.
“I heal faster than Hannah,” he said to himself and walked to the window. Still cautious, he pulled back the thick curtains to reveal an ordinary, if poor, urban street. A crowd of young men and women milled around two barbecues. Two rugged men served burgers and drinks to the crowd.
When Rocky walked out of the house and took three burgers, Wyatt let the curtains drop back and hurried to the door. He was about to grab the knob when it opened. Blocking his path was Marylyn, the old woman he’d healed several days before. “Um, hi?” he said.
“I thought I heard you sneaking around. Back to bed,” she said, her face gentle yet stern.
“No way. I saw Rocky, my friends are here, I gotta see them,” he said, swaying on his feet. Why are things so blurry? he wondered.
“You will. Right now, you need to recover.”
“I’m fine,” he protested and tried to push past her. She didn’t move and took his wrist, turning him back into the room. When he tried to twist out of her hold, she easily resisted and pushed him back into the room. “I gave you super power,” he said.
The old woman—she had to be forty years his senior—laughed at him and put her other hand gently on his lower back. “Yes, that’s it, I’m Superman, come to bed, my little Superboy.”
Wyatt found himself pushed and pulled towards the bed and wasn’t able to resist. Still, he had to correct her. Comics mattered. “Superboy was younger Superman. I can’t be you if you’re old me.”
Marylyn laughed and Wyatt thought he could learn to love that sound. So full and honest. Only the very young and the very old were able to laugh so freely. “You’re pretty, but a bit dumb. Superboy was also a clone of Superman. So, yes, I could be you and you could be me.”
He fell into bed and looked up at her with awe. Old, happy and she knew her comics. “I could love you,” he said.
“You’ve had a concussion and you’re drunk on scrambled brains, stay down,” she said with a happy grin, and pulled the other blankets up over him.
Too late, he noticed the one he’d been wearing had fallen to the floor on the way from the door. “You saw me naked,” he said and blushed.
“Trust me, ain’t nothin I haven’t seen many times before,” she said. “Relax and stay here, I’ll bring your friends to you.”
He thought this must be what drunk was, despite his complete lack of experience. Already drifting off, he smiled up at her as she tucked a pillow under his head. “I love you,” he said.
With a kiss on his forehead, she laughed as he passed out.
***
Wyatt woke again, this time with greater ease. The room startled him for only a moment as he opened his eyes. Marylyn was sitting in a rocking chair at the foot of the bed, knitting.
“Hello again.”
“Hi,” he said, remembering their last interaction with mild shame. “I was a bit out of it.”
“Concussion’ll do that to you.”
“Are my friends here?”
“They are; do you want to see them?”
He started to say yes, then stopped. “Teri, I should see her first, she saved me again.”
Marylyn chuckled. “Did she? How’s that?” Her voice was deep, almost a baritone, not very feminine, and not what he expected from someone who looked like her. Matronly, that was the word.
Wyatt hesitated, he didn’t know this woman and his caution after years of protecting Teri and the rest of the Dogs kicked in.
“She has powers, does she? Mental powers, the ability to get people to do what she wants?”
Wyatt locked eyes with the old woman, surprised at what she knew. With a nod, he decided that he could trust her, especially if his friends were here.
“And she can use the electricity in someone, in herself, even in the air around us, as a weapon?”
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “She did it again, saved me from Mr. Criggs.”
“Mr. Criggs?” Marylyn asked. The old woman reached under her knitting and pulled out a small, square gun. “Seems formal, for a fight. So, she can shoot electricity, like this little thing?” Marylyn asked and placed a Taser on the bed.
“Yes, exactly,” he said and looked from her to the gun and back.
“And…” she said, with a smile. “Come on, you’ll figure it out.”
Electricity, like from… “Oh,” he said.
“There you go.”
“You saved me?”
With a sly smile aimed in his direction, she kept knitting. “I owed you, and an old woman’s got some tricks in her.”
“How?”
“With this little thing,” she said, pointing at the gun. “Lit him right up.”
“Yes, I…”
“I know you know; I’m having fun with you. A couple of my boys, we heard there was a riot and went to see if anyone needed help. Some kids said there was someone being hunted by a bunch of Richie Riches from
the suburbs, so we went looking. Found you, lying on the ground, getting your rear handed to you.”
“Lucky,” he said. “And you, the healing…”
“Too early to tell, but I’m feeling good. Lucky had nothing to do with it. Good Lord put me there to save you as payback. Gave me the gun, too. He helps those who help themselves.”
Wyatt turned away.
“Oh, you can run through a zone like that, fight a bunch of men, but God talk scares you?”
“My parents never believed. I don’t.”
“So? I didn’t say you had to, although a bit of belief might not be bad. You’re in a tough spot.”
The sound of her needles and a faint murmur of people outside was the only noise for a time. “True,” he said, remembering the beating he’d taken. “He’s too strong.”
“What, that big guy?”
“Ya, the really big guy. He handed me my ass,” he said. “Sorry for the swearing.”
“I’ve heard worse. So, he’s too tough?”
“If I had powers, like him…” said Wyatt, thinking for the first time in his life that perhaps drugs or augmentation wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Uh-huh,” she said, continuing her knitting.
“Although, if I’d known he was immune to pain or that he had extra strength, perhaps…” Wyatt continued, rethinking the fight. “Other than that, he’s crap in a fight.”
Wyatt remembered how slow Criggs had been. If I’d gone for the throat or the chest, anything to make it hard for Criggs to breathe. Or broke a leg. Or knock him out, like he’d did to one of the others. A good hit to the side of the head, the back of the head, the chin, the cheek, there were many ways to knock a man out. “You’re right, I could take him.”
“Well, it sounds like you want a rematch. Don’t need more powers, do you?”
“Sometimes it’d be nice to be powerfully altered, but most days, it’s a burden. I carry this thing inside me that builds up, I gotta use it, but it’s only for others, not for me.” He paused. “Why am I sharing so much with you?”
She shrugged, and the two lapsed into silence, only the sound of her needles tapping against each other and the faint murmur of people outside intruding. The line between thoughts and dreams faded, and he fell back asleep.
***
The sound of the door opening and closing took him from a half sleep state, but he didn’t open his eyes immediately. Someone sat beside him, but he felt safe, comfortable even, and wasn’t yet ready to get up. He didn’t have a plan.
Minutes passed in quiet, it took a touch of a cool hand on his forehead to make him look up and he was overjoyed to see his best friend. “Hannah!”
“I thought you might be awake. Lie still, I’m here for another round of healing.”
He struggled up, despite her protestations and pulled her in for a hug. “I was so worried about you,” he said. “And everyone, the twins, Sand, Rock, the rest. I saw that old woman I’d healed, but she didn’t tell me anything.”
“She said you’d passed out,” Hannah replied.
Wyatt lay back down, he was feeling like he might again. He remembered their conversation from earlier and asked, “Marylyn saved me?”
Hannah nodded. “That’s what she said. Something about you getting the crap kicked out of you. And the way you looked when she brought you in, I believe her,” she said with a gentle, but mocking smile.
“He’s altered, very altered,” Wyatt said, by way of explanation.
“We know. The girls told us.”
“Girls?”
“The twins. They’re here, they got away because of you.”
A huge weight came off him, hearing that. “What about…”
“Patterson is recovering at the hospital; Custer is with him now. Both were arrested, but the lawyers got them bail.”
“Thank god. Is everyone here? I saw Rocky, at least I think I did.”
“A few of us are. Sandra, Rocky, Timo, the twins, four others.”
He tried to get up, he wanted to talk to everyone, but lay back down. “We need to take the battle to them.”
“Shh, not now,” she said, but smiled. “You’re healing well, but you need another day.” She put her hand on the side of his head, closed her eyes and a prickly warmth filled him.
It wasn’t the first time she’d use her powers on him—they’d been necessary after many bouts with Rocky. She didn’t transform people like he did, but she could heal them. He’d asked her once how it worked and she’d shrugged and said that she got the body to do what it did naturally; she was a cheerleader, not a surgeon.
He closed his eyes and let her help him. He fell asleep again.
***
The sound of needles clicking together woke him. The darkness on the other side of the curtains told him it was night now, the only light a small one next to Marylyn. “Hello again,” she said as he stirred.
“Do you have my phone?” he asked.
“We do, it’s in the other room. Turned off.”
“Good, I need it.”
“Ready to fight, are you?”
“I am.”
“They’re powerful,” she said but didn’t sound perturbed.
“Altered, like us. They’re stronger, too.”
“So, how are you going to win? Fighting’s good, winning’s better.”
That was the hard question. He wanted action, to fight back, to punish them for making him and his friends run, hide, for the fear they’d inspired, for the unfairness of it all. “Do you win? You’re a community organizer, a poverty activist. Look around the city, have you won?”
“War’s not over, ain’t won or lost. But battles, I’ve won thousands. Young girls got help with their kids. Young people got to schools, schools got paper, paint, supplies. Parents got food for families. Users got off drugs and fighters put down their guns.”
“That’s deep,” he said.
She cackled and smiled at him. “Comes with age, you’ll get it too. Say enough stuff, you learn what sounds smart and what doesn’t. The trick is to keep saying the smart things and stop saying the stupid things. Life’s just practice.”
It was his turn to smile. “Perhaps I’ll get there someday.”
She played at a doubtful look and grinned. “Perhaps. So, you have a plan?”
“I do. But I need to get some people to do things they don’t want to do.”
“Uh-huh. Then they won’t do it.”
“That’s the problem.”
“No,” she said, put down her needles and picked up a cup. She considered him as she took a sip. “You’re the problem, thinking you’ll get em to do what you want. Figure out what they want and find a way to make them want what you need to get.”
Wyatt looked up at the spackled ceiling. “I’m not sure if that made any sense,” he said, but his mind was racing. “You mean I need to make them believe it’s about them?”
“I mean make it about them. It’s not all about you. Do for others, others do for you. How do you think I get girls off the drugs?”
He shook his head, “How?”
“I don’t, they do. I help them. If they don’t want off, they don’t get off.”
He turned in the bed and met her gaze. “Isn’t that selfish, if people only help me because I help them?”
She frowned at him. “Selfish is you thinking they’ll help you just because you’re you. It’s the opposite of selfish to consider their needs, their feelings. Figure out what you can do for them, start from there.”
“You sound like Sandra. Everyone wants me to grow up so fast.”
“The world needs you to grow up fast. We’re just helpin’,” she said, gently.
The room went silent as he reconsidered what he needed and looked at everything from the perspective of others.
One, he thought. “So the computer guy…”
“Seymour…”
Wyatt raised an eyebrow, how’d she know of him? “Yes, he doesn’t like to be a target, he’s scare
d.”
“So, don’t make him one, make him secure.”
“But I need his skills and he is, I already got him in danger from…” he hesitated as if saying her name would summon her.
“Jessica?” Marylyn asked. At his surprised expression, she said, “I know more than you think. So, can you help him?”
“Help him not be a target? And still get his help?”
“Tough, isn’t it?”
“It’s like a chess game.”
“You play?” she said, sounding surprised.
“The only club I ever joined, the chess club,” he said with pride. Used to be he avoided talking about it, avoided being seen entering the room for meetings, but he was well past that now.
“Who else?” she asked.
Two. “I need a cop to help us out. They have the police on their side, we can’t fight them. I don’t want to hurt police officers.”
She smiled in agreement. “Most cops are good people making their way through the day to feed their families. Not their fault there are bad ‘uns out there. Not their fault the system’s bad. They enforce the rules ‘cause rules is all they got left.”
“Exactly, but the only one I know who could help, he doesn’t care, he’s given up.”
Putting her cup down, she picked up her needles and started knitting again. “Has he? Make it sound like a terminal illness. He ain’t got the big C, he’s lived life and is tired. You think he wanted to give up?”
Wyatt shook his head, no. “So I need to help him...”
“Be who he is, as I said, can’t make a tiger into a tree.”
“You didn’t say that,” Wyatt said, but it was an offhand comment, he was thinking now. She didn’t respond. “He’s not a tree, he hasn’t given up. He’s bitter because he still cares. He’s a tiger, in a cage.”
“So, let him out. Be careful, though, don’t expect him to say thank you and do your bidding.”
“I know,” Wyatt replied. He’d taken her lesson. “He has no reason to trust me, no reason to believe this will work out for him. I can’t expect him to sacrifice himself for me.”