Paranormals (Book 1)

by Christopher Andrews

  At that moment, there were no hostages within ten yards of the rogues.

  There would be no better opportunity, and Michael knew it.

  Rogues and norms alike cringed as the side wall burst inward. The debris exploded forward in a steady arc, whizzing past the paranormals close enough to force them to keep their heads down for a few extra seconds.

  Michael and Shockwave leaped through the hole that the latter had created for them. The police had been ordered to hold back for half-a-minute before following them in — that gave them less than thirty seconds to contain the rogues before the place turned into a shooting gallery.

  Shockwave hurtled a supply table, sweeping his arms outward at the zenith of height. The closest hostages were pushed even further away from the commotion by the gentlest kinetic waves he could muster. There would be inevitable complaints of bumps and bruises, maybe even a bone fracture or two ... but at least they would be alive.

  The tall man recovered first, the glow already shimmering upon his forehead. Michael reached into an inside coat pocket, tumble-rolled forward, and let fly with a small, metallic disc. The disc soared like a frisbee, striking the man solidly on the bridge of his nose and pulverizing the bone and cartilage. The rogue cried out like a child, holding his hands protectively to the bloody pulp that was all that remained at the center of his face. Michael continued his forward motion, kicking the rogue in the solar plexus with both feet. The man’s hands went to his gut now as he gasped for breath.

  There was a chance, of course, that he might be able to fire his force-bolts at random even through the pain, and Michael was not prepared to take that risk. He fished into his opposite inside pocket and withdrew another metal device — this one was shaped like a three-quarter headband.

  Even as the tall man struggled to open his eyes, Michael slapped the band against his glowing forehead. The instrument snapped tight, and every muscle in the rogue’s body locked up as it fired enough voltage into his brain to scramble all motor control. The man couldn’t keep from urinating on himself, let alone fire his paranormal weapon.

  The rogue was neutralized, and Michael had not even drawn his tazer ...

  As the P C Agent was kicking Mick, the clawed man moved in behind him. His arms lengthened, the talons hooking as he prepared to rip the Asian’s spine out.

  "I don’t think so," Westmore spat as he thumped the rogue in the small of his back with a narrow shockwave. His effort not to kill, however, resulted in the claws whipping around toward his throat. He fell backward deliberately as the deadly fingertips missed him by inches. "Whoa!"

  "You stupid son-of-a-bitch!" the clawed man raged. He came down at Mark with his other hand, but this time Mark deflected it with a defensive wave. "Why’re you doing this?! You knocked down that wall like it was nothin’! You could be King of the World!"

  Shockwave snorted. "Someone’s seen Titanic one too many times." He laughed as he lashed out, this time much harder. The clawed man tried to pull away, but he was too slow. With a harsh crack, his jaw both broke and dislocated. "Ooh! That hurt!" Chopping his hands across one another, Mark pinched the man’s right arm between two more waves, bending it at a nasty angle. "Ow! That’s even worse!" One more wave square in the face, and the rogue dropped.

  The front door crashed inward, and the police swarmed the premises ... but the danger was over. Shockwave sauntered over to Michael, looking down at the tall rogue.

  "Yikes," he commented with an impressed grin. "Not bad, kid."

  "Oh, I don’t know," Michael shrugged. "Davison Electronics did most of the work."

  "Say what?"

  Michael indicated the band on the rogue’s head. "That’s the psi-jammer Brase was telling us about. I’m the one who beta-tested it, my last semester at the Academy."

  "Ah."

  "What do you say we repay Joseph Davison by making sure that his murderers don’t get away with it ... and that they don’t come back for his son?" Then he smiled and added, "You know what I’m sayin’?"

  Westmore nodded and smiled back. "Sounds good to me."

  POWERHOUSE

  "Hey, Linc, why didn’t ya tell us about Uncle Richard?"

  Lincoln blinked in surprise. He’d been nearing the last step to the third-floor landing — and trying to ignore how the climb had taken no effort whatsoever — and was caught off guard when Tommy suddenly spoke. His younger sibling was at the Coke machine, two Sprites already in hand.

  "Hey, Tommy. I’m sorry, who’d you ask me about?"

  "Uncle Richard. Ya never told us about him."

  Lincoln stood before him now, absently accepting the offered soda can as his half-brother purchased a third one. " ‘Uncle Richard,’ " he repeated nonchalantly, hiding his growing confusion and concern.

  "Yeah. He showed up about an hour ago lookin’ for ya. Him and his two buddies are waitin’ for ya back in the apartment."

  It’s the authorities! They found out about Tommy and Sarah!

  But the thought was discredited almost before it was formed. If the authorities had found out, they wouldn’t bother with any "Uncle Richard" charades.

  "Come on, Tommy," Lincoln said, urging the boy forward with a protective hand on his shoulder.

  The three men were sitting around Lincoln’s small living room. An older, mostly bald man sat with Sarah on his knee, listening intently as she rambled excitedly through whatever story she’d chosen to tell their guests.

  "Lincoln!" she called when she saw him. Leaving the stranger’s lap, she rushed forward to give him her customary hug.

  Lincoln returned it carefully, but his eyes never left the bald man. "What’s this about?" he asked without preamble.

  The balding man appeared unflustered by his rudeness. If anything, he seemed pleased to get straight to the point. "Why, this is about you, Lincoln Roberts. Perhaps you would care to discuss this in private? Or have you already told the children about your new ... self?"

  Lincoln went cold inside. "Tommy," he said in a voice far shakier than he would have preferred, "why don’t you take Sarah down to the playground?"

  "Really?" his brother asked in shock. The apartment complex’s playground was usually off-limits — "too visible" Lincoln had explained — and they’d never gone down there without his supervision.

  "But, Lincoln," Sarah protested, "I was just telling Uncle Richard about—"

  "Now, Tommy."

  Both children recoiled slightly at his sharp tone of voice, but at least neither protested further as Tommy took his sister’s hand and silently led her from the apartment. Lincoln promised himself he’d apologize later, but right now he had way too much on his mind.

  "Who are you?" he asked the bald man. The other two watched the exchange in amusement — the one in the recliner had bright red hair, and the one on the couch near the bald man had terrible acne scars, but otherwise they were nondescript.

  "My name is Richard McLane," the man answered. "And that’s all you need to know for now. What matters is that you are Lincoln Roberts, construction worker and brand-new paranormal."

  "I ... don’t know what you’re—"

  "No." McLane sat forward, and his pseudo-friendly demeanor slipped considerably. "No. Don’t waste my time with that nonsense, Lincoln. This is not a game, and I do not like wasting my time. Do you understand me?"

  Lincoln remained quiet, but he nodded. How far away were the kids now? If he decided to attack these men, would they be safe? For the very first time, he actually felt something akin to gratitude for his new strength. Before, the notion of jumping all three of these men would have been wishful thinking, at best. But now—

  "Don’t even think it, asswipe," the red-headed man lounging in Lincoln’s recliner grumbled. He held up his right hand, and a bright electrical charge crackled between his forefinger and thumb. "Even if you’re tough enough to take this, I doubt the walls around us are. Maybe you don’t care that much for your stuff, but what about the kids? Huh? Be a lot of chaos if the whole damn b
uilding suddenly caught fire."

  Lincoln stared daggers at the man ... but he relaxed his stance.

  "Good boy," the electrical man chuckled.

  "Enough," McLane snapped. The electrical man shrugged and went back to reading Lincoln’s TV Guide. Turning back to Lincoln, McLane continued, "We know who you are. We know what you are. And we’re fairly certain what kind you are. You’ve gained strength and invulnerability, yes or no?"

  "Yes," Lincoln choked through numb lips. "How did you know?"

  "A fair enough question." McLane gestured to the acne-scarred man sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "My associate here has the ability to detect other paranormals. He’s fine-tuning that skill every day, but the specifics are still only up to eighty-percent accuracy." He turned a hollow smile to the man, "Now I believe that would be eighty-two-percent."

  The man with the scars nodded his appreciation.

  "What do you want?"

  "We want you." With that, McLane returned to the casual posture he’d maintained while entertaining Sarah. "Come now, Lincoln, this doesn’t have to be such a gestapo exchange. We’d much rather be your friend than your enemy ... because you’ll have plenty of enemies now that you’re paranormal. You realize that, don’t you?" Lincoln shuffled his feet, which McLane took for an affirmative. "Then you also realize that you cannot hide forever. Sooner or later, something will happen that will expose you. And these days you have more to worry about than just yourself — our research didn’t uncover any mention of your little house guests. I wonder why."

  Lincoln’s heart was racing. His mind was screaming, his emotions were surging ... and he couldn’t think of one damn thing to do about it.

  "I can help you, Lincoln," McLane stated boldly. "I can help you get better food, better housing, better medicine ... and enough money to insure all three for the rest of your lives. All I ask in return is your cooperation. Your ... contribution to our cause. Your cause."

  " ‘Cause’ ..."

  The electrical man ran his hand through his red hair. "Not too bright, is he?"

  McLane silenced the man with a cold stare, then regarded Lincoln once more. "The White Flash happened for a reason, Lincoln, and I’ve finally realized what that reason is — it is a cleansing. Not racial, not religious ... but on some higher criteria we can only hope to one day understand." His eyes twinkled momentarily with manic delight, but he quickly reigned himself in. "I worked for the system against your kind, but I see that was foolish now — I don’t intend to be on the losing side, and I don’t think you want to be, either."

  It finally dawned on Lincoln what the man was getting at, but the clarity didn’t make him feel any better. "Rogue," he whispered. "You want me to be a rogue."

  "A childish term invented by frightened, unworthy people ... but yes, I want you to ‘be a rogue.’ My rogue. Help me, and when the dust settles, you and your little brother and sister will still be standing. I guarantee it."

  Lincoln had always considered himself to be a good person. Not the most pious, not the most liberal, but ... good. Since he’d discovered his new abilities, he’d thought of nothing more than how to hide them. It had never even crossed his mind to contemplate how he might use them. And McLane was right — he wasn’t just fending for himself anymore. If people found out he was paranormal, they’d turn on him. Just like his co-workers turned on Billy Acuna.

  Who would take care of Tommy and Sarah then? Foster parents? Over his dead body.

  God ... it’s so tempting ...

  "I ..." He swallowed, then breathed deep and tried again, "I see what you’re saying ... Mister McLane. Your offer is ... um, enticing."

  "Oooh," the red head whispered, "deep word there, partner."

  Lincoln ignored him, as did McLane, who was again leaning forward. "Would it be all right if I ... thought about it first, Mister McLane?"

  McLane’s eyes narrowed as he studied Lincoln’s stressed expression.

  Why do I feel like a bug under a microscope?

  Finally, McLane answered, "Don’t ‘think about it’ for long, Lincoln."

  "... no, sir."

  McLane stood, and his cronies followed suit. "We’ll be back soon, Lincoln. I would strongly suggest you don’t try anything foolish in the meantime."

  "... no, sir."

  The trio filed out, the redhead crackling a loud pop of electricity between his fingers that made Lincoln jump.

  Breathing deep, Lincoln tried to relax. He started to close the door, then remembered that Tommy and Sarah were in the complex playground and instead stepped outside. As he was locking the door, McLane called out, "Oh, and Lincoln?"

  Lincoln turned — the three had stopped at the top of the stairs. "Yes?"

  "I told the children that I was your uncle. How about we keep that facade."

  It wasn’t a request. Lincoln wanted to charge down there and tear the man’s arms right out of their sockets — it was all the more frustrating to know that he could do it, too. Instead, he nodded submissively.

  "Good," McLane nodded in return with a big, insincere smile. "You’ll find a one-hundred dollar bill on the coffee table. Why don’t you take the children out to dinner for a change? My treat."

  And then, without waiting for an answer, McLane and his friends disappeared down the stairs.

  A small, metallic creak drew Lincoln’s attention. He was not surprised to find that he had crushed his finger tips right into the door handle.

  PCA

  When Tommy got up at 3 o’clock in the morning to go to the bathroom, he noticed that his brother was sitting on the couch, wide awake and staring blank-faced into the darkness. Lincoln had been acting really weird since he came home, and Tommy debated whether or not to disturb him. In the end, he remembered that Lincoln had already done more for him and his sister than they could ever hope to repay, and he decided to try and help if he could.

  "Linc?" he tested softly.

  His brother gave a barely noticeable start before answering, "Yeah?"

  "Can’t ya sleep?"

  Lincoln shook his head. "Nope. Are you okay?"

  "I just had to pee." He walked further into the living room. "Are you worried about something, Linc?"

  "Sort of. Uncle Richard ... offered me a job."

  "Really?"

  "... yeah."

  "Don’t ya wanna take it?"

  "I’m not sure. It sounds like it’ll pay really well. I’m just not sure it’s something I want to get into, you know?"

  "I guess. What would ya be doing?"

  Lincoln looked down at his clasped hands. "Odd jobs."

  Tommy had the distinct impression that he hadn’t really gotten an answer, but he let it drop. He loved his brother, but it was late and sleep was calling him. "Well ... don’t take it just because of us, Linc. We’re doing okay."

  Lincoln smiled. "Thanks, Tommy."

  Tommy nodded and headed back toward the bedroom. At the last moment, he paused and said, "Oh, thanks again for takin’ us to Red Lobster, Linc. It was really good. Can we go back again soon?"

  "... sure, Tommy."

  With that, Tommy staggered back to bed.

  PCA

  Lincoln wasn’t surprised at all when he found the red-headed man at the top of the stairs the very next day. He didn’t bother waiting for the question.

  "Tell Mister McLane I accept."

  VORTEX AND TAKAYASU

  The driver opened the door, and Steve stepped out of the limousine and looked around. When was the last time he’d visited the company grounds? It wasn’t really allowed after the changeover, so it must have been at least three or four years. The main building was unobtrusive and ("to be honest, Dad, a little ...") plain. Spread out by about fifty to a hundred yards each, several smaller buildings surrounded the headquarters. The grounds were largely covered with asphalt, which reflected the sun’s heat in a bright glare in Steve’s thermal sight, a glare that did not and could not actually inhibit his vision. He switched back to normal
viewing and addressed Alan. "Where to?"

  "To your left," Alan answered from the other side of the limo. "We’ve a number of tests to run, and there’s another new development I want to introduce to you."

  Steve grunted an acknowledgment and headed for the nearest doors. The building reminded him of an aircraft hanger, with tall, concrete walls and a high steel roof. He grasped the handle and entered. The interior was dimly lit, but his eyes adjusted instantly. He saw a great deal of empty space in the center, with diverse equipment against one of the walls. A black woman stood by the various apparatuses, glancing over her shoulder at his entrance before returning her full attention to one of the monitors. Alan was taking care of the limo, so Steve strode to her side of the large room.