Paranormals (Book 1)

by Christopher Andrews

  Stay focused, he scolded himself. Stay focused, and remember this pain when you find that silver-eyed bitch!

  "You all right?"

  Mark started. Vortex hadn’t so much as shifted his weight, and his reaction to the sudden question demonstrated just how strung-out he really was. "I’m fine," he grumbled.

  Vortex nodded his head forward, presumably toward Mark’s facial bandage. "What happened?"

  Mark’s first impulse was to snap, None of your business!, but what would that accomplish? If Vortex was really going to help them, and God knew they needed help — personally, Mark would not have sent Canine away, either — he would need to relax a bit. Besides, if this guy could also zap people with his eyes, then he could have already taken Mark down. Mike must have known that, but their options were severely limited.

  "You remember the chick with the silver eyes?"

  Vortex snorted. "How could I forget?"

  "Yeah, well, she’s loose. She nailed me with that look of hers and let an associate carve me up a little." His pride demanded that he add, "That bastard is dead now."

  Vortex was silent for a moment. Then, "If we run into her again, I’ll handle her."

  "Why?"

  "Let’s just say ‘that look of hers’ doesn’t do much good against me."

  Despite the discomfort it caused, Mark grinned. "I like the sound of that. I’ll keep it in mind. Just promise to go rough on her for me, you know what I’m sayin’?"

  Vortex chuckled. "I gotcha."

  The awkward silence fell between them again until Mark surprised himself by admitting, "By the way, I like that suit of yours."

  " ... thanks."

  "When this is all over, if we’re both still in one piece ... well, do you think that maybe you could hook me up with something like it?"

  Vortex’s eyes first widened, then squinted slightly, and Mark knew that he was grinning. "Shockwave, I think that could be arranged ..."

  PCA

  It seemed to take forever for the coast to clear between the parking lot and his apartment. Michael gave Vortex his long coat — at least it partially covered the costume — and parked as close to the open stairway as possible. The apartments in his complex opened into hallways, but those hallways were unenclosed. The stairs hugged the outside, with only a waist-high ledge blocking open space.

  Michael climbed to the second floor and waited until the hallway was empty. It happened twice, but each time there was someone in the parking lot. Then, when the parking lot cleared, someone was in the hall. Very frustrating.

  Finally, the way was free on both sides, and Mark and Vortex hurried from the car. Vortex led the way up the stairs, but, to his credit, Mark did not lag far behind. Michael opened the door in a hurry and hustled Vortex inside, gesturing toward the living room, then closed the door when Mark reached him a moment later.

  "Have a seat," he told them. "Mark, please close the blinds, just in case. I’m grabbing my first-aid kit from the bathroom so we can clean you up a bit more. No arguments."

  Mark simply nodded, closed the blinds, and collapsed onto Michael’s sofa. Vortex sat in the recliner, waiting patiently.

  Jeez, I’ve got a known, paranormal vigilante hanging out in my living room, and he’s not in my custody. Wouldn’t Brase just love to see this!

  Who knew? Maybe he could see it. The thought reminded Michael that justice still demanded to be served, and whatever regrets he had over accepting Vortex’s help vanished.

  He already had the bathroom door open a couple of inches when he registered the movement inside. He shoved the door away from him and snatched his tazer, a call for assistance rising to his lips ...

  "Mike!" Christine cried. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. A towel was wrapped around her torso, but her hair was almost dry and the steam from the shower had long since cleared from the mirror — she’d apparently been in here, just sitting on the closed toilet, for a while now. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest.

  Michael was dismayed and embarrassed, to say the least, that he had forgotten Christine was here, but he was also concerned about the questionable company he’d brought with him. He could only hope that both Mark and Vortex would have the good sense to stay where they were.

  "I thought you were dead!" Christine was crying, wailing. "I heard the explosion! I heard it! And the news said that so many people were killed! So many! Why didn’t you call me, Mike? I thought you were dead—!"

  "I’m ... I’m sorry," he told her, holding her tight. His chagrin at his oversight grew by leaps and bounds. "I ... I was in charge, I had so much to do. I ... I wanted to call you, but I had no chance to leave, and there were no working phones in the area." Part of him felt like an ass for the lie, but it seemed less hurtful than the truth right now.

  What made it even worse was the knowledge that he needed to get her out of here as soon as possible.

  He held her for a few minutes, both touched and unsettled by the vehemence of her emotions. Then he pulled her back very slowly and whispered, "Christine, I hate to say this, I really do, but you have to leave now."

  "What?!" The hurt and disbelief seeped with the tears from her eyes.

  The feeling that he was, in fact, quite an ass increased as he kept his voice low. "We’re not alone."

  "Wh-what do you mean?" she stammered, confusion now slipping into the mix.

  "My partner is here, and he’s in pretty bad shape. He was banged up even before the explosion today." That, at least, was the God’s honest truth. Next came another ... necessary equivocation — that sounded better than "bald-faced lie," didn’t it? "He’s on edge, in shock. I brought him here to get him under control, but ... I’m afraid of what might happen if he were around anyone but me. He’s a good guy, but he’s had a rough time. I promise I’ll introduce you next time, and that you and I will take an entire weekend together as soon as possible. But ... not now, Christine. I ... I don’t want you, or anyone else, to get hurt. Not after today."

  God, how he hated this! She deserved better, but what was his alternative? Oh, never mind. Come on in, honey. By the way, this is Vortex, the vigilante I told you about. We’re planning an attack on the nation’s most notorious rogues. Want to help?

  Not likely.

  Christine, in the meantime, seemed to believe every word of it, which made him feel worse than ever. "O-oh ... okay. I’ll just ... go home. But promise me you’ll call me as soon as you can?"

  "I promise," he agreed, and meant it.

  She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the heel of her palms, and stepped into the bedroom. "I’ll just grab my stuff ..."

  When she was ready, he guided her back to the front door, making sure to keep his body between her and the entrance to the living room the whole time. He opened the door for her and she stepped out into the hallway.

  "I’m sorry about this, Christine," he said again, wondering if maybe he hadn’t made a mistake after all. But how could he take it all back now?

  "I know. I ... I don’t want to get in your way."

  "You wouldn’t be in the way, Christine. It’s just..." He couldn’t find anything else to say.

  "I’m sorry your partner’s in such bad shape. I’m sorry for everything."

  That struck an odd chord. "Christine ...?"

  But she was already moving down the hall. "Goodbye, Michael."

  That also felt much heavier than it should have. Had he screwed it all up after all?

  Serves you right if you have, you dick!

  He couldn’t argue with that sentiment. He resisted the impulse to call her back and closed the door.

  "What was that all about?" Mark asked the instant he appeared in the living room. His partner wasn’t smiling — not quite — but there was a definite gleam in his eye.

  "Not now."

  The tone of his voice said it all. Mark shut his mouth.

  PCA

  "We should hit them as quickly as possible — within the hour, if we can
— while they’re still celebrating this little ‘victory’ of theirs."

  Takayasu, who had finished applying Neosporin ointment and bandages to Shockwave’s many cuts and scrapes — and supplying him with six extra-strength Tylenol — was now absently shuffling a deck of cards and occasionally laying three or four at a time out on the coffee table in front of him before scooping them back into the deck. It appeared as though he were playing some sort of Blackjack-Solitaire, but Steve couldn’t be certain, and he didn’t ask. "I agree," the ensign said with a nod, "but I don’t know how quickly I can assemble a strike team. There certainly won’t be any paranormal help. Are you positive this friend of yours, ‘Powerhouse,’ will jump in on our behalf?"

  Steve hesitated, then nodded. "As sure as I can be. He saved my life when it would have been much safer for him to continue his facade."

  Takayasu absorbed that, then addressed Shockwave. "Are you up to this, Mark?"

  "I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mike. I’m lookin’ for some payback myself, you know what I’m sayin’?"

  "I know exactly what you’re saying," Takayasu agreed.

  "So do I," Steve echoed, with perhaps a little too much emotion.

  Takayasu regarded him. "I don’t pretend to know exactly what your motivations are, Vortex, but let’s just say I have some ideas ..."

  Steve froze again. So long as they remained unsaid, he knew he could live with Takayasu’s suspicions. He hoped the ensign wasn’t going to spell them out now.

  Takayasu leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the deck of cards momentarily forgotten. "McLane has a lot to answer for, including the hundreds of lives lost today. That means there is a bigger picture than any individual crimes he may have committed before now, however brutal."

  Steve fumed, " ‘We want him alive,’ is that it?"

  "Not necessarily," Takayasu admitted. "We’re going to be outnumbered, and overpowered. If it comes down to kill-or-be-killed, do what you have to. I certainly will." He paused meaningfully, staring hard into Steve’s eyes. "But I will not condone cold-blooded murder. If the bastard actually surrenders, however unlikely that may be, we will accept that surrender. Do I make myself clear?"

  Every muscle in Steve’s body tensed to steel. He wanted to scream, That’s easy for you to say — he didn’t murder your entire family! But, like it or not, he was pretty sure that Takayasu knew who he really was. That meant the ensign had at least some idea of what he was asking. And his similar conversation with Ardette was still nagging at him to boot.

  At length, Steve said, "I ... can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best."

  Takayasu nodded. "I suppose that’s all I can ask of you. Just remember: We’re supposed to be the good guys."

  Steve thought about Lincoln Roberts, and how the young man had reacted to the idea of Vortex. For better or worse, he knew that Takayasu (and Ardette) might be right.

  In the meantime, the ensign had gone back to shuffling and dealing his cards. Not surprisingly, Shockwave had nodded off, his mouth hanging slightly open as he dozed. Steve nodded in the sleeping man’s direction. "I’m worried about him. We have to move soon, and we’ll need him to give everything he’s got."

  "I know. But we’re not going anywhere until we come up with some kind of plan. Even if McLane’s not expecting us, we can’t just walk right up ..." His voice trailed off, and a faraway look glazed his eyes.

  Steve sat up straight. "What is it?"

  Takayasu blinked once, then glanced sharply toward the window. Though he could not possibly have seen anything through the closed blinds, he yelled, "Down!" as he threw himself to the floor ...

  Had Shockwave been completely awake, he would have recognized it as a repeat of the night before: The window exploding inward, the rubber-like figure bouncing into the living room, ricocheting off the far wall and ceiling like the world’s largest rubber ball. Two pliant arms snapped out in either direction, one catching Takayasu in the shoulder, the other barely missing Shockwave’s head. Mark was groggy at first, but upon seeing the intruder, his face contorted with rage.

  Steve, who had followed the ensign’s example, crouched on the floor beside the recliner, waiting for the figure to slow down enough to give him a clear shot. A repellent vortex wave would just send it bouncing around some more. Should he use a compression wave, or his lasers? He was hesitant to cut off any more thumbs, or worse, but...

  Takayasu’s tazer sang and Shockwave’s kinetic energy rippled. The elastic rogue — whom Steve now thought just might be female — was struck from two sides at once, but neither attack managed its full effect. The arms shot out again, missing both targets but forcing the agents to seek cover once again.

  That’s it. Steve prepared to crush the rogue into a tiny little—

  Before he could fire, the door to the apartment was knocked inward so forcefully that the broken pieces sailed all the way into the living room. Steve twisted, preparing to meet the second assault, but when he saw who was leading it, he grinned.

  Powerhouse emerged into the living room, with ol’ Silver Eyes close behind him, flashing her immobilizing light the whole way. Takayasu and Shockwave averted their eyes and covered them with their arms, which only left them more vulnerable to the rubber rogue.

  Steve couldn’t allow that. He stood up, fanning out his cape with deliberate flair.

  The woman turned toward him. Her smile vanished and her inhuman eyes widened. "Oh, no ..." she whispered. In desperation, she flashed him anyway.

  Of course, it didn’t work. "Oh, yes," Steve countered.

  The rubber woman snapped an arm against his chest. It didn’t feel great, but his uniform protected him from real harm. He turned the vortex wave on her, and within seconds she was no larger than a basketball, squealing the whole time.

  "Powerhouse," Silver Eyes yelled, "do something!"

  "All right," the other masked man agreed. He raised an arm and thumped her squarely on the chin with one finger. Steve heard her already broken jaw crack once more, and she dropped, mostly unconscious but moaning in pain.

  Steve released the vortex wave before it started sucking energy from him. The malleable woman unfolded slowly, but the fight had clearly gone out of her, too.

  "Glad to see you again," Steve said.

  "Me, too," Powerhouse returned. "I’ve got a lead on my brother and sister. I think they’re on a ranch out in Riverside. Don’t have an exact location, but it’s a start."

  "And I know who can work on it for us," Steve said, turning.

  Takayasu was helping Shockwave to his feet. They stared at Lincoln and the two battered rogues on the floor. Shockwave seemed particularly pleased to see Silver Eyes in bad shape — he shot Steve an appreciative look, but Steve gestured toward the man responsible.

  "Ensign, Shockwave, may I introduce our inside-man, Powerhouse..."

  PARANORMALS

  Edmond winced as he probed gently at his broken nose. If he didn’t have it set, he knew that it would end up looking like a question mark plopped onto his face, but McLane wanted everyone close by for now. At least he’d allowed Edmond to continue pulling monitor duty.

  The storage complex was all hustle-and-bustle. The other rogues were still excited about the massacre over at the PCA headquarters. Rumors were flying that McLane and Khalkha were planning to issue an ultimatum to the President. Just what that ultimatum would consist of, Edmond had no idea ... if it were even true. He hadn’t heard it from the Big Man’s lips, and so he was taking it all with a grain of salt.

  As he continued to trace the swollen mass at the center of his face, Edmond noticed absently that the employees of the photography shop upstairs next to the studio were apparently going home early. It was just licking at the edge of his awareness that the shoe store on their other side had also closed early today, but then he stroked his nose a little too firmly and the pain demanded his full attention.

  Edmond was doubly glad to be tucked away in the computer room right now, be
cause he would not have been able to join his fellow rogues in their exaltation. He’d first signed on with McLane because the man made a lot of sense. Edmond had lost many friends, and even his wife, when he’d gone paranormal. The rest of society was rushing, not to accept, understand, or integrate the paranormal community back into the American Melting Pot, but to isolate, contain, or control them — hence the Paranormal Control Agency. Edmond was too old to fight the whole world by himself, and so he’d thrown in with those who sympathized with his plight.

  Until now, he’d been able to stomach the occasional deaths as "casualties of war." But this ... this latest atrocity was just too much. The problem was that he had no idea how he was going to deal with—