by Garon Whited
I made sure Francine got to meet Bronze. Bronze and Francine were indifferent to each other; Bronze doesn’t care and Francine thinks metal things are metal things. Francine and I would talk about Myrna later.
The Three took a vote. Her name is Francine. I made sure to let Francine know that. She was good about it, since the Three wanted it that way. She also helped keep the Three occupied around the stand while nothing happened; the charity drive was pretty much done.
“One more day,” Fred encouraged them. “It’s the weekend. Most people can’t make time during the week.”
“He’s right,” I added. “It’s a Saturday. People get stuff done on Saturdays.”
One more day, they agreed. Fred gave me a knowing look.
We sorted out what little we’d collected and everyone went home. The kids went to dinner. I installed a dog door in back. Afterward, I went to collect gems from my attic and cast some spells for later.
Having finished with the day, I took my sunset shower and re-introduced myself to Francine. She was not amused. I tried tackling the problem from a predator standpoint: If I’m the alpha predator, she’s part of my pack, like the kids. That means anything and anyone else that might frighten or threaten Francine has to deal with me.
Francine’s doggy logic liked that much better. Of course, I had to go through it with her again after I woke Mary up.
“New dog?” Mary asked, puzzled.
“First dog,” I corrected. “Nosy neighbor has been trying to peep in the windows.”
“Ah. Have you seen my prybar?”
“The miniature one? It’s in the kitchen. The blackening stuff has dried, too.”
“Good.”
We got our stuff together. She trimmed her hair down to a shorter, sort of pageboy cut and darkened it to a rich brown color. She dressed for cat-burglary; I dressed for fantasy monster intimidation value, complete with armored underwear and enormous sword. Mary looked me over and pronounced me beautiful and terrifying.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“By the way, am I correct in assuming you wear some sort of contact lenses?”
“Yep.”
“May I ask why?”
I took out one of my eyeball contacts and gave her my best one-eyed glare. I’d think it’s hard to tell where I’m actually looking, what with the lack of iris or pupil. Maybe the other eye gave it context.
“Ah,” she gulped. “Yes, that’s a good reason. Remember to take those out before you start trying to terrify anyone.”
“That bad?”
“No. But all they’ll remember is the eyes. I promise.”
“Fair enough. Speaking of memorable features,” I added, putting my eye covering back in, “do cat burglars normally show that much cleavage?”
“Most cat burglars don’t have this much cleavage.”
“I don’t know any professional cat burglars, but I absolutely believe you. May I ask why you’re going with that look?”
“Well, when they catch me, I’ll put my hands on the back of my head, like this,” she demonstrated, “and get down on my knees, like this, and pull my shoulders back, like so…” Under tension, the zipper on her jumpsuit opened even farther down her front. She looked up at me imploringly. “Please, please don’t hurt me…” she whimpered, widening her blue, blue eyes.
“Well, it’ll certainly keep you from being killed out of hand,” I admitted. “It might not be good as a long-term strategy, but it’ll definitely cut down on the gunfire.”
“By then, you’ll rescue me. We’re assuming they catch me, of course. Going in with minimal information means they probably will, but I’ll already be inside when you attract their attention. Sort of a head start when you become the diversion.”
“Ah. Got it.”
“Worked out how you’re going to get in?” she asked.
“Yep. Through the roof. And you?”
“You’re going in through the roof?”
“I’m pretty sure I can get there. I’m not sure if I can land on it without going through it, but, one way or the other, I’ll definitely get in through the roof.”
“I’m not going to ask. See how good I am about not asking? But if you can get me to the roof, that would be excellent.”
“Getting to it isn’t the problem. You’re light, though. You should land without crashing right through.”
“Still not asking,” she told me. “It’s tough to not ask, but so am I. I’ll wait and see. Now, let’s get into streetwear.”
“I thought we already got dressed for our night out?” I asked.
“Yes, but you can’t drive over like that. Trust me. I know this drill.”
“You’re the professional.”
The house was a ten-bedroom, two-storey thing with a lot of roof; I was betting on a lot of attic space. It also had a four-car garage. According to my spying, three of the cars were typical electrics, but Tyrone also owned one of those gas-burning hypercars—low, sleek, and looking as though it wanted to eat the road rather than drive over it. Pity about that. It was such a beautiful car.
We walked a long way from where the cab dropped us off. Tyrone’s place wasn’t exactly out of town, but it was definitely in a more rural type of suburb. This gave us ample opportunity to find a secluded spot, change clothes, and cache our mundane outfits. Mary helped me remove every trace of makeup while we dressed again.
During the remainder of the walk, I kept Firebrand under my cloak; given the misty, drizzly weather, the cloak and hood weren’t too out of place. Mary wore a disposable rain slicker for outerwear, concealing her cat-burglar attire. When we reached the gravel road bordering the back of Tyrone’s property, we stopped by the wall and considered. I didn’t think I could get her to the roof from here, but going around to the nearest side took us along an actual street and ran more risk of witnesses. Mary decided it was worth the risk.
We casually strolled until we reached the point of closest approach between wall and house. I fingered an empowered gem in my pocket—I added pockets to my outfit; I like having them—and put a gravity-warping spell on her. It was of short duration but high intensity; it only had to get her through one major leap. Or, in this case, one major throw.
I laced my fingers together and she stepped into my hands. She leaped, I threw, and she sailed into the air like an inhuman cannonball. I jumped to catch the top of the wall and peeked over. She was still sailing through the night sky in the weird, almost-slow-motion effect of low gravity. I snapped tendrils out, grabbing her in flight, and started guiding her; I feared I might have pitched her right past the house. My gravity-warping spell seemed to be working exceptionally well.
Different universe, different rules for gravity, maybe? Something to look into.
Between guiding her to the target and, toward the end, lifting to slow her impact, she made it to the roof unnoticed. She landed in an acrobat tumble, absorbing the impact and dulling the sound, before she lay down on the shingles and waited for any alarms. I felt her ambivalence through my tendril-touch. She loved the ride and wanted to never do it again until later. Interesting.
I dropped down and leaned against the wall to wait, stretching my hearing for any sound of shouting or other alerts. It was a long wait. I don’t know how Mary got into the house, but she didn’t set off any alarms. Then again, it wasn’t that late at night. Most of the security systems were probably off while people were still roaming around. She avoided notice for quite a while.
Eventually, I heard the shouting. My turn to get into position.
I backed off across the street, armed my own gravity-warping spell, and shifted into overdrive. I flashed across the road, toward the wall, accelerating at unreasonable speeds. As I started my jump, using the curb and the top of the wall as stepping-stones—to the top of the curb, to the top of the wall!—I activated my gravity-spell, damping out some of the planet’s hold on me. My leap thrust some bricks out of the top of the wall. I shot into the air much as Mary did, only with
a flatter arc.
Tendrils uncoiled and reached out, seizing the roof, sinking into the physical structure of it, giving me something to hold on to and pull against, drawing me across the intervening space more quickly. Where Mary nearly cleared the far side of the house, I barely made it to the house at all. It was tricky, landing on the roof without breaking it. I spread tendrils all along my landing zone, hoping to reinforce the roof and dampen my impact. I hit it with my toes, used my legs as shock absorbers, and pretty much went down flat on the thing to spread out the blow. I was glad the pitch of the roof wasn’t all that steep.
I lay there for over a minute, listening. It was a hefty thud, but maybe nobody noticed in the excitement of finding a sneak thief in the house. After a minute or two of listening, it seemed I was unnoticed. Anyone outside would surely have heard it, but, as Mary suspected, these were grunts in suits, not professional security. Professionals don’t run to see what the excitement is. They keep an eye on their assigned sectors while other professionals deal with the problem. Then again, professional security might also be obliged to report criminal activity on the part of their employer, too. Trade-offs.
I worked my way to a skylight, felt around inside it with tendrils, unfastened it, and slipped down into the attic. It wasn’t a finished attic, but it had flooring and piles of stuff in boxes. It wasn’t regularly used and that was perfect.
With Firebrand, I cut through the rafters, or beams, or whatever those things are that angle up toward the peak of the roof. Firebrand half-cut, half-burned through the wood, going through it like… well… At any rate, before long, a sizable section of the roof was more sitting on the top of the house than part of it. That was an excellent start. We also poked a couple of holes in between for future airflow.
I felt around through the floor, made sure no one was in the room, and cut through the floor/ceiling. We made a big hole and I dragged the pieces up into the attic to avoid making too much noise. Once we were down on the second floor, in a home theater room, we cut our way down again, landing in a hallway. I activated a fireproofing spell on myself, for safety, and got down to serious distraction work.
Whistling cheerily, I walked through the ground floor, letting Firebrand play flamethrower in room after room. It would set the furniture and carpet on fire while I threw anything handy through a window. I also ripped the doors off. We managed three rooms in quick succession before the fire alarms went ballistic.
I started going through walls. No one was going to notice over the shrill screaming of the alarms, and the walls were usually drywall; frame structures are like that. Occasionally, there was an electrical conduit or a water pipe. I made sure to cut water pipes; it lowered the pressure for the sprinkler system.
Trouble, Boss, Firebrand warned as I strode through a wall. I turned. A man stood in the doorway of the sitting room I was leaving. He had a shooter’s stance, pistol raised. I knocked the gun aside with a sudden lash of tendrils; they did that braided-coiled-joined-together-tentacle-thing again. It slapped the gun right out of his hands and I played the jet of fire from Firebrand over him. Instead of stop-drop-roll, he ran away screaming.
He didn’t pay attention to fire safety in school.
We kept going through walls and rooms along the front of the house. When we crossed the entryway, I put some cuts around the doorframe and kicked the whole thing into the yard. It rang with an odd, metallic sound as it sailed over the front porch; I think the door was armored. Firebrand set the entryway and the hallway on fire and we moved on. Air was already sucking into the house and up through the holes we’d made coming in.
People kept showing up to shoot me. They ran away screaming when Firebrand set them ablaze. One guy seemed almost to explode—I assume he was carrying several guns or an abundance of ammunition. None of them seemed to remember even the most basic fire safety. What do they teach children in school, these days? Maybe it’s hard to remember “Stop, drop, and roll!” when you have distractions—such as actually being on fire, in a burning building, amid streaming clouds of smoke while the alarms are trying to split your head with the noise and the sprinklers are drizzling hot water all over you.
I was doing my best.
One guard was smart. Well, smarter. The smart thing to do was leave. This guy waited ahead of me, watching for me to come through the wall. He had a machine pistol of some sort. It emptied itself in under three seconds as I came through into the room. Most of the bullets were stopped by the combination of spider-silk layers and polymerized plates. Only a couple found the tiny gaps between plates. Armor-piercing bullets, I must assume; regular rounds wouldn’t go through all those layers of spider-silk.
Contrary to movie myth, I did not go staggering backward under the impacts. Even a human being will usually stand there and suck up the bullets without bobbling around and flailing backward. The bullets just don’t have enough momentum to materially affect something as massive as a grown man. I have about three times the mass of a normal human, so bullets have even less effect. And that’s before we even get into issues like shock, blood loss, and so on.
They didn’t do much structural damage to me, but bullets hurt. The multiple impacts were no worse than a rough massage, but the penetrations were unexpected stabbings. That does not encourage relaxation. It also made me realize a weakness in my plan. Only by good luck did I not take a round in the head. A bullet through my brain would slow me down rather drastically—several seconds, possibly even a minute. That’s a long time to lie down while people shoot at you in a burning building.
Before he could reload, I blinked across the intervening distance and performed long division on him, from crotch to crown. The two main pieces fell with a slurping sound and his blood immediately began crawling over to me. I let it crawl over me, working its way into me, while we continued to ignite the place. My wounds spat out the foreign material—the bullets—as I continued to be a diversion.
I finished my walk along the front wall of the house. The hole in the middle of the house acted like a chimney, sucking air from the outside to drag the fires inward. All of that was behind me, however; my path finished in the garage. With a little luck, anybody important would be there by now, trying to escape.
I was lucky; Tyrone was not. He was in the supercar and waiting for the garage door to get out of the way. I crossed the garage in a leap and landed on the hood, crushing it in, before taking the roof off with Firebrand. I jerked Tyrone up out of his seat and gave him a good look into the fang-filled freakshow of my mouth; I can open wide enough to bite a softball in half.
Seat belts are important. They not only help preserve your life in an accident, they make it inconvenient for undead monsters to pull you out of your getaway vehicle. There’s a safety tip, in case you needed another reason to wear one. Tyrone should have worn his; it would have slowed me down in lifting him out of the car.
“The hospital bills for Mark Spotznitz are nothing compared to the damage here,” I told him, standing on the caved-in hood and holding him at nose-distance. He struggled, kicking and trying to pry my grip loose; I ignored this. “How much did this house fire cost you? One house? Everything in it? A million? Two million? Ten?”
I poked Firebrand through the windshield and it vomited flames all over the seats, setting the interior alight beneath him.
“How much was the car worth?” I asked. “Oh, are your feet too warm? That’s a shame. I hope nothing else happens to Mark,” I added. “I might become upset.”
“Drop him!” someone shouted, behind me. Oh, yes; the garage door was up by now. I glanced over my shoulder as a bunch of high-power flashlights spotlighted me.
“Okay!” I shouted back, and dropped him into the burning interior of the car. While he screamed, I moved, causing the front of the car to skid in the opposite direction. I went forward-left, out through the garage door, planting my feet hard on the driveway to slow slightly, to turn, using the guy on my extreme left like a bounce rail in a pinball machine. He
crunched and flew away while I hammered concrete with my feet, charging down the rough line of tough guys who were only now starting to turn to face me. Firebrand blurred, gleaming bright and hot, carving through mortal flesh and bone as I blasted past everyone. Four men started to fall over, dead and in pieces without yet realizing it. The three outside my reach on that run were still turning to look for where I’d gone.
I came out of overdrive and slammed to a halt, ankle-deep in lawn, standing at an angle. I went back the way I’d come, ignoring Tyrone’s screaming, while blood from subdivided corpses flowed and crawled all around me. Streamers of it flailed upward, wrapping around me like crimson tentacles and sinking into my clothes. The three survivors stared at me while I grinned at them, fangs out, blood writhing all over me, Firebrand blazing brighter than a magnesium flare, white as polar snow.
Their eyes shifted up, at something above and behind me—something about one of the other garage doors? Someone about to come out and shoot me, maybe? A shooter in a second floor window? I glanced back.
Firebrand’s blazing glare threw my shadow on the wall. It was much darker than I expected. Not only was all color leached from the area it covered—I don’t see color in darkness, only shades of grey—but things actually seemed dim within my shadow.
The guy hanging out the window, clutching at his throat, seemed to have my shadow’s hands squeezing his neck. As I watched, the shadow jerked him out the window and threw him down to crunch on the driveway. It shrank down and resumed acting normally.
Yeah. Okay. So, that happened.
That’s new.
Maybe I’ll pretend it didn’t happen and move along.
As for the guys already in the driveway, monsters were above their pay grade. Morale collapsed; they turned and ran for it. I let them while I helped Tyrone out of the burning garage and extinguished him. He wasn’t as badly burned as Mark, but I made my point.
I heard fire engine sirens in the distance. That suited me.