West Pacific Supers: Rising Tide

by Johnson-Weider, K. M.

Jules was silent as they got into the car, but Camille knew he was just waiting for the car doors to close before exploding. All things considered, she wished she was the one driving.

  “The nerve of that woman,” he breathed heavily as he pulled out of the school parking lot. “We have to change schools.”

  Camille sighed. “We’re not going to change schools,” she said. “Meghan just got to this school and she’s doing well. You were just telling me yesterday how lucky we’d gotten that she likes her new teacher.”

  “That was before I met her,” fumed Jules, accelerating to change lanes towards the expressway ramp. His scowl deepened as Camille unconsciously braced herself against the turn. “That woman has mutant-envy. It’s not healthy.”

  “It’s better than the alternative,” said Camille wearily, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t flinch when he merged; he hated when she did that. “The fact is that a lot of people are still prejudiced against mutants. Isn’t it better for Meghan to be in a supportive environment?”

  “We don’t know that Meghan is a mutant,” said Jules, braking suddenly and cursing as a white van sped by without letting him in.

  Camille waited until she felt the car matching highway speeds before she opened her eyes again. “We don’t know that she’s not,” she finally said in a low voice. “But I am. Whether or not she has to deal personally with the difficulties of being a mutant, she will always have to deal with the fact that her mother is one.”

  Jules shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying it’s not difficult to be a mutant, but there is another side to it - the fame, fortune, and glamour side. I don’t want Meghan to get sucked into that, to feel less if she never develops superpowers.”

  “Is that how you feel?” Camille asked quietly.

  Jules took a while to answer. “I don’t feel less, necessarily, but sometimes I feel that I can’t compete.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  Jules shrugged. “True - it shouldn’t be a competition. But it’s hard not to feel that way when our daughter’s teacher describes you as the ‘special parent’ or when your exploits make national headlines and the highlight of my career has been a booking at the Birchmere!”

  Camille turned to look at her husband’s profile. “Are you envious of me, Jules Franklyn?” she asked with a sad smile.

  “Not per se,” he said. “Envious implies that I want what you have. I couldn’t do what you do and I wouldn’t want to. But I would like be given some respect for what I do, even if it’s not saving the world.”

  Camille closed her eyes again. She hated these conversations. She never knew what to say because there was no right thing to say; she never knew whether they were representative of feelings Jules always had but seldom shared or if they were one-off flare ups. Being a mutant was hard; being married to one was probably more difficult than she generally recognized.

  “I’m sorry you don’t feel respected,” she finally said. “I hope that you know I respect you.”

  “Usually,” he said with surprising frankness, putting on the turn signal for their exit.

  “Look,” she said, feeling hopeless. “I’m really sorry that Meghan’s teacher acted like such a groupie. I’m really sorry that I had to ask you to move back to West Pacific after asking you to move to Chicago and then Minneapolis and then the Yukon. I never wanted to drag you all over the place; it’s not fair and you deserve better. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “It’s not the moves,” he said without looking at her, though in all fairness, he did have to watch the road. “I mean, the moves have not been ideal, but it’s more the little things… ”

  “The little things?” repeated Camille.

  “Yeah, like you being late tonight,” Jules offered.

  “Goddammit!” Camille exploded. “I’ve already said I’m sorry about that! I couldn’t help it - you know that! I had to save people, that’s what I do, Jules! I save people. I’m sorry I was late but that’s just how it is sometimes. I’m not trying to blow you off or disrespect you, it’s just… ”

  “I thought you were dead,” Jules interrupted quietly.

  “What?”

  “I thought you were dead.” Jules blinkered to turn on their street.

  Camille stared at him, not knowing what to say, feeling like an idiot. He wasn’t mad, he was terrified! she thought with a sinking realization.

  He pulled the car into their driveway, turned off the ignition, and turned to look at her. “I never know what’s happening to you, Camille. An hour late in your job and, well - I fear the worst.” He looked pale, old, and on the verge of tears.

  She laid her hand gingerly on her husband’s arm. “Jules, I’m sorry, I… ”

  “I listened to the radio but there wasn’t anything about you,” he continued, staring out the windshield at their house; the light inside suggesting that Meghan and the babysitter were probably eating dinner. “We don’t have the police scanner hooked up yet and I left my HoloBerry at home. I didn’t know what was happening.”

  “You don’t have to worry so much,” she said softly, wishing she could put her arms around him to reassure him. “I’m quick and pretty darn hard to hurt. You know that.”

  He shook his head. “Remember Les Mis?” he said.

  She fell silent. How could she possibly forget? It had been their anniversary and they had a babysitter for the first time since moving to Chicago. Jules had made reservations at a fancy Italian restaurant and she had scored front-row seats for the revival of the famous musical. They were supposed to meet up at the restaurant at seven; the show was at nine. She never came.

  “I didn’t even start to worry until quarter to eight,” he said, his voice distant, as if lost in the memory. “You’re always running late. And even then, I was more worried that we’d have to rush dinner or risk not being seated before intermission. When I called, you didn’t answer, but you hardly ever answer, so that wasn’t a big surprise. I just ordered another glass of wine and kept working on the lyrics - I was writing Autumn Day then and I couldn’t get the second verse right…”

  She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

  “Around 8:15 I started getting upset. I thought maybe you’d forgotten. I tried calling Infinity HQ, but I couldn’t get through. That’s when I started to worry. And then I heard the sirens and started to panic. I ran out and grabbed a cab to head downtown, but the traffic was gridlocked. The cabbie was the one who told me that there had been a superbrawl downtown - that’s when I knew you were hurt. I didn’t get to the hospital until nearly midnight. You’d already been through two surgeries…They didn’t know if you were going to pull through… ”

  Camille squeezed his hand again, feeling close to tears herself. “I’m so sorry, Jules, I didn’t mean to put you through that again - I didn’t think…”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes tender and red-rimmed. “I never know what’s worse,” he said, reaching up to touch her face. “To know exactly where you are and what you’re doing, to watch every excruciating blow on live news coverage, or to know nothing at all and have my imagination create endless horrors as I wait. Waiting and worrying, waiting and worrying. Sometimes I think that’s all I do.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, catching his hand in her own. “I’m sorry for everything… I’m sorry for lying to you.” She paused and her voice was small as she broached the topic they almost never discussed. “More than anything, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was until after you’d already proposed. It was chickenshit of me and it wasn’t respectful of you. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad you did, Camille. I never would have had the guts to ask you out if I’d have thought you were Nova Girl.” He laughed suddenly, caressing her hand. “I was just so thrilled to have a young, beautiful woman interested in my music - us folk singers don’t exactly get a lot of hot groupies.”

  She leaned over to kiss him. “You ready to go in?” she asked, relieved to see him smiling again.


  “Definitely,” he said. “Though you know, once Meghan is down…” He ran his hand suggestively up her leg. “I was just wondering…”

  “Wondering what?” she asked with a giggle, slapping his hand away.

  “Wondering if you got rid of all of the old Nova Girl costumes?” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “Mr. Jules Franklyn!” she exclaimed, trying and failing to sound indignant.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  “As a matter of fact, I may have kept one,” she admitted, feeling like a teenager all over again. She smiled to herself as she got out of the car. Another advantage of the new training regime is that even that damned miniskirt probably fits again. But I wonder where I put the matching boots? Maybe Jules could read to Meghan tonight. That would give me an extra 30 minutes to search…

  Chapter 19

  5:13 p.m., Saturday, May 4th, 2013

  100 Lighthouse Road

  West Pacific, CA

  It had taken Seawolf a couple weeks to comb through the news archives, police reports, and team databases to see if there was anything else similar to what she had encountered. There was depressingly little – almost as little as the total amount of information she had on Avalon One, which was precisely nothing. She knew she needed to call Paul to see if he had heard anything, but she kept putting that off. She was still bothered that he had asked her out the last time they had seen each other. It simply made no sense. Of course, she knew all about normals who had mutant fetishes, but Paul just didn’t seem like the type.

  She sighed. It was ridiculous to avoid him; after all, he was the Coast Guard liaison and thus the most likely source of relevant news about her current topic of investigation. But at the same time, she didn’t want to give him false encouragement if he actually had been sincere. But how could he have been? She walked to the bathroom and yet again peered in the mirror at herself. No, Paul had to have some ulterior motive, or perhaps he was just making fun of her. He might not be the best-looking guy she’d ever seen, and his receding hairline suggested that he was probably pushing 40, but so was she, and those weren’t big enough detriments to explain why someone with regular DNA would want to go out with someone as freakish-looking as she was.

  She frowned and tried to put Paul out of her mind as she continued reviewing one of her old college textbooks. She had taken – and almost failed - an introductory course on mutant genetics and she was hoping that the book would give her some ideas about how that eel-like creature she had fought might have developed. It could be a so-called “natural” mutant like she was, but she had a hunch that Eel-thing was something different and probably more sinister. Her best theory so far was toxic sludge dumped off the coast, or an outflow resulting from one of those beach renourishment projects that she found so suspicious. Large-scale pollution happened far more than it should and experience had shown that it didn’t take much released mutagenic compound to cause problems.

  Seawolf jumped as her HoloBerry rang. She quickly checked the caller ID: Coast Guard. She swallowed hard, annoyed that her heart had begun to race. “Yes?” she answered gruffly.

  “Hi Seawolf,” said Paul. “Ah, we’ve got a report that I thought you might be interested in. A fisherman coming back in reported a sailboat that seemed to be abandoned. The name matches a boat registered with the West Pacific Yacht Club - they say it left on the 1st and hasn’t returned. Sounds similar to last time, so I was thinking maybe you’d want to come check it out.”

  Seawolf tried to think of a counterargument, but it made too much sense. “Alright,” she said cautiously. “Where are you now?”

  “Just leaving. Sending you coordinates.”

  “Right,” she said. “I’ll start swimming.”

  It was a beautiful evening, even if the water was still icy cold, but ideal for a long swim. She reached the intercept coordinates with time to spare. She treaded water as she watched the distinctive profile of the 47’ Coast Guard motor lifeboat approaching. When it stopped, she pulled herself up the port recovery well, ignoring the crewman who offered her a hand, shook the water out of her fur, and joined Paul at the starboard bridge opening. He gave her a warm smile. There was something about being out at sea that seemed to put Paul in high spirits. Seawolf could relate. The swim had loosened her tense muscles and she felt invigorated and ready for action. She couldn’t help smiling back, which she almost instantly regretted when his smile broadened. “Great to see you! You made good time.”

  Seawolf felt her pulse race a bit, but she frowned and snapped back, “I’ve done better. So, where’s the boat?”

  “Up near Lake Tolowa,” he said. “She’s a 22’ Nonsuch, licensed to a Philip Summers, an accountant for West Pacific Light and Power. He seems to run her singlehanded, as you might imagine for a catboat.”

  “What’s she called?”

  “Summer’s End,” said Paul with a wry laugh.

  “Prophetic,” said Seawolf.

  “Let’s hope not.” Paul turned back to the controls and the boat jumped forward.

  They drove on for a while in silence. The 47’ MLB had a cruising speed of 22 knots, though Paul was pushing her beyond that. Seawolf enjoyed the feeling of the wind whipping through her fur, or at least she did until she caught Paul staring at her. She had spent most of her career wearing a wetsuit, and it had never bothered her before, but she was now acutely conscious of how it hugged her body. Not that she had anything to hide; she was in great shape. She just wasn’t accustomed to someone looking at her in that way. She fixed Paul with a disapproving stare, and he quickly looked away, coughing as he adjusted his dirty old hat.

  The sun was setting by the time they reached the coast off Tolowa Dunes State Park and began their search pattern. Seawolf stayed out of Paul’s way; the Coast Guard was the expert when it came to search and rescue. She was just here in case Kelp-boy or Eel-thing showed up. While she waited, she ran a missing persons check for Philip Summers and came up empty. Then again, public records showed him to be 52 years old and unmarried; he was probably taking a week-long vacation to celebrate Tax Day being over and no one would find it suspicious that he hadn’t been at work or home for a while.

  Before long, they found the Summer’s End, anchored off the coast and unresponsive. They pulled alongside and Seawolf lightly jumped over as the Coasties secured the sailboat. It was indeed abandoned. No signs of a struggle or anything unusual below. The icebox was even fully stocked.

  She was still poking around when Paul came down, carrying a handheld marine transmitter and receiver. “He had a working marine VHF set,” he told her, gesturing at the radio, “but he didn’t send out a distress call - at least not that anyone received.”

  “Everything’s in order down here,” she said. “He’s got food for a couple days.”

  “She’s a pretty little thing,” said Paul, looking around appreciatively. “Got an outboard motor that looks in working order - heck, there’s even a full spare fuel tank. It’s like he just disappeared.”

  Something caught Seawolf’s eye out one of the portholes, something bright blue flapping in the wind. Maybe a flag of some sort. “There’s something out there,” she said, pointing, and then hurried aft past Paul to get above. She brushed against him as she passed and she felt the scales on her arm prickle.

  It was a towel, knotted around the stern pulpit. She took it down and buried her face in it, letting her superior sense of smell take over. When she looked up, Paul was there. “Anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “A little suntan lotion and sweat but no seasalt. Probably used it to wipe his face off at some point, but not to dry off. Which probably means that he went in, but didn’t come out.” She frowned and swung a leg over the rail. “Better see if there’s anyone down there.”

  It was dark and moody underwater. Seawolf briefly wondered why it was that lately she kept ending up doing nighttime operations. She switched on her dive light and began a circular search pattern around the sailboat, which cas
t a foreboding shadow of deeper darkness. About 40 feet from the boat, she started noticing increased concentrations of small fish. Flashing her light about, she noticed something else - bits of something pale white floating in the water. She grabbed one of the larger pieces and looked at it in the glow of the LED. The fur on the back of her neck stood up: flesh, and it didn’t look like fish.

  She found the body half-buried beneath a protruding rock that created a sort of narrow underwater cave. The corpse was naked and badly decomposed. The flesh on the legs was shredded and small fish swarming the area were doing their best to finish the job. Seawolf felt despondent as she began to pull the body out of the cave; rescue had come too late for Philip Summers. There was a noise from above, a shadow overhead. She backflipped to the side but miscalculated for the closeness of the rock and smashed her left leg badly. The creature above pressed its advantage and lashed out, brushing against her back and sending several hundred volts of electricity pulsing down her spine.

  Seawolf’s body contorted in pain. She started to scream, but had the presence of mind to keep her mouth shut. She forced her body into a fighting stance and got her first look at her attacker.

  It was another humanoid with the neck and head of an eel, but unlike the first one she had faced, this one was wearing orange bathing trunks. It also appeared to be - for lack of a better word - molting. Its flesh was grey and loose and there were open wounds on its arms oozing some sort of pus. The eyes that met hers were small, beady, and unfathomably alien, but Seawolf got the distinct impression of misery. Then it attacked. She dropped her light and responded in kind.

  Seawolf never could remember underwater battles afterwards. Her instinct was always to end the fight as quickly as she could, before her limited supply of oxygen disappeared. She fought with a fierce brutality fueled by the inherently feral nature that she suspected was at the heart of her deepest self.

  She let loose with a flurry of claws, kicks, and punches and was met with an equally ferocious barrage of electricity and physical attacks from this new Eel-thing. As the minutes passed, Seawolf sensed that its electrical discharges were weakening and that when her claws did make contact with the creature, she was ripping off chunks of flesh. As tell-tale black and white spots began to dance before her eyes, she made a final salvo of attacks and was shocked when she tore the creature’s left arm clean out of its socket. Horrified, she pulled herself out of the attack and watched the mutilated creature fall to the ocean floor. She wondered if she had killed it before she ripped its arm off. Shivering, she grabbed her light and swam up for the surface and beautifully clean, fresh air.