STRIKE: THE HERO FROM THE SKY (STRIKE TRILOGY, BOOK 1)

by Charlie Wood

  “You know, I’ve been wondering,” Jonathan asked from the floor. “What would happen if you didn’t turn all eight at the same time?”

  Harold leaned back. “Well…you don’t want to know, let’s put it that way.”

  With a grunt, the eight-limbed man turned the doorknobs and leapt back to the floor. Slowly, the doors opened, revealing a swirling portal of black energy behind them. The portal filled the entire arch, had a reflective surface like a mirror, and snapped and cracked with occasional bursts of electricity.

  “There you go,” Harold said, walking back to the elevator. “It’s all yours, Jon.”

  “Thanks,” the pale man replied. Then, just as he had so many times the last few months, he stepped into the portal and disappeared into its mirrored surface.

  As easily as if he was walking through a door, Jonathan emerged from the other side of the portal and stepped into a strange city. It was a bustling place, with large apartment buildings, streets filled with sleek, retro-cool cars, and sidewalks lined with vendors selling fruits and vegetables. The people of the city, many of whom had skin that was a light shade of green, were wearing suits and hats and sundresses, and up-tempo jazz music from a street corner band filled the air. The city, known as New Rytonia, was safe, clean, and wonderful.

  Walking through the city, Jonathan made his way toward its tallest building: a skyscraper with three large points, which was known as the Trident and sat directly in the middle of the busy main avenue. Two green-skinned, uniformed guards were watching over the building’s front doors, but they were not concerned when Jonathan approached. They simply opened the doors for him and allowed him to enter, no questions asked.

  On the top floor of the skyscraper, the building’s owner, Vincent Harris, was sitting at his desk in his office and looking out a window at the city below. He was a handsome man in his early sixties, with grey hair that he wore somewhat long, a few inches above his shoulders, and a neatly trimmed grey goatee. He was also very fit for his age, with a well-built body standing over six feet tall, and he was almost always wearing the same thing: a black-and-green uniform with a green insignia of a tiger-like beast above his heart. This insignia could be seen on posters and banners all over New Rytonia, along with portraits of Vincent.

  At the moment, the grey-haired man in black-and-green was listening to a report from his assistant, Chris. Chris was a young man in his early thirties with closely cropped dark hair and—unlike Vincent—light green skin.

  “Tom Paulson let me know that his district received an over-shipment of their food supplies,” Chris explained, “so I had him send the extra cases to the hospital, like you advised. Also, here are the most recent reports from General Thrace about the D. N. project, and also the photographs from your home.”

  Chris handed a file and a photo album to Vincent.

  “Thank you, Chris. I’ll have Rigel look over the report before I take a look at it myself.”

  Vincent handed the file to the third man in the room, his bodyguard and closest confidante, Rigel. Rigel was a towering, barely-human beast, with red skin that was rough like a rhinoceros, yellow, piercing eyes, and a body as thick and as strong as an oak tree. He wore a uniform similar to Vincent, and was nearly seven-and-a-half feet tall.

  “I think that’ll be all for now, Chris,” Vincent said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem, sir. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

  After watching Chris leave, Vincent placed the photo album on his desk and opened it. A photo caught his eye.

  It was a photograph of three teenage boys: a blonde boy with a movie star smile, a dark-haired boy in the middle of a loud, booming laugh, and a black boy with glasses, shy and smaller than the others. The dark-haired boy was standing with his arms around the others’ shoulders, and they were about fifteen years old.

  Vincent turned the page. He stopped on another photo.

  This photo showed a tall, handsome young man dressed in a black t-shirt and black jeans. He was smiling a crooked smile and sitting next to a pretty young woman who was dressed in black and red. They were holding hands and very happy. They were about twenty-five years old.

  Vincent turned the page, but he did not look at the next series of photos. Instead, he stared down at the desk in front of him.

  “Vincent,” Rigel said, breaking the silence with his guttural, graveled voice. “Jonathan is here to see you.”

  Vincent looked up and saw Jonathan standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, thank you, Rigel. Hi, Jon. Come in. Take a seat.” Vincent and Jonathan shared a handshake. “How is everything, Jon? How’d everything go today?”

  Jonathan sat in front of the desk. “Fine, sir. I did just as you said. Didn’t have any problems.”

  “Good.” Vincent leaned back. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ll get started on what we agreed upon right away. How’s that sound?”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you.”

  A silence passed. Vincent tapped a pencil on his desk, studying Jonathan’s face. When he spoke again, each word was given time to breathe.

  “Jon, what we are doing tonight is significant. To both our history and our future. It’s not often one can say something like that and truly mean it, but tonight, we can, and I think we should always be aware of that.”

  He walked to a liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink. Swirling the dark liquid in the glass, he watched it spin around with the ice cubes.

  “We are responsible for this, Jon,” he continued. “It begins tonight and sets in motion everything we have planned so far. Without it, we’ll be starting over, and we can’t have that; it would be devastating to us, and—most importantly—to everyone outside. But you already know all that. At least I hope you do.”

  He looked to Jonathan and smiled. The pale man nodded and smiled back, but he clearly didn’t like to be talked to this way.

  “I want you to know,” Vincent said, walking back to his desk. “I want you to understand that even though I picked you myself for this team, that does not excuse you from discipline. There’s a set of rules for us here, Jon. A set of rules set up by them outside—for us—to make sure we do our job. It’s them we’re doing this for. If someone were to let them down, well…I don’t know what I’d do.”

  He stared across the desk. Jonathan looked back, uneasy.

  “This is the future, Jon,” Vincent said. “Do not fail it.”

  The pale man stood up. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. Everything is ready. The storm will come tonight.”

  “Yes,” Vincent said, “it will.” He motioned toward the door. “Thank you, Jon.”

  When he was once again alone, Vincent sat behind his desk with his drink and looked through the photo album.

  Outside of Vincent’s office, one of the skyscraper’s many green-skinned guards was standing in the hallway, listening to all that had transpired. As he watched Jonathan walk down a flight of stairs, the eavesdropping guard quickly walked in the opposite direction, entering one of the skyscraper’s empty dining rooms. Spotting a balcony on the second floor, he ran to it, leapt, flipped, and landed on its floor with a soft clack of his boots. There was a door there and he entered it, quietly shutting it behind him.

  Moving down a long corridor and away from the balcony, the guard soon found himself in the skyscraper’s main kitchen. A chef was walking toward him, so he ducked behind a corner and retrieved a small metal device from his pocket with a button on its top. After he clicked the button, his appearance changed from that of a green-skinned guard to that of a green-skinned chef, complete with white chef jacket and white chef hat.

  With his new disguise in place, the mysterious guard-turned-chef nodded hello to the other chef, walked through the kitchen, and eventually found himself near a large storage room, which was filled with shelves of cooking utensils and crates of food. After watching the other chef leave the kitchen, the guard-turned-chef stepped into the storage room, closed its door, and clicked the button
on his device one more time.

  This time, the man’s true identity was revealed: he was Orion, a tall, thin black man, with grey hair and glasses. He was wearing black boots, a red coat that reached his knees, and a quiver of arrows and a bow on his back. Leaning against the storage room door, he sighed, tired and worn.

  But then there was a knocking at the door. “Hey!” somebody shouted from the other side. “Who’s in there? Open this door immediately!”

  Orion jumped up. He used a long wooden table to barricade the door, then stepped behind one of the shelving units. Hiding there, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver, pulled it back, and aimed it at the door. The arrowhead began to glow bright red.

  After three loud BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!’s, the door was smashed open, and three green-skinned guards entered. However, the first was immediately blasted by an arrow that exploded in a bright red flash and sent him flying back into the kitchen.

  Stunned, the second guard stepped forward and fired his laser rifle. But Orion dodged the laser beams, jumped onto a stack of crates, pulled his bow back, and shot another exploding arrow, all in one fluid motion.

  The third guard, amazed at how an old man could move so fast, focused on his target and was able to shoot the bow out of Orion’s hand. However, the old man was unfazed; he avoided the next series of lasers, ran down a long metal shelf, leapt toward a hanging pipe on the ceiling, swung around it, and threw another arrow with his bare hand.

  The red streak pierced the air, struck the guard in his chest, and slammed him against a wall. He slid down it, joining his other two mates on the floor, unconscious.

  Orion let go of the pipe and picked up his bow. He was suddenly exhausted; with his face drawn and his lungs wheezing for air, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pistol that was made out of red chrome. Pointing the barrel of the pistol in front of him, he pulled its trigger and waited.

  The faint hum of electricity was heard, and then a red-and-white, swirling portal of energy burst into existence, forming directly in front of Orion. It had a mirror-like surface, floated above the ground, and was nearly as tall as a man, snapping and flashing like a livewire.

  Orion stepped toward the portal, but then stopped—a CRACK! sounded from his back. He reached to his spine, straightening his body in pain.

  “My chiropractor is gonna love this one,” he groaned.

  With gritted teeth, the old man limped into the portal and disappeared. When he was gone, it closed behind him with a SNAP!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN TOBIN ARRIVED HOME FROM the soccer match, his mother’s boyfriend, Bill, was washing dishes at the sink.

  “Hey, Bill. What’re you doing here so early?”

  “Oh, hey, Tobin. I left work at two to surprise your mom.” Bill was an exceptionally kind man in his early fifties who owned a construction business and looked like he just stepped off of a paper towel package. “How was school?”

  “Not bad.” The boy headed to a cupboard above the fridge and grabbed a bag of potato chips. “Same as always, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Tobin’s mother walked downstairs and gave her son a kiss on his cheek.

  “Hey, honey. Did you get that test back today from Mr. Hastings? I’m dying to see how you did.”

  “No, not yet,” Tobin replied. “I guess he’s gonna give them back Monday or something.”

  “Oh.” Tobin’s mother helped Bill with the dishes. “Don’t eat too many of those chips, honey; I packed you some of Grandma’s noodle soup for you to take to work. And don’t forget we might not be here when you get home.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tobin replied. “But, actually, it might not matter, ‘cuz I’m probably gonna go to a friend’s house after work, and then spend the night at Chad’s. If that’s okay with you.”

  Tobin’s mother thought it over. “I guess so. Is that really where you’re going? And how many other people are going to be at this friend’s house?”

  “I don’t know, just the usuals: Jennifer, Chad, whoever. Plus a couple hundred other people maybe, who knows.”

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

  She looked to Bill. He smiled and shrugged.

  “All right,” she sighed. “But be careful. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Tobin walked to her and wrapped her in a hug. “Thanks, Mom. Anyone ever tell you you’re the greatest?”

  “Yeah, that’s great, Tobin, but I’m serious about that: be careful. Now go get dressed for work before you’re late. Remember what they said last time.”

  Tobin started up the stairs, excited and eager for the night to begin. In the kitchen, he heard the phone ring and his mother answer it.

  “Hello? Oh, hi, Mr. Hastings.”

  Tobin stopped, halfway up the stairs, his eyes wide.

  “Yes, he just got home a couple of minutes ago. No, he didn’t tell me what he got on his Algebra test.”

  Tobin grimaced. He didn’t have to turn around to know that his mom was glaring at him. It felt like an eternity before she spoke again.

  “You’re kidding me,” she sighed. “And this all happened today?”

  Another sigh. Two sighs in less than a minute. Not good.

  “All right, well, thank you for letting me know, Mr. Hastings. No, I’m just sorry to waste your time like this. I will. Bye.”

  She hung up the phone. Tobin walked downstairs and looked to her, but she didn’t turn around. She simply stood at the sink, washing dishes.

  “If you still think you’re going out tonight,” she said, “you’re crazy.”

  Tobin stepped toward her. “What? Why?”

  “You know why, Tobin. Don’t play stupid.”

  “I’m not, Mom! Seriously! I didn’t even do anything, it was just a stupid joke.”

  “Oh, it was just a joke. You got kicked out of the cafeteria for two weeks and got another detention, but it was just a joke. Okay.”

  “Mom, I was just being funny. It’s not like I hurt anybody or anything. The ladies in the office were even laughing about it and everything.”

  “Oh, and I guess since they were laughing about it, then I should probably just laugh it off, too, right? Well, that’s not gonna happen, Tobin. Not anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re grounded.”

  Tobin laughed. “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious, Tobin; I can’t allow you to keep doing this stuff. You’re seventeen years old, you shouldn’t be getting thrown out of the cafeteria and getting detentions! It’s ridiculous.” She put a dish in the drying rack. “So, until I know you’re behaving yourself, you’ll be in your room every night, unless you’re at work or eating dinner.”

  Tobin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. This is so stupid. I didn’t even do anything.”

  “No, you never do, Tobin. I know.”

  Tobin stomped upstairs, grabbed his work uniform from his room, and then stomped back down again.

  “This is so friggin’ ridiculous. I seriously cannot wait to get out of this place next year.”

  His mother laughed. “I doubt that, Tobin. Who’s gonna clean your clothes? Who will cook you dinner?”

  He reached for the door. “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Dad obviously did.”

  A silence. Bill turned to Tobin’s mother, but she only looked to the dishes in the sink.

  “Tobin,” she said. “Go to work.”

  Tobin walked outside and slammed the door.

  At 9:25 that night, Tobin was kneeling on the floor of a grocery store aisle and half-heartedly straightening a series of canned string beans on a shelf. After much internal debate, he had decided it would be best for him to just go home and skip the party, especially after what he said to his mother before he left. It seemed to be his specialty: saying incredibly stupid things in an argument, usually the most hurtful things he could think of, and then immediately regretting it afterwards.


  “Tobin!” he heard someone call. He looked up and saw his manager, Jeff, standing at the top of the aisle. “Go get your last carriage pick-up, then you can leave.”

  Tobin stood and wiped the dust from his khakis.

  “Thank god,” he muttered.

  Outside, Tobin saw three lonely carriages at the end of the parking lot, so he walked to them and brought them back to the entrance. As he pushed them along, the sparse sounds and sights of the night seemed to envelop him: the carriage wheels squeaking; the wisps of fog floating ghost-like above the pavement; the broken streetlight buzzing and flickering. The boy suddenly felt very unsettled. That feeling only grew when he realized he was not alone.

  “What the hell?” he wondered aloud. He looked ahead and could see somebody standing in the entrance of the grocery store: it was a tall, thin black man, with grey hair and glasses. The man was standing with his arms behind his back, and wearing a red coat that reached his knees.

  With an uneasy feeling in his gut, Tobin pushed the carriages into the entrance and lined them up with the others. As he watched the old man, the old man stared right back, with a slight smile across his face.

  “Hello,” Tobin offered.

  But the old man said nothing.

  “Can I help you?” Tobin asked.

  But, again, nothing.

  “Look,” Tobin said, pointing to the door with his thumb, “we’re about to close, so if you want something you should probably—”

  “Hello, Tobin,” the old man said.

  Tobin squinted. “Uh, hi. Do I know you?”

  The old man smiled. “No. But I was a very close friend of your father’s.”

  Tobin’s brow furrowed. He looked the man over. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes, Tobin. My name is Orion, and what I have to tell you is very, very important. I know that you don’t know who I am, and that you must be very suspicious, but you must try and listen to me. Okay? It’s very important.”

  Tobin thought it over.

  “Sure,” he said with a dismissive laugh. “What have you got?”