Extremis

by Marie Jevins

  The men crossed the road and climbed a rocky driveway, passing old pickup trucks and doghouses.

  “I sleep there when the wife throws me out,” said Slim, pointing to an old truck.

  “Looks like you use it for target practice, too,” said Mallen. The truck was covered in bullet holes. Slim reminded Mallen of his dad. He’d have to stop back by here after his business in Washington, find out how Slim knew so much about the Civil War. Maybe he could help Slim with the quarry, now that he was so strong. Be nice to help good Americans do concrete, useful stuff.

  “Yeah, I set up bottles there and shoot. That’s why I drink all the time,” said Slim. “I need the bottles.”

  “C’mon, Blue.” Slim stopped at the top of the hill, outside a trailer. He fastened Blue to a chain outside a doghouse and walked Bob over to another little house. Slim headed to a pump in the yard, pumped the handle a few times to fill up a bucket with water, then walked to both doghouses to fill up the water bowls. The dogs both flopped down, exhausted from their outing.

  Smoke rose up from a chimney pipe in the corner of the trailer. “Let’s go in and have some coffee,” said Slim. “Then we’ll go look at Mosby’s fort.”

  They climbed the few stairs to the dusty old trailer. An old black man with glasses sat in a rocking chair next to a woodstove, watching television.

  “Hey, Popcorn! You got lunch ready? I have a guest.” Slim turned to Mallen. “My wife’s name is Sonny, but I call him Popcorn. Been callin’ him Popcorn for three decades, not gonna stop now just because it annoys him.”

  “Him?” Mallen stood, shocked amid the dust of the little trailer.

  “Yeah, my wife’s a he! Don’t tell me you’re one of them city slickers with some kinda strict ideas about how life is. Nothin’ ain’t ever like you think it’s supposed to be. You gotta live your own way. Gotta follow your heart.”

  “Slim,” Popcorn said, “what the hell were the dogs chasing? I heard them barking all the way up here.”

  Mallen stared at Slim and Popcorn now, uncertain how to react. Part of him wanted to bash Slim’s brains out, then burn up the whole trailer with Popcorn inside of it. But instead, he mumbled to Slim that he didn’t care all that much for Mosby.

  “I gotta go,” said Mallen. “Nice to meet you. I got a meeting with the president.”

  He turned and hurried away. But as he went, he heard Slim hollering after him.

  “Read up on Mosby, boy! Joined the Feds after the war—knew when to stop. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

  Slim went back to playing his harmonica. The joyful sound of the harp followed Mallen like a ghost, all the way down the mountain, as he made his way toward the state road through the valley.

  S E V E N T E E N

  Iron Man flew high over Texas, Arkansas, and Tennessee, his gold-and-red armor gleaming in the bright morning sunlight. He had just passed Cumberland Gap—where Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia meet—and zoomed over the mountains and gorges that looked like a green spine from the air. Geological and agricultural information flashed across his HUD as he glanced at the landscape below.

  He was on his way to Washington, D.C., hunting for Mallen. His newly enhanced armor allowed him to scan through thousands of law-enforcement databases, much faster than before. Images flickered before him, almost at the speed of thought.

  But his mind kept wandering to the scenery. He remembered meeting a couple of women, once, who’d said they were going to hike the Appalachian Trail. Maybe I’ll try that one day…see if Rhodey or Pepper wants to come along. But with my luck, I’d wind up alone at 5,000 feet with Mrs. Rennie.

  Mallen’s name popped up on some search results. Tony used his optical systems to click each entry open, read it, then click the next.

  “Let’s see…Mallen,” Tony read aloud. “No first name? Okay, Mallen it is. Parents were killed twenty years ago in a shootout with the FBI after his father shot a federal agent. Shuttled from foster home to foster home, primarily a ward of the state of Texas. Described as bitter, erratic, racist views, low I.Q., no known intimate relationships. Well, that’s not exactly a shock.”

  He scanned down. “Frequent legal trouble, extremist beliefs, probable substance-abuser, several weapons arrests, no convictions. Many low-end service jobs, none long-term. And a poor dresser, too, based on the one time we met. He’s a charmer.”

  Jarvis suddenly broke off the data stream.

  “Multiple small mammals are approaching,” said Jarvis.

  “What? Flying monkeys? We’re fifty feet in the air. Could you be a bit more speci…”

  Then Tony was engulfed in a swarm of squeaking blackness.

  “Gah! What the…?” Tony dodged and weaved rapidly, but the tiny, flying animals were all around him. He lurched and veered, surprised at his own incredible speed. He was totally surrounded, and the only light he saw came from his boot jets. “Bats! Jarvis, identify species.”

  “These are little brown bats, Mister Stark.”

  “I can see that, genius. Maybe you need an Extremis upgrade, too.”

  “I have access to thousands of databases via my Zipsat due to your upgrade, sir. These are Myotis lucifugus. One of the most common bats in North America.” Jarvis displayed a Fish and Wildlife Service file.

  “Oh, I see,” said Tony. “Little brown bat really is its name. I, uh, knew that. Scan article for description of diurnal activities.”

  “Daytime activities include sleeping and grooming.”

  “My kind of people.”

  The creatures continued to surround him, flapping and screeching. Why was he surrounded by flying bats during daylight hours? Suddenly, he remembered that his hearing had improved. What would the bats sound like to his Extremis-enhanced ears? “Jarvis, give me frequency scaling.”

  He slowed to a hover now and listened. Tony had made his first bat detector in second grade, so he was curious about the audible difference between his science project and his own newly improved ears. He heard a deep rumbling in the distance—but between dodging bats and listening to the remarkable spectrum of their chirps, he didn’t give much thought to the distant noise.

  “Switch on echolocation. Let’s see if I can fly like them, too, without visuals.”

  Iron Man listened to the bat squeaks, fascinated. He glanced at the volume control on his HUD and turned it up. Then a little more. Then more.

  WHOOOOM! A thunderous boom startled Tony. He fell to the ground, still blind, landing flat on his face.

  The rumbling. He’d been so busy with the bats, he hadn’t investigated it.

  “Two persons are nearby,” stated Jarvis, flatly.

  “Ugh. You can lower the volume a bit,” said Tony.

  Iron Man rolled over and sat up. Above him, the pack of bats dissipated, flapping away. He glanced around. He’d fallen into a small limestone gorge. He spotted a craggy overhang that had doubtlessly been home to the bats.

  Then he noticed: Just below the rugged overhang, two hikers stood frozen in fear. The rocky cliff above them shuddered, rumbling louder now. Threatening a rockslide.

  In a flash, Iron Man fired up his jet boots and zoomed toward the hikers, maneuvering swiftly through the gorge. He’d grab them both and have them out of the way before the rock gave way.

  Since he’d become Iron Man, Tony had trained himself to head straight into danger—to run toward fear rather than away from it. Extremis had made him all the faster. Tony marveled at his own speed and precision.

  Then he overshot, smashing right into the cliff face at a hundred miles an hour. The impact jarred his helmet, dazing him. He shook his head, dislodging himself from the rock.

  Looks like your serum is a little too powerful, Maya.

  Then, to Tony’s horror, the cliff around him collapsed. Rocks, roots and dirt hailed down all around him.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  My fault, he thought. Again.

  One of the hikers, a young blond man in a “Virginia is for Lovers
” baseball cap, hesitated; the other, a college-age woman in a red T-shirt, started to run. She moved left, then right, but rocks were crashing down all around her. She covered her head and knelt.

  “This area was once a vast inland sea,” said Jarvis. He was still receiving information from local and national databases.

  “What? Repulsors, now!” Iron Man backed up against the remains of the cliff, anchoring himself as best he could. He stretched out his arms and sprayed a volley of bright, focused micro-bursts, hundreds of them flashing across the landscape like a light show at a heavy-metal concert. Each repulsor burst precisely targeted a single piece of rock or debris, exploding it with the force of a stick of dynamite.

  A light mist of dust settled on top of the hikers.

  Huh. Tony looked at his palms, considering his new, pinpoint repulsor control. He’d been able to produce the precise barrage of micro-bursts with just a thought. Lesson number one: Learn to use your tools. Lesson number two: And what a set of tools they are.

  Another low rumble came from above, reminding Tony of the emergency at hand.

  He jetted down to the hikers.

  “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing one under each arm. He lifted them up, rose above the trees, and slowly flew half a mile east. He landed cautiously alongside a trail, gently releasing his two passengers.

  They looked both dazed and relieved. “Crikey,” said the female hiker. “That was fun. What’s next?”

  “Australian, huh?” Tony hadn’t realized the hikers were foreign tourists.

  “Yeah, we’re from northern New South Wales, near the border of Queensland,” said the young man. “It’s green, like here. Have you been, Iron Bloke?”

  Jarvis cut in again. “Augusta County sheriff’s department radioed in a Mallen sighting to the state police yesterday afternoon. He bought coffee at a gas station, and a local recognized him from the newspaper. Confirmed by surveillance-camera footage.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Jarvis located the police video and streamed it to Tony.

  “Yep, that’s our man. Any more?”

  “Additional sighting: a 7-11 in Prince William County.”

  “He’s almost to Washington,” said Tony, suddenly worried. “I have to go.”

  He rocketed into the air without even saying goodbye.

  On the ground, the couple watched him go. “Take it easy, Iron Bloke,” the Australian man called out.

  E I G H T E E N

  The morning sunlight shone in through the window of the campground cabin. Mallen had broken into the cabin at midnight. Now he rolled over on the double bed and sat up.

  He flexed his arms a few times, marveling at the strength and stamina he’d had the last few days. Running from Texas to Virginia had been less exhausting than walking a football field had been last month. He wished the camping cabins came with bedding and indoor plumbing, but this had been a decent place to spend the night. And free, if breaking locks is no problem for you, he thought.

  The bathhouse was a short walk away, so Mallen got up to have as routine a morning as he’d had all week. He headed over to the men’s side of the bathhouse and went into one of the shower stalls, to stand under the deliciously warm water for five minutes. All his senses had been improved, and the shower echoed in his ears as a steady stream of water pounded the tile. He smelled the chlorine in the water, heard the shower next to his, could hear from the tone of the water when the man in the next stall soaped up or rinsed off. He also heard the man breathing loudly—he was slightly overweight. Mallen could sense so many things now.

  He felt newly energized. He was ready for today’s mission, ready to fix the country. Men with badges were insignificant and had no right to try to control him. Soon, they’d understand that. The world would be back on track.

  Dripping wet and naked, Mallen looked for a towel. There wasn’t one, so he shook off like a dog, picked up his dirty clothes, and left the stall. An old beach towel hung over the door next to his, so he grabbed it and used it, then threw it in the sink. Some men’s clothes hung there, too. The jeans were too big, and the shirt would hang loose on his frame. But at least it didn’t smell like it had been worn for three days, the way his own shirt did. That’ll do, he thought as he pulled it over his head.

  “What the hell are you doing?” An unshaven, naked, middle-aged man, flabby and dripping wet, stood outside the shower now, glaring at Mallen. “That’s my shirt. My towel. You filthy freak—who do you think you are?”

  “Your jeans are too big,” said Mallen. “You need to cut back on the all-you-can-eat buffets, man.”

  The man sputtered in shock as Mallen turned and walked away. He felt the wet towel hit him on the back now, thrown by the angry camper. Mallen turned back slowly to face him.

  “I was trying not to cause a fuss,” said Mallen. “It’s just a towel. A shirt.” He reached an arm out, wrapped his hand around the man’s thick neck and squeezed.

  The camper’s eye bulged as Mallen lifted him from the floor.

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” said Mallen. “You should be grateful that I need your clothes. I’m a hero, and you’re nothing. I’m going to let you go, this time, because you don’t understand.”

  He dropped the man to the floor. As the man gasped for breath, Mallen picked up the jeans and rifled through the pockets. A phone. He tossed that into the sink with a clatter, then turned on the faucet. Didn’t need this guy calling the cops. A wallet. He took the wallet and dropped the jeans back to the floor.

  “Five bucks. That I can use.” Mallen paged past photos and business cards, then came to a work ID.

  “What’s this?” He studied it, then looked at the naked man, lying before him on the tiles. He stepped closer and used his foot to press the man’s head to the floor.

  “You work for the government?”

  “Just…just a clerk. I’m in maps. I make maps. For the Army.”

  Mallen stared at the man, gross, slippery, and squirming. The Army. How did Mallen feel about the Army? Was this man a true American or a traitor?

  For the second time in two days, Mallen was confused about someone he’d met. He wondered now whether maybe he should have burned the mountain man’s trailer.

  Oh, to hell with it, he thought. He took his foot off the man’s head, lifted him by the throat, and threw him back into the shower stall. The man hit the wall and slumped to the floor, leaving a red trail of blood down the wall.

  “Either he lives or dies,” said Mallen. “Let God choose.” He pulled the shower stall door closed and left the bathhouse.

  Mallen stopped at the camp store to pick up a cup of coffee and a corn muffin. He sat down on a bench in front of the store to enjoy his coffee in the morning sun.

  He chuckled at yesterday’s newspaper on the bench next to him.

  TONY STARK FAILS.

  It bothered him that the newspaper said Iron Man was still alive. Should have finished him off. Now he’ll be coming after me, Mallen realized.

  “Morning,” said a husky voice. Mallen looked up to see a man in a uniform approaching.

  Mallen tensed up and slowly placed his coffee and muffin on the ground. He hadn’t paid for the cabin or the park entry fee, and he only had the five bucks he’d taken from the guy in the shower. And what about the guy in the shower? Were the rangers already looking for him? Impossible…it would take hours before a cleaner or camper curiously pushed open the stall door. Unless the blood had trickled out into the tile floor.

  Fight or talk, he thought. He could easily take this man’s head off with a swift blow, but that would make the other campers nervous, and he didn’t feel like killing anyone at the moment. He felt like finishing his breakfast.

  “Morning, officer.”

  “What? I’m not—oh, this.” The man motioned at his pale-blue wool trousers and hip-length navy-blue jacket. He lifted up a musket Mallen hadn’t spotted before. “I’m a reenactor! We’re doing a living history event at t
he Civil War battlefield next door. You wanna come by? I got a spare uniform.”

  Mallen chuckled. “What, me, a government conscript? No thanks.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip. “I’ve got a little reenacting of my own to do up in Washington, D.C. I’m thinking about playing John Wilkes Booth.”

  The reenactor looked puzzled, then gave a nervous, uncertain laugh. “Be careful with that role. His big plans didn’t do much for him, in the end.”

  “He died for his country.”

  “He should’ve stuck with Shakespeare. I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late attacking Stonewall Jackson.” The actor turned away, then stopped for a second and looked back. “If you make it to the battlefield sometime, try the cell-phone tour.”

  Mallen nodded and finished his coffee. He glanced around at the tall trees that shaded the campground, and the brilliant pink and blue hues of the morning sky. He had about thirty miles to go on this perfect morning. He’d head in across one of the bridges over the Potomac—nice of the Feds to put most of their agencies so close to each other—and sort out this country once and for all. Then he’d get a hot dog and wait to see if that Iron Man loser showed up.

  “Evacuation of the area is complete, Iron Man. He’s all yours.”

  “Thank you, director.” Iron Man soared above Washington, over the Jefferson Memorial toward the grassy mall that stretched between the Washington Monument and the Capitol. He was lucky Mallen had headed here so early in the morning, before the tourists arrived; but workers would be showing up soon on Capitol Hill. And not just politicians, thought Tony. Support staff, cafeteria workers, librarians, dishwashers, security guards, interns, journalists. Regular people going to earn livings at their jobs. They needed protection.

  The lives lost back in Texas weighed heavily on Tony’s mind. He’d been overconfident, attacking a psychotic murderer in proximity of the highway. He’d ignored Sal’s warnings about potentially being surpassed by more powerful technology, and innocents had paid the price. This time, he needed to wind things up without any bystanders in range. No more deaths would be on his hands.