Ha!Ha!Ha!

by Steve Beaulieu

  “Sneaky S.O.B. teleported away,” Vulcan said.

  “No time to worry about that,” Pulse said, looking around. “This whole place is a bomb. And if I’m reading the signals right, we don’t have much time.”

  “Minutes? Hours?” Vulcan asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “By my estimation,” Reflex said as she held a small scanner and looked at the display, “twelve and a half minutes.”

  “We’re boned,” Hotshot said. “We’re easily twenty-five miles off-shore. I can’t carry Reflex and Vulcan.”

  “We need to evacuate the city, or at least get as many people away from the coast as possible,” Pulse said.

  “Go,” Vulcan said. “Hotshot can carry Reflex. You get back and start the evac.”

  Hotshot looked up at the big man, “Are you out of your Vulcan mind‽”

  “Look, I can sink this island. If I unleash all my heat, I can melt a hole straight down.”

  “But what happens to you?” Hotshot asked.

  Vulcan’s giant armored form looked down at the woman and smiled. “It’s okay, I’m on borrowed time anyway. I—I’ve had a good run.”

  Reflex shook her head. “Any platform of this size has fail-safes built in to prevent flooding. Even at your hottest, it would take longer than the time remaining to melt enough of the steel to cause enough damage.”

  “Okay, now we’re boned,” Hotshot said.

  “No,” Pulse said to the group.

  Grabbing his friends together in desperation, Pulse expanded his energy form, transforming all four heroes into pure energy. Blasting upward, the beam tore through the ceiling and high into the night sky above The Cauldron. The beam of light bent at a sharp angle and hurtled toward West Haven.

  Part 7: Heroes Stand, Then They Fall

  Hotshot sprayed streams of fire into the sky. Screaming people ran through the bohemian bar district of the West Haven boardwalk.

  “Run, you idiots!”

  “How much time‽” Pulse yelled.

  “Less then a minute,” Reflex called out as she hurried people along.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” Vulcan called out, then looked up. “Oh, are you kidding me? There’s a news chopper in the sky.”

  “On it,” Hotshot called, taking to the sky.

  Pulse looked at his team, then back to the sea. An idea came to him. A stupid, stupid idea.

  “Vulcan, into the sea, now! Get hot. Really, really hot! Hotshot, ground that chopper. Reflex, take cover and hang on.”

  The team obeyed, snapping into action. Pulse watched in the distance as the night sky crackled and burst into bright yellow-white light, a mushroom cloud explosion forming over the horizon.

  Pulse shifted his form and launched into the sky as the world exploded into madness. He could see the wave of strange energy rolling toward him. Below, Vulcan boiled incredibly vast volumes of seawater before the miniature tidal wave hit the boardwalk. Salty steam filled the night, illuminating Pulse’s laser form.

  With his enhanced vision, Pulse saw the very photons of the explosion rocketing toward the city behind him. Matching the EM wavelength, Pulse opened himself, sucking the power in. Raising his fists above him, he redirected the immeasurably powerful energy away from the people of West Haven.

  Pain, unlike anything he ever felt before, coursed through his body, threatening to tear his laser form apart. But for every joule of energy he absorbed, he fired upward. While the blast lasted only seconds in real time, the being of light felt the agony for a near eternity.

  Yet the hero held resolute, hovering in the sky above the boardwalk, redirecting the destructive power because he had to.

  Behind him, the people cheered.

  They remembered him.

  They called out his name, praising him for his sacrifice.

  “Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!” They chanted.

  Pulse blinked in and out of his laser form as the final wave of energy rippled through him. The hero, pushed past his limits, succumbed to exhaustion and fell into the cold, dark water below. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him, was the people chanting his name.

  Part 8: Awareness and a Decision

  Pulse came awake slowly and in pain.

  In the back of his mind, he heard them still, calling his name, Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!

  There was a rhythmic beeping which brought his mind into focus. He slowly opened his eyes and once again, he was blind. His body burned all over. The pain was there, but numbed, like a head-to-toe sunburn.

  Pulse realized he was in a hospital bed. He felt the sheets and blankets atop him, and an IV in each of his hands. He smelled the heavy scent of disinfectant and…a familiar perfume.

  “M—Ms. Fletcher?” Pulse managed to croak out.

  “I am here, Andre.”

  “W—what happened?”

  “You saved everyone and nearly died in the process. You safely redirected the majority of the bomb’s power and radiation. The news chopper made it safely to the ground and the entire thing was covered on television. Silas, would you be so kind?”

  Pulse heard someone beside the bed move—Silas he assumed—and felt the familiar visor being placed over his head. The device powered on, and once again, Pulse could see.

  He looked around the hospital room to see Ms. Fletcher sitting in the chair opposite his bed. Above her, the television was running a replay of the events. Ms. Fletcher clicked the remote, un-muting the sound.

  “The new hero team, The Rejects, saved West Haven today, but not without sacrifice,” the reporter said. “Veteran hero, Pulse the Living Laser, was rushed away in an ambulance for severe radiation burns, hypothermia, and water inhalation. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the team, and the man, who saved us last night.”

  In the background, he heard them, chanting his name, Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!

  Ms. Fletcher turned the TV off. “You did very well. I am glad I invested in you.”

  “Thank you ma’am, but it was a trap. The other teams, they fell into it. I think…” Pulse paused, thinking it through. “I think Stygian somehow drained the heroes of their power and used that to fuel the bombs.”

  “Interesting. Why?”

  “You said he worked for the Tactician?”

  “I did.”

  “Then I think the Tactician is somehow still alive,”Pulse said. “I fought Stygian back in my day. Evil, sure, but not on that level. That bomb weaponized heroes’ powers, which was why it didn’t show up on any normal scan.”

  “Alexander Bonaparte is dead,” Ms. Fletcher said. “I saw the body myself.”

  “It may have been a clone. There is no one else alive that devious.”

  Ms. Fletcher smiled. “As I said, Alexander Bonaparte is dead.”

  “I know what you think, ma’am, but…wait. Why do you keep saying his real name?”

  Ms. Fletcher smiled.

  As she did, a realization came crashing down on Pulse. He instantly tried to shift into his laser form.

  Tried and failed.

  “Power inhibitor in your IV,” Ms. Fletcher said as she stood.

  “You. You’re the Tactician!” Pulse said as he tried to get up, only for Silas to lay an incredibly strong hand against his chest, holding him down.

  “Mr. Bowers, what do you know about Nazi rocket scientists?”

  “That the U.S. snatched up as many as they could for our rocket program,” Pulse said as he fought against Silas’s grip.

  Ms. Fletcher smiled. “Correct. I, and half of the Dawn Guard, objected to our government, having fought the Axis powers for years. But our voices were squashed. And why? Because the simple truth—the one people refuse to accept—is the ends do justify the means. It was then that something in me changed as I came to my own personal revelation. Powerful people are the only ones who truly have the ability to affect change. Not governments, not heroes, not wars. The iron will of an individual with means is worth more than the sum of an army.”

>   “You’re crazy!”

  “No, I am simply aware of the truth. As you may suspect, women were seen as…less, back in those days. You have no idea what was expected of me from my male teammates. So, as Songbird, I could be a forward facing icon. But as the Tactician, I could shape the world as it needed to be. With both identities, I could control both the supply and the demand. Naturally, no one would take a woman seriously, hence the need to create Alexander Bonaparte. He served me well over the decades, doing as told and enacting my plans. Sadly, time catches up to us all.”

  Pulse looked at Ms. Fletcher, the Tactician, with a mix of awe and terror. “There’s no reason for you to tell me all this. Unless…”

  “Yes, I will kill you if you choose not to take my offer.”

  “Offer?”

  Ms. Fletcher pointed at the IV stand with two bags. “One of those is the medicine you are currently receiving. Top of the line Fletcher Foundation pharmaceuticals designed to counteract radiation poison and to foster cellular regrowth.”

  “The other?”

  “Poison,” Ms. Fletcher said flatly. “I press this button and you will die, peacefully.”

  “Press it then.”

  “Youth, so impetuous. Mr. Bowers, I chose you and the rest of your team because the world was unfair to you. As my team, I will empower you all to do real good in the world.”

  “Your 'good’ you mean.”

  “From time to time yes. They do not know about me. You and only you do. Before you make your decision, I would like you to see this.”

  Ms. Fletcher pulled a tablet from her purse and set it on the bed. Tapping out a password, the tablet displayed a holographic display in the air. The image was of a handwritten note.

  “What is this?”

  “Reflex’s suicide note,” Ms. Fletcher said. “She was days away from killing herself. She was going to roll her wheelchair into her family’s pool and die. A final act to control her body on her terms.”

  Ms. Fletcher tapped a button and the image changed. It was security footage of a quadriplegic woman in a military hospital bed. “This was the impromptu court-martial for WO2, Rosalita Martinez. Her entire crew and several civilians were killed in a helicopter crash. The fault was not hers, but a mechanical one. Yet in true military fashion, the blame was assigned to her. With my clout, I was able to halt the final documentation which would have earned her a stint in military prison followed by a dishonorable discharge and loss of medical coverage for her condition.”

  Next, Ms. Fletcher showed a simple display of a hospital chart. One for Curtis Green.

  “He was terminal. Thanks to me and my foundation, now he is not. In fact, he was the first one I recruited and it was he who told me to seek you out.”

  “Why are you showing me all this?”

  “If you refuse me, you will not be the only one to suffer. Each of these rejects will be sent back to the life they were used to prior to my involvement. They will suffer…because of you.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  Ms. Fletcher shrugged. “A way of looking at it. As their leader, you have a responsibility to protect them. But allow me a moment more to indulge myself.”

  Ms. Fletcher turned the TV back on, and once more, Pulse heard the people cheering his name Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!

  “You’ve been accepted again. Exalted again. Your sins washed away. The powers of the world, the real powers which run things, are vile. The question is, can you stomach my type of vile? You can choose to die, or accept me and make the world a better place.”

  “What about the teams who died at The Cauldron?”

  “I regret their loss. Just as I regret destroying the Dawn Guard all those years ago. But, they refused to see the future for what it is.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mine.”

  Ms. Fletcher stood beside the IV drips. “Choose. Now. I dial this one up and you’ll recover in days. Or I turn this one on and that is the end of Andre Bowers and Pulse the Living Laser.”

  Pulse looked at her. He thought of his team. He thought of their suffering. What decision would any hero make in such a situation?

  The TV kept replaying the crowds chanting his name, over and over.

  Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!

  Andre made his choice.

  Ms. Fletcher smiled. “Excellent.”

  A Word from M.K. Gibson

  Hi, I'm Mike Gibson (Gib or Gibby to my friends). I'm a father, husband, writer and a retired US Air Force MSgt with 20 years of service. Back in 1980, when I was 5, I saw the animated version of The Hobbit and was a geek from then on. All I have ever wanted to do was to write and tell stories. I love to read, play video games, exercise/lift weights and watch movies. I'm a lover of all things geek. On one of my walls at home, I keep framed rejection letters. Every so often I look at them to keep myself writing.

  I live with my wife, son, 2 dogs and cat in Mt Airy, Maryland. You can find my books on Amazon:

  To Beat the Devil (The Technomancer Novels) (Volume 1)

  Flotsam Prison Blues (The Technomancer Novels Book 2)

  Villains Rule (The Shadow Master) (Volume 1)

  mkgibson.com

  @Gibsonmk1

  www.facebook.com/Gibthewriter

  THE WINTER WITCH

  BY SUSAN FAW

  THE WINTER WITCH

  BY SUSAN FAW

  Chapter 1

  High Lord Of The Night

  MORPHEUS, HIGH LORD of the Night and the God of Dreams, observed the late afternoon sun, seeing it but not feeling the warmth of the celestial orb. The hands of his bared muscular arms curled over the stone balustrade of his palace facing the sea. An unnatural chill rode on the winds. It stirred his golden locks and beard as it passed, leaving the acrid scent of an eruption in his nostrils. Change was in the air but it was not of the seasons. He sensed that the natural order of things had been disturbed, an order established by him.

  His four children, the offspring of his human wife, had been set as guardians of the natural world, to ensure the transition from life to death to life again of all living things; plant, animal, human, and mythical. Their charge was a sacred trust, decreed in part as a measure of paternal trust.

  He loved the mortals of the world. They had qualities long lost to the gods, his brothers and sisters of immortality. Through the long years of exile, he had observed the mortals, watched them be born, grow old and die. There was something about the mortality of his creation that brought out the best and the worst of traits. Love, loss, begettal, and betrayal all had a place in their world and a cost that was exacted with frightening precision. Overriding it all, regardless of the decisions made was the simple desire to live. This struggle, for better or for worse, surmounted all including the worship of the gods. His kin, the celestial immortals looked down with disgust on the decay-filled world that fascinated him so.

  When he decided to take a human wife, they’d banished him to the world he loved, to learn the error of his ways. But it was not to be a permanent banishment, and now on the eve of his recall to the temples of the immortals, he found himself worrying that his children lacked the self-control needed to govern his mortal creation and would suffer in his absence.

  Of special concern was his eldest daughter, Helga. Of all his offspring, she was the most like the gods. Helga had no trouble believing in her superiority. She considered humanity to be subservient creatures, fit only to be ruled. This mindset did not sit well with her siblings who loved their human companions as the family they were. But to Helga, her human relatives were beneath her notice.

  And now, with his imminent return to the celestial temples, Morpheus was worried.

  He pushed away from the railing and entered his palace. In the comfortable living room, beside a crackling fireplace sat his wife of twenty years. Calleigh was a willowy, raven-haired beauty that his daughter Helga took after in looks, if not in personality. A witch of renown, Calleigh served the capital city of Cathair as their chief healer. A hosp
ital bearing her name had been established, with an attached school to teach others gifted with the ability to heal.

  Calleigh looked up from her knitting as she heard him enter. She smiled and set the needles down as he crossed over to her side. “Why do you look so pensive, my husband? What worries you?”

  “The winds carry a tale of discomfort. Something evil stirs in the hills this evening. I am worried. The timing is ill, given my imminent departure.” He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, pulling her into an embrace. “I do not want to leave you,” he whispered into her raven hair. “It grieves me so.”

  Calleigh lifted a hand to curve along his cheek. “The gods have forbidden our relationship. Had they known of our children, they may have even slain them. You leave for the good of your family.” She kissed his cheek. “All is prepared, Morpheus. I am prepared to go into exile. It is time to pass the reins to our children. The world is theirs to govern.”

  Morpheus’s brows pinched in consternation. “So much depends on them now.” He sighed. “Are you ready?”

  Calleigh nodded. “All is ready.”

  “Then let us go.” He glanced around the place they’d called home for two decades and sighed. “I will miss this place,” then took her hand, leading her toward the door, “but I will miss you more.”

  He led her down to the stables and soon they were mounted and riding away from the palatial grounds. Two servants followed, driving a covered wagon filled with their most treasured possessions. It lumbered along behind their mounts leaving a trail of dust that floated in the light breeze. Just as the wagon disappeared from view, a woman stepped out onto the balcony, watching their retreating figures. She smiled, but it was mirthless and cold as an open grave.

  “Goodbye father, mother,” said Helga. “You will not be missed.” She descended the stairs, running down them with a light step. She exited the grounds through the back and hurried out into the pegasus compound, eager to be away. The main barns of the pegasus hugged the edge of the apple orchard, a favorite food of the flying creatures. As she strode across the pasture, she whistled. She had nearly reached the stables when the light darkened and a pegasus landed just in front of her. Silvershadow was her best friend. If there was anyone in this world to whom Helga was attached, it was the winged creature in front of her. She ran to greet Silvershadow, rubbing her soft muzzle before climbing onto her back. Within moments, they were winging toward the dark mountain that was her domain. Her dark fortress beckoned her home and she went willingly, with no plan to ever return to the palace in Cathair.