the hospital and the perp being put in handcuffs.
When I awoke my right arm was still in agony, still nothing from my legs. I pried my eyes open and saw a white room. I heard a cry come out calling for a doctor. I tried to move my arm. Maybe if I could get it moving a little the pain would subside. Nothing. Not even a spike of pain telling me it was a bad idea. I tried to sit up as the doctor came rushing in: short woman, red hair, white, glasses. She pushed me back down on the bed.
“Please Agent Taylor, don't try to exert yourself.”
I tried to ignore it, but I felt as strong as a new born puppy. I couldn't have fought against this woman's hold even if I tried. “How bad is it doc?” My voice croaked.
“You suffered a very traumatic injury.” I looked her straight in the eye, and she stopped, shifted her gaze at the floor, then returned my stare. “I'm sorry to say you lost your arm during the fight, and an injury to your spinal column has left you paralysed from the waist down.” I turned away from her at that point and let that sink in. I was vaguely aware of her going on about how there were ways they could help and with physiotherapy and a prosthetic arm I may get the ability to walk on crutches in a year or two. All I could think was that after eight years in the Marines, five of which I spent in Afghanistan, and I come out one of the lucky few, only for it to happen trying to arrest a bank robber. Fate had a funny sense of humour.
The doc got the idea I'd stopped listening and left the room. I don't know how long I laid there staring at the ceiling before I fell back asleep.
The next time I awoke Assistant Director Caldwell was stood over me, the harsh white light of the hospital reflecting off his bald head. He smiled reassuringly.
“Nate, I'm sorry. We shouldn't have underestimated a Power like that.”
“It was my call, sir. I'm the one who got my team killed. I got off lucky.”
“Bullshit. It was that freak that killed them. You can't go blaming yourself.” Silence hung in the air as I made it clear that was exactly what I intended to do. Caldwell started off again. “I'm not sure if anyone told you, but Brundell survived too. Whatever hit him left him with serious nausea and his balance was shot, but he's practically back on his feet now.” He paused as he realised his unfortunate phrasing. “And you caught the guy. Don't forget that.”
“There was two of them, sir.”
“What?”
“A second one appeared out of nowhere. There was a blinding flash and suddenly he was there. He was the one with the gun. I definitely hit him, but he disappeared as quickly as he appeared after that.”
“We'll look into it Nate. And when you're ready I'm going to make sure you're going to have a role at the office.”
With that he patted me on my left arm, my only arm, and headed out the room. Great, a desk job. Just what I wanted. Course I wasn't much good for anything else any more.
I watched the TV for a bit. Seems that the news of our arrest had already been forgotten in the few days I'd been out of it and now all the news channels were full of the latest celebrity making a fool of themselves and Congress completely failing to understand the internet again.
Two days later I woke up again to find someone else in my room. Black suit, black glasses, black hair, and that sort of stance that just screams spook. My first instinct was CIA, but that seemed off.
“Agent Taylor. That was exemplary work capturing Vibe. I have a job offer I believe you may find interesting.”
About The Author
After years of struggling with the Daily Grind, yearning for something more, James gave it all up to become an writer. Between making stuff up about superpowers existing in the real world, he also writes about heroic mass murderers, sorry, videogames.
Visit James Haresign's website and blog at www.nightjim.com
You can also follow his ramblings on Twitter @NightJim
The Pitch
Fallowed Ground
The Sound of Money Page 3