Flashback (Out of the Box Book 23)

by Robert J. Crane

  The stupid bastard was as good as blind.

  I scrambled beneath him, avoiding his leg as I went, keeping out of his sight as I rounded his right knee. His head swung around, like a robot trying to re-acquire his target.

  But it was too late. I was behind him now, and he was leaning over, looking down for me.

  I rose up and delivered the heartiest metahuman-powered shove I could deliver, planting both hands against his shoulder blades. He lost his balance instantly, lost his footing against the roof of the trailer, hell, he probably lost gravity for a second, I shoved his ass so damned hard.

  He damned near bowled over Wolfe as he hit, the momentum of the semi moving at sixty-plus miles per hour catching him like a kite in the wind as soon as he surrendered his footing. He gasped audibly and hit the trailer with a clang, indenting the ceiling and rolling out of it through sheer momentum from my shove, not any intent of his own.

  Wolfe leapt to clear him, pulling his knees up to almost his chin. The big ball of Henderschott rolled under him like an obsidian boulder, limbs tangled and flying in every direction as Full Metal Jackass tried to get a grip on something, anything to keep from flying off the trailer.

  He didn't quite make it. On his second roll, face up in the air, he flew off the back edge, arms and legs windmilling in hopes of discovering his heretofore unrealized powers of flight.

  Alas, he found naught but disappointment.

  And the pavement, at sixty miles an hour.

  It was loud, like a car accident happening behind us, followed by the squealing of tires as someone swerved to miss the sudden, black piece of human artillery I'd launched off the back of the trailer.

  Someone did not succeed in dodging, and the next sound I heard was an actual car accident, and I caught a glimpse of the Omega van flipping end over, the hood smashed and the rear doors still hanging loosely. A couple of human bodies were flung, but I only caught sight of them for a second before they disappeared below the trailer's edge, presumably into a maelstrom of blood and bone and metal and – well, what I like to call a “Reed blender” these days.

  “Have a nice trip,” I called behind us. “See you next fall.”

  Wolfe's eyes flashed with malice and worry for just a second before he regained control of himself, feet planted as he stared at me. “So clever, little doll. But you've arranged for us to be alone together.” He smiled, and it was as ugly as ever, filled with malice, lust, a desire to gnaw my flesh and taste my blood. “Henderschott would have stopped the Wolfe from tasting you, from...feeling you...” He brushed clawed fingers against his chest and shivered. “Now...there's nothing to stop us from the fun.”

  “Remember this moment when you're screaming in pain,” I said, staring him down. “Remember it. And remember that unlike all the people you've preyed upon all these years, when the pain starts for you – remember you actually were begging for it, sicko.”

  “The Wolfe doesn't beg,” he said, leaping for me, but more reserved this time. Less of a grand leap, more of a hop and swipe. He was keeping his center of gravity low, probably to keep me from shoving his ass off like a metahuman projectile.

  Like Henderschott.

  But that wasn't the plan I had for Wolfe.

  No, I had something much, much worse in mind for this sick bastard.

  Years of having him in my head had taught me to never lose respect for his utter maliciousness, not for a moment. There was no dropping your guard with this savage. He lived to eat and rape and sometimes do both at once. He was easily one of the most prolific serial killers of all time...

  And I'd had his voice in my brain for the better part of a decade.

  I'd been free of it for six months...

  And I really didn't miss it, not even a little.

  Except maybe when I was feeling wantonly cruel and wanted a co-conspirator. Those were never good times, though.

  I dodged sideways, rolling past Wolfe toward where he'd gone overboard and left his gouging claw marks down the side of the trailer. Some of them were still hanging there, like light metal banners in the dark gap between claw marks. I came up and scrambled, reaching for them, seizing hold of two of them, these flimsy peninsulas of metal several feet long and bound only to the trailer further down the side, where Wolfe had arrested his momentum and the gouges stopped.

  They cut into my palms as I grabbed hold of them, two long pieces of independent metal just hanging there-

  My balance tipped as Wolfe snarled, spinning around to face me where I teetered on the edge, so close to falling. He pivoted, teeth exposed as he set his feet, ready to spring at me again only a second after turning. He readied himself to spring-

  And then I tipped, my weight carrying me just a little too far.

  With only those flimsy pieces of metal to hold to, I fell over the side.

  41.

  Falling off a speeding semi was a thrilling, terrifying experience. I was hanging onto the threads of the trailer Wolfe had shredded, little pieces of metal only an inch or so wide where his claw-like nails had passed on either side. They dug into my palms, tearing skin as I held on frantically, ripping them down with every foot I fell.

  About two feet down I passed the point where Wolfe had arrested his fall, and the threads I was holding ceased to be independent, rejoining the solid metal structure of the trailer. They let out a squeal I could barely hear over the thundering rush of wind and tires on road. The ground was blurring beside me, the driver having shifted back to the far right lane.

  I stopped falling very suddenly, reaching the end of the metal “ropes” and jerking to a stop. I'd thrown my legs sideways, and as I felt the metal start to resist, I kicked out and caught hold.

  That's when I found myself standing on the trailer's side, horizontal, and hanging from the shredded metal pieces that Wolfe had carved out.

  Just where I wanted to be.

  The metal threads holding me up squealed their little protest at holding my weight. But they held.

  For the moment.

  Keeping my grip tight, blood already slicking my palms, I clamped on, refusing to let loose in spite of the stinging pain in my hands.

  Then I started to run sideways along the trailer, toward the front of the vehicle.

  The metal threads resisted me right off, and I knew they would. It was a battle of my grip and weight versus the compromised structural integrity of the metal.

  I won.

  Using the resistance of the metal, I hauled ass diagonally back toward the roof of the trailer, and leapt back up in a flip, ripping the metal pieces free with my last great leap and about a half a second before my ass (and the rest of me) went tumbling down under the semi's wheels. Which would have been unfortunate. And also probably painful, if not fatal.

  I caught a glimpse of my grandmother speeding up alongside the semi mid-flip, the two metal threads like miniature swords in my hands, blood running down the white surface of their “blades.”

  Catching myself in a superhero landing, I came up immediately, the metal pieces dripping red, one in each hand, like my escrima sticks of old.

  Wolfe just stared at me, poised almost at the edge, about to look over. He'd seen me flip up and back to the top of the trailer but just stood there, his mouth partially open, unable to believe what he'd just watched.

  He finally caught his words, nodding at the “blades” in my hands. “Those won't help you.”

  “On the contrary,” I said, bringing them up and slapping my hands together so that they met, the flat sides pressed one against another, “they're going to do more than help me – they're going to allow me to completely whip your ass, Wolfie-boy.”

  Sliding a hand up the “blade,” I pulled them in front of me like a staff, a hand now at each end, and gave them a hard, cranking twist that only exacerbated my bloody palms. Adjusting my grip, I did it again, and again. Wolfe watched, befuddled, as I braided the two pieces of metal together into one twisted length of aluminum about four feet long.
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br />   He just stared at me, brows furrowed in the most bizarre, curious look I'd ever seen on his face. “That won't help you either,” he said, gravelly.

  I gave the metal one last twist and admired my handiwork. “No?” I looked at it, then looked at him. “Why don't you come at me, dog, and we'll find out.”

  He didn't need my invitation, but he damned sure took it, leaping for me, teeth bared and nails exposed. He wasn't messing around anymore. He meant to get me, to do his sick business with me-

  To end me.

  All I had going for me was an edge in speed.

  But that was all I needed.

  I ducked under his attack, my braided steel coil gripped in my right hand. Once I'd made it under his arm, I thrust my braid of metal up at his throat like a dagger.

  He dodged it, the steel missing his throat by about an inch-

  As I slid around behind him and grabbed the other end, completing my garrote.

  The braided metal bit into his throat without effect, and he raised his hands immediately to counter it, trying to dig his fingers in between the newly minted aluminum cord and his skin.

  I yanked as hard as I could and planted a foot in the small of his back as I rolled onto my own, taking my own legs – and his – from beneath us.

  Slamming spine-first into the trailer with Wolfe's entire weight on my right foot?

  Not fun.

  Fortunately, I was already numb there, and my leg held, carrying his entire bulk and balancing him atop it, several feet off the trailer top. I added my other foot to his upper back, trying to spread the weight as I started to tighten my grip on the braided metal.

  Wolfe tensed as he realized he'd gotten himself into a situation that he just didn't have a clear way out of. My garrote was tight around his throat, and he couldn't get his fingernails into the wound metal enough to shred it. Blood started to drip down from above as he tried, though, tried to claw his own throat out to get rid of the steel noose I'd made for him.

  “Fuck you,” I said, bracing my left foot against the base of his neck, pulling even tighter. “You hear me, Wolfe? I hate you. I never forgot what you were, you filthy piece of murdering, raping trash. You were never better than this, ever.” I twisted the braided steel tighter as he gurgled. “You were always a serial killer, always scum of the lowest order, and all the help you gave me never balanced the scales, because there is no taking the weight off the scales for the cruelty you inflicted in all your years.” I was almost yelling at him, and he had given up digging his own throat out and was trying to reach me but couldn't get his hands around except to scratch at my calf. I ignored it, because the pain was so pathetically minimal compared to what he'd already done to me this trip. “I know what you are. I've always known what you are. And it's what you always will be. No amount of time in my head could ever fix your broken-ass, broken-glass soul. I don't even care how you died, because this is how you lived – like scum, through and through.”

  His hands went limp, his body slack, and all the fight went from his body.

  I didn't let up. Wolfe was powerful enough that I could choke him to death and he'd revive when his brain got oxygen again. A little more feral, maybe, but probably not enough that anyone would notice the difference, since he was already a wild dog.

  We sat there, him balanced on my legs, for at least two minutes as I counted, slowly, trying to make sure his sorry, angry ass was dead, at least for the moment. Once I was sure he wasn't just faking it, I rolled him off and he landed with a heavy thump on the trailer's roof.

  Twisting a heavy braid into the metal on the side I'd gripped, I tied a knot in its end. Where he'd ripped into the trailer was a heavily shredded section of metal, almost like a slot.

  Taking the newly-improvised lump of a knot, I slid it down into the impromptu slot, and it clanked, the metal squealing-

  But it held.

  And Wolfe dangled, lifelessly, off the side of the trailer.

  Coming back to my feet, I looked around. Far, far behind us, I could see red and blue lights flashing, which was a bad sign.

  “Time to wrap this thing up,” I said, and sprinted the length of the semi, sliding off the air dam atop the truck cab. I grabbed the smoke stack and hung on, slinging myself down and around toward the passenger window.

  I hit the passenger window feet-first, shattering my way through the glass and rolling into the front seat. I hit the Omega flunky driver with both feet on my way in, and he screamed and bounced, crashing into the door as I landed on him full-force.

  Throwing an extra elbow, I grabbed the driver's side door handle and tossed it open, sending the driver out without mercy, remorse, or a single damn about his humanity. “Bye,” I said, taking control of the big semi-truck wheel and steering the heavy vehicle back into my lane.

  I saw a green EXIT sign proclaiming that there was a way off this highway just ahead. I took it, sliding off the interstate with my wounded truck, my grandmother following behind. By the time I made it to the bottom of the off ramp, I saw the flashing lights streak by, cops still on the freeway, chasing whatever ephemeral threat they were after as I calmly drove off to the right, leaving the interstate behind me.

  Made it.

  42.

  Finding a place to safely park turned out to be less of an ordeal than I'd thought it would be. There was a truck stop a hundred feet off the exit ramp, and I'd steered right in there, taking care to keep the “Wolfe” hanging decoration on the side of my trailer faced away from the restaurant and truck stop at all times. I'd sidled the truck up to a facing right by the woods that surrounded the place, as far from the truck stop as I could get without going off-road and leaving the parking lot.

  My grandmother pulled the older car in behind me as I dismounted, looking more than a little harried. “You squeezed that a little close, didn't you?”

  “You talking about the cops?” I asked, striding toward the back of the trailer. “Or me falling off the trailer trying to fight Wolfe?”

  “That it could go either way seems worrisome,” she said, beating me to the back of the trailer doors. She ripped them open, clearly antsy to make sure we'd gotten the right truck.

  We had.

  I swept a hand out, taking the legs out from the guard who'd been poised to shoot my grandmother, perching just inside the door. He fell, surrendering his grasp on his MP5 in order to try and catch himself, sparing us from an accidental discharge of rounds that might warn everyone in the truck stop that shit was going down out here. He landed face first, before he could scream, and Lethe put a foot behind his ear, crushing his skull before he could make much in the way of noise.

  “Go team,” I said, leaping up into the trailer. There were only two things inside the trailer, light leaking in from the shredded holes in the side that Wolfe had made. Lethe landed beside me a second later, dragging the body of the Omega guard up with her and loosing it with a thump.

  One of the things – the biggest – was the steel containment unit that held my mother. I recognized it instantly, even in the faded, washed out light of the trailer interior.

  The other item was much, much smaller.

  “I'll get mom, you get – me,” I said, springing for the big container. I unbolted it in an instant, hesitating only a moment as my hand brushed the cool metal lock.

  Pulling the door open, I found myself staring into a dark enclosure. In the shadows I could see my mother's outline, her eyes wide as the beams of light streaming in from the hole in the trailer roof hit her. She flinched, and I grabbed at her restraints, unbinding them with a simple yank. They'd been tightened to the point where strength mattered little, her arms twisted behind her so she couldn't get a single inch of leverage to rip free. As soon as I'd undone the ones up top, I knelt and unbound her legs.

  “Thanks,” she said, ripping the gag out of her mouth and taking a full, deep breath. “What happened?”

  “A scene out of Mad Max,” I said as she ripped her legs out of the restraints. “But i
t's all good now.”

  “Where's Wolfe?” she asked as she stepped out of the metal sarcophagus they'd trapped her in. I looked away, turning my attention back to where my grandmother huddled over a smaller variant of the confinement apparatus, ripping the lid off like she was resurrecting the dead and had no time to spare. “And the man in the armor?”

  “Henderschott took a dive on the freeway a few miles back,” I said, then stepped over Lethe to test the knotted coil of metal hanging in the carved slot on the side of the trailer. It was still heavy; Wolfe was, presumably, still hanging there. He didn't move when I tugged on it. “And Wolfe...well, he's just hanging out.” I sidled over to the other gash, a few feet further in and started ripping more metal bindings out with my bare hands, threading and twisting them together. “For now, anyway. I need to deal with him on a little more permanent basis.”

  “Why don't we just get in the car and go?” Lethe asked. She was leaning over the metal apparatus, taking great care with where she placed her bare skin. Gently, she lifted out little me, and I saw a shudder of motion and wide, panicked little eyes in the darkness.

  I looked past her and my mother. “We can't. Not yet.” I twisted another length of metal fiber together. “Wolfe can't remember this.” I looked down at my younger self, shaking against my grandmother's chest, almost convulsing. “None of it.”

  My mother took a staggering step over to Lethe, her leg apparently numb from the tightness of the bindings. She reached down to rub it but shot me a hell of a look while she did so. “Why not?”

  I shook my head. “Because the next time we meet, he can't remember this encounter. Even if he might think I'm – I don't even know who he thinks I am, honestly – he cannot remember me when I fight him in the future. He'll rip me into tiny pieces and use me for stew meat if he thinks I've kicked his ass in the past. I need him to assume that I'm weak and useless and act accordingly.”

  My mother shot a look to my grandmother, who produced a shrug. “You raised her,” Lethe said.