The first man spun around with a spinning kick that caught Steven off guard. He couldn't feel the impact, but was knocked backwards. He would have fallen if he hadn't been propping himself up telekinetically. He instinctively put more effort into not falling and found himself hovering a foot off the ground.
He picked the man off the ground and held him out of reach before another kick came his way.
“I didn’t say ‘Simon says,’ asshole,” he growled at the man.
“Whooaa,” a small chorus of high people exclaimed at the two of them hovering.
“Where is the cash?!” he demanded as he slammed the man up against the ceiling. Chunks of drywall or plaster rained down. The man slumped, unconscious in the invisible grip, and Steven let him drop to a heap. Too hard.
He turned to the man pushing the couch off of himself.
“Where?” he repeated as he lifted the couch away, tossing it aside. People screamed and ran out of the way. “Shit,” he said, “Sorry!”
The man looked up at him from the floor, the couch suddenly yanked away from him. He tried to crawl backwards and away, but Steven ghosted himself forward, letting his feet dangle.
The man put a hand up in confused terror.
“Simon says tell me where the cash is,” Steven commanded.
“Drop safe in the table,” the man stammered, pointing out the enclosed table the two men had been sitting next to.
“Good. The drugs?”
“Th-The kitchen,” the man offered pointing a shaky hand toward one of the other rooms.
“Where do the drugs come from?”
“I don’t know,” the man whined, “I don’t do that part.”
Steven lifted a large armchair and two frightened people scurried away from where they had been cowering behind it.
“I swear! I don’t do that part! Corey does, but he’s only here during the day!”
A brawny bald man in jeans and a black leather vest came in from the kitchen, zipping his pants as he walked.
“What’s goin’ on?” the bald man demanded in a deep, booming voice.
“I’m shutting this shithole down,” Steven declared.
The bald man looked down at Steven’s feet not touching the ground, then back up to Steven.
“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, is it,” the man said without missing a beat. He banged his fists together and with a whoosh roaring flame that didn't seem to hurt him engulfed his fists. Steven was rather caught off guard by that and dropped the armchair and the man he had been holding. The man yelped; the chair thumped to the floor. More people screamed at the sight of the flaming fists and scurried for the door. Some fled into other rooms. Others stared, slack-jawed, too confused or drugged for useful action.
The bald man charged forward with a guttural cry, one flaming fist in front of him and the other cocked back for a heavy punch. Steven checked the man’s motion, applying far more momentum in the opposite direction. The man sailed through the room, his fists trailing flame like two comets. He crashed through the wall, knocking off large chunks of drywall and splintering two wooden studs.
Steven looked around him, taking in the surprised reactions of the people who hadn't yet made it out of the room and were trying to avoid the middle where he floated. The bald man stepped back into the room, dusted white from drywall but otherwise looking none the worse for it.
The man reached one hand forward and a bolt of flame blasted towards Steven, smacking him in the chest. He cried out, not feeling pain but all too aware, and fearful, of the heat washing over his face. He hurled a big reclining chair at the man, knocking him back down and battering the wall again.
Steven’s jacket had melted away from the flame and hadn't caught fire, but a part of his shirt underneath had charred away and he saw what looked like burned skin.
“You can’t hurt me, but I can hurt you,” the man gloated as he stood up, holding the heavy chair as if it weighed nothing. The man hurled the now-flaming chair at him, but it was easy to redirect its ample momentum, adding extra for good measure, towards a large boarded-up window. The chair crashed through plywood and glass to the street below.
Baton man stood up, looking encouraged by the man with the flaming fists, and tightened his fist around the black baton.
The fire man raised his fists together again and Steven threw baton man into the path of the flame jet, blocking it. Baton man screamed and the bald man snarled.
“Your move,” Steven taunted while the hovering man screamed and swatted at himself, having dropped the baton, trying to put out flames that engulfed him.
“Stop drop and roll, stop drop and roll,” the man bleated in helpless panic.
The bald man roared and charged forward, shoving the hovering man out of his way. Steven launched himself out of the way and hurled the bald man up in the direction he was already headed, projecting as hard as he could.
The man slammed into the brick wall and crashed through it, tumbling into the stairwell beyond, thudding and slamming as he rolled down the stairs.
He dropped the man he had used as a partial barrier to the floor and the man let out a scream as he hit. He flailed around on the carpet spastically, screaming horrifically. Steven launched him at the brick wall. The screaming stopped. That was better. Merciful.
Steven suddenly became aware of extensive movement around him—movement that didn't fit or belong. People were approaching the building from both directions. Easily a dozen on each side.
He searched around, feeling trapped. He didn't know what was in the other rooms or what other ways out there might be. And he had just set a living flamethrower blocking the one way he knew to get out. Hollering in the stairwell confirmed the man wasn't done fighting yet.
He moved into the kitchen. Not many were left in here, but several were backing back into the room from a doorway that led out to what must have been a fire escape balcony. Some of them recognized him and moved away from him, flattening themselves against walls with wide, frantic eyes.
He stepped to the doorway, which did lead to a small iron grate balcony with a steep, narrow stairway down. Men in black tactical gear carrying automatic weapons advanced toward the fire escape. He ducked back into the kitchen.
He needed a plan, and fast. This wasn't going right, and quickly getting worse. The group coming the other way was probably the same. SWAT teams. Crap.
He could stop their bullets but he didn't know if there was a limit to how many he could stop at once. Plan B..., Plan B.... Fire Guy in the stairwell would delay them, but only if they came in while he was still there. A quick scan confirmed the man was tromping his way back up.
He moved back into the front room as the fire man reached the top of the stairs. Steven snatched up four bricks and launched them as a volley as the man came through the door. Three of the bricks hit the man, two in the chest and one near the right elbow, staggering the man back through the doorway but not off his feet.
“My turn!” the fire man exclaimed, bringing his hands together. Firelight played on his delighted, sadistic grin.
“No, you don’t,” Steven cried out as he hurled the man back down the stairs. A loud crunch followed—bricks breaking, not bones.
He waited, moving closer, as the man stomped back up the stairs once more, snarling, and the men outside approached the door. A pair of men was carrying something heavy between them—a battering ram. Fire Guy reached the top of the stairs just in time. Steven hurled the fire him back down the stairs once more, aiming for the door.
The noise was louder than he expected in the brick stairwell as the man and the ram hit the heavy door together. The man carried more momentum than the ram, and all of it ended up a heap on the sidewalk. The team of men, those not knocked down, aimed their weapons at the man with the burning hands sprawled in the middle of it all.
Steven ducked back inside, away from the stairs, knowing this would only buy him a little time. The troopers at the head of the second team reached the little balcony.<
br />
He raced back to the kitchen just as the first of them was coming through the still-open doorway.
He had little time to react, certainly not enough to plan anything. He latched on to the biggest object he saw and sent the refrigerator at the doorway to block it. Doors flew open and cans and bottle spewed out. Glass bottles broke as they hit the floor, spreading a foamy mess. The trooper coming through the doorway threw his arms up in surprise, trying to block the impact, but was shoved back through.
The refrigerator was bigger than the doorway but still wedged partway through it. He knew it would only buy him moments to figure out a plan before they pushed it out of their way. He couldn't spare the concentration to hold it in place.
There were two exterior walls here, both brick. There was no window in the side wall, none on the back wall with the fire escape which was certainly no escape for him now. Any windows in other rooms would open out to the street, which was much of an option, either. The rest of the building was past the stairwell that led downstairs.
He settled on a third way out, hoping that the ceiling and roof were weaker than brick walls. He looked around briefly, deciding the oven was the heaviest still available. He rocketed it upwards hard, continuing to add momentum. It smashed through the ceiling, ripping a hole that showered debris up and away as well as down into the kitchen. Rough and jagged edges of the hole surrounded overcast, evening sky.
A flexible metal gas line torn from the back of the oven hissed just before the refrigerator popped loose from the doorway with a crunch and a scraping noise. He propelled himself up through the hole, controlling his landing on the graveled roof.
He hurried away from the hole. The edges of the hole looked unstable, and he thought it would be difficult for the men to climb up after him. Finally a moment to pause and think, he hoped.
The unmistakable sounds of a helicopter overhead dashed those hopes. “Nobody looks up,” he chided himself as a searchlight from the helicopter glared in his face. He hadn’t even been aware of all the movement and momentum it had. He had been that distracted. Sloppy.
He swatted the helicopter about fifty feet to the side before he realized what he was doing. It tilted at an angle and spun part way around. The searchlight was out of his face, but he knew he had only a moment. At least he had only pushed it to the side, and not into a building.
He barely deflected the sharp light of a rifle bullet in time. He was ready for the next one—and seven more after that in quick succession.
He did the only thing he could think of. He ran to the end of the building, taking long, loping strides mostly about keeping his feet moving in a way that resembled running and also kept his feet under him while he controlled and aimed his momentum. He deflected more bullets as he ‘ran.’ He added upward momentum at the end of the building to leap up and across to the next rooftop.
The searchlight found him again as he crossed that roof. He leapt down to the street from there; maybe being among buildings, rather than on top of them, would at least complicate things for the pilot. He got almost another block away before he heard the sirens and screeching tires of police cruisers joining the chase. “Of course.”
He had no idea how fast he could run, but he was fairly certain it wouldn't be enough to outrun cars and a helicopter. That meant he needed a place to negate their speed advantage.
He came to an intersection as the light changed, and a handful of cars started moving. He ran straight into the intersection, flinging himself up over a car at the last second. The car slewed as the driver locked the brakes trying not to hit him. Steven cringed at the metallic crunch of one car hitting another. Maybe it would slow the police cars some, he wished, not sparing the attention to monitor and find out. He scanned for movement ahead of him, heading towards areas with more of it. Traffic right now would help him, but at this time of night, in this area, there was little of it to be found.
Two empty intersections later, he remembered the construction he had perched in before. It wasn't all that far away, a mile, perhaps. It was a large area with a skyscraper under construction. A lot of it was skeleton-work, but it would provide places to hide from the helicopter and make the police get out of their cars. Then he would just need a distraction and he could escape.
He jumped through another intersection with somewhat heavier traffic, although not enough to slow the chasing cruisers. He sensed the closest one and flipped it over, praying the men inside were buckled in. About half of the cars had to slow down to avoid crashing into it as it spun and tumbled. The other half kept coming and closing distance. He rounded a corner, thankful to not hear crashes. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he had so few options.
The cars screeched around the corner too close to him, too fast. He pushed a lead one into the one next to it with a crunch and they both spun out of control. Tires squealed. The rest behind all slowed with more complaining tires. It bought him a little more time.
He went around an old white minivan stopped at a light and launched himself over the cross traffic. A crash louder that the sirens came too close after.
Another corner and the skeletal husk rose into the night sky a few blocks ahead.
Cars rounded the corner. He had gained some distance, but not enough. The cars were too fast and too many, although only four were close now. One was out in front, and he shoved the front end of it, spinning it wildly until it hit a curb and sailed, roof first, through a storefront. The remaining three slowed and swerved, but had kept enough space between them to avoid having to stop altogether. They were getting smarter.
The cars were perhaps a hundred feet away by the time he leapt over the chain link fence around the property. Most of the cars screeched to a halt, but one crunched right through it, flattening it for others to follow.
The building was still lacking the glass windows that would make up most of the walls. He jumped up onto the second floor of the building, eager to at least get past some interior walls and out of sight.
He stopped in a dim hallway. He was getting worn out, he could feel it. Just standing seemed like it took concentration. He pushed himself forward, feeling the men moving towards the building. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He was dizzy. Was his vision blurring? No, it’s just dark. Cops were at the building. When had they gotten out of their cars?
It was dark, too dark. He hadn't counted on that when he had fled into the building’s shadowed interior. Sensing movement didn't help him see stationary dark obstacles in a dark space. Higher up was more open and less complete, he knew, but he had to get there first.
He found an elevator shaft, open to the gray sky above, enough of it still incomplete. He leapt four stories up to an open space where it was better lit.
Cops were in the building now, finding their way up. The stairways were mostly complete, he remembered from his prior visit. The damned helicopter circled around over the building.
He regretted his choice now. He was trapped. There would be no place to escape to. All he could do was to keep moving upwards. Eventually he would reach the top and they would have him cornered. Then all he would be able to do would be surrender or kill them. He insisted to himself he was not a killer. He certainly wasn't going to kill police officers. He leapt up another four floors. One thing at a time.
He was getting time to regain his strength, which was vital, but he was also getting into parts of the building less completed. He would have less and less cover from the helicopter as he rose.
What about man with the rifle on the helicopter? Could he stop those bullets while still avoiding everything else? Did he have enough left for that? He leapt another four floors, running out of room.
Up here there were now few walls at all, and it wasn't long at all before the searchlight found him.
He had to do something about the searchlight. He could crash the helicopter, but that was too extreme, too violent, too deadly. He wasn't about to do that. He raised a hand up to shield from the light so he could see around
him. The openness also made these floors more lit and visible.
Still, there was little around to be found bigger than loose nuts and bolts and screws and bits of debris not worth much more than shrapnel. He didn't need anything large! Nuts and bolts and screws would go faster with the same amount of total force. Basic physics.
He whizzed a stray nut at the searchlight with all the force he could give it. It was too fast for him to guide well, but he aimed by envisioning the movement-brightness streaking into the searchlight, and the nut accelerated constantly along that path. The searchlight burst in a spray of sparks and debris. Smoke bellowed from the back of the helicopter, dark against the gray sky. The helicopter rolled to the side and dove out of view. The explosion followed. Dammit!
“Steven Ambrose,” a woman’s voice echoed through a megaphone, “this is FBI Special Agent Rachel Moore, we have the building surrounded. You have nowhere to go. Surrender yourself before things get any worse.”
The men were closing again, now three or four floors below him. There were eight of them. At this level the stairs weren't enclosed, but they kept rising. He would be able to directly see them—and them him—all too soon. His elevator shaft was just dark framework at this point, not enclosed in walls at all.
He focused on a steel I-beam, and it ripped itself loose, smashing through a stairwell. Stair debris rained down on a pair of cops who dodged backwards only to tumble to the landing.
Further up the floors weren't even completely floors yet. He jumped two levels up onto a steel girder. It didn't take much concentration to hold himself there, but he worried about what would happen if he lost that concentration and fell. Shadows reached further down the shaft into blackness.
Once he singled out an I-beam he used it to rip out another stairwell. He leapt two more floors up, and then there were only a couple more left above him.
He saw the lit city skyline all around him. The glowing core of downtown was easy to find, and the city stretched out from there, intermittently jutting up into the darkness. Clouds covered perhaps most of the stars in the sky and obscured the half moon, darkening the girder framework around him.
Simon Rising Page 27