Out of the Black (30 page)
Authors: Lee Doty
"Oh my God." Hawthorne hadn't struck Anne as overly religious, but that definitely sounded like a prayer.
Splinters fly into the small observation room and a booted foot follows the door inward briefly. BOOM! The rest of the invader shoulders the door out of the way, her weapon tracking toward Hawthorne and Anne as they stand by the observation window across the small room. Behind the hard looking woman with the poor door etiquette, Anne can make out two more figures with assault guns on the small landing outside the door.
If that had been a prayer, Anne didn't think that this was the answer the Fed had hoped for.
Hawthorne's gun is coming out. Already clear of the holster, it is extending toward the new threat at the door. 'Fool her once...' Anne thinks, remembering Hawthorne's passivity the last time someone with dubious intentions had the drop on her. She isn't as fast as Mendez, but even if she were, she wouldn't make it before the already-firing assault gun finds her.
Anne is moving.
With unreasonable speed and confidence, Anne lunges toward Hawthorne and the strong-looking window behind her. Anne's left arm goes around Hawthorne's back and her right hand sweeps up Hawthorne's right hand in mid-draw. Anne's finger slides over Hawthorne's into the pistol's trigger guard. She hears the pistol's unlock tone and realizes that she does in fact have a plan. Anne presses the gun away from the invaders at the doorway and toward the observation window.
Anne squeezes gently, conscious of Hawthorne's delicate bones, the gun fires a stream of five shots, crossing the observation window, blowing through, leaving behind a lattice of semi-opaque shards held together by safety film.
Still holding the increasingly confused Fed in a waltz-like death grip, Anne leaves the ground, now completely committed to her nutty plan. She leaps past the now-squeaking Fed, ducking her head and shoulders into a sideways roll that leaves her flying toward the damaged window backwards and parallel to the floor. Squeak now a scream, Hawthorne is waltz-wrenched off her feet and toward the window after Anne. Shells tear through the air around them, snapping into the wall on the far side of the room.
Pressure builds against Anne's back until the sound of crunching glass comes from behind, then around her. They pass through the window in a storm of glass and into the air perhaps six meters above the OR floor.
Then the world is floating glass and Hawthorne's expanding scream. Squinting against the cloud of glass, Anne cranes her neck right, looking for the ground. Unsuccessful, she looks back over Hawthorne's shoulder. There it is- maybe five meters down now and coming up fast.
Anne releases Hawthorne's gun-hand, and grabs her shoulder. Using it as a lever, she juggles Hawthorne, trying to move her into position above her, so she can catch her when they land. Hand over hand, Anne manhandles Hawthorne into position. Looking briefly at Hawthorne's terror-rigid face as it spins by, Anne realizes that if they both live through this somehow, Hawthorne will probably feel honor-bound to kill her for this.
Impact found Anne's feet wide for support, her knees bending to absorb the shock. The glass showered down around them as Anne caught Hawthorne's spinning and panic-rigid form. Anne tried to spread Hawthorne's deceleration over as great a distance as possible, but she was pretty sure it still hurt.
Then the fury was over and the world was at an odd equilibrium for a second or two. Anne stood near the center of the OR with Hawthorne in her arms like the cheesy cover of a gay romance novel.
"Sorry 'bout that!" Anne said, giddy triumph running through her.
Chilled bloodless, Hawthorne emerged from the panic-blurred experience in a quick succession of degrees. Degree one: A shock like being hit by a speeding Nerf cargo transport. Degree two: The sound of rushing air had transformed into the click-tinkle of showering glass. She was pretty sure her body had stopped spinning, though her inner ear told her differently. Degree three: She remembered standing in the observation booth and being attacked, then whirling, spinning hell, then here. Degree four: The realization that this was only a
near
-death experience so far. Degree five: The realization that she would have to kill Anne Kelley for this.
The breath she had not screamed out had been knocked from her by the impact, so she was left with her mouth open and eyes squeezed shut against the storm of falling glass. Every muscle was taut with anticipated demise. Though there wasn't any air left for it, her lungs squeezed anyway, needing just a little more scream.
She managed to disengage the lock o her throat, and the air jerked and hitched into her burning lungs. "If..." gasp, "you ask me...", wheeze, "if I'm okay..." She gestured with the weapon trembling in her right hand. "Pow."
Slow, evil chuckling filled the air around them.
***
In the janitor's closet among disinfectants and other implements of order and cleanliness, two men hid in complete darkness. One breathed in long, regular cycles; the other was investing a significant portion of his willpower into keeping his labored breath from drawing unwanted attention from the other side of the door.
Chase would be able to handle this a lot better if it weren't for the laughter. Outside the closet door,
things
shuffled by. No talking, no crashes of destructive fury, no melodramatic moaning or growling; just an occasional ripple of introspective laughter that had to be categorized as 'mischievous evil' (i.e. that evil which has just a little extra time for play).
Chase shivered, thinking about what playtime might be like for such creatures. In his mind's eye, he saw their misshapen faces on the security cam in the lobby. Their eyes dead, their faces pits from which all humanity had been strip-mined. They exuded the attitude and overall fresh look of hell's supermodels. He remembered his brief glimpse of the bodies and blood on the ground outside the ambulance and had to force his mind to stop trying to reconstruct that scene.
He clenched the stunner tighter in his damp palm. If that door opened, he didn't know whether he would use it on whatever came through the door, or on himself.
Outside, another chuckle sent chills jerking through his nervous system.
So close your eyes
For that's a lovely way to be
Aware of things your heart alone
Was meant to see
The fundamental loneliness goes
Whenever two can dream a dream together
-Wave
A tale best told by Frank Sinatra
Like a dungeon beneath a grand and polished palace, the gym lurked in the second and third sub-basements beneath the shining steel and glass of the immense Grant building. The first sub-basement held
Fleck's
, a stylish Euro-club, complete with bars both smart and less so. It was mainly frequented by singles looking for a connection; many would use the club to unwind after their workouts, looking to showcase newly stressed glutes and biceps. It was a popular club, not least of all because, unlike gyms of previous times, it was exceptionally hard to meet people while working out... at least in the less geeky sense of the word.
In the bottom level of the club were the VirtuaTrainers, and in these trainers, there were two travelers sitting by a fire, talking easily and getting closer- metaphorically speaking anyway.
It was five minutes to the reboot and the two travelers rested after a particularly difficult engagement. They sat around a small fire in the dark emptiness of a ruined subterranean city, casually talking while they waited for their friends. Smack busied himself polishing the last of the blood from the etched runes of his enchanted blade, while Angel used a spell to reinforce the enchantments on her battered armor.
Not far outside the reach of the fire's light were the corpses of their most recent enemies. Nearer to the fire were three man-sized bundles, neatly wrapped in white silk. Their party had been culled by death from its initial five to only he and she. Since they were both sure that there is always life after death, there is no mourning or remorse as they watched over their fallen companions.
Over the past few months, they have drawn closer, their friendship deepening in ways that made them both comfortable and not. But then it's not always about comfort. Sometimes it's about discovery, perhaps even about hope. Sometimes it's about taking chances, and tonight Smack was ready to take one.
They kept the conversation light. No talk of the meaning of life, ethics, or politics- they were discussing Angel's day job.
"Brain surgery?" Smack laughed.
Angel shook her head, reveling in the story, "Yeah, but that ain't the funny part. It's the look in his bleary eyes. He's got this look like 'beat that cop!' It's like he's challengin' us to prove he don't just have a little piece of his brain missing."
"Ah, so he's immune to sobriety tests because he's disabled. I hope you weren't insensitive enough to insist."
"I'm afraid we were. He never took the test though. As he stepped out of the car, he tripped on the curb and fell flat."
"Not good!" Smack sheathes his blade. "So, did he?"
Angel lowered her flask. "Did he what?"
"Have brain surgery?"
"Nope, though I wouldn't rule out brain damage of some kind. My guess is his parents were cousins... though I'm not sure that qualifies as brain damage." She offered him the flask, but he waved it away with his own. "Anyway, he's completely insensate on the sidewalk and never so much as twitches a finger until the next morning in his cell. He woke up all hangover-cranky and wondering where he was."
Their laughter halted when an echoing scrape reached them from outside the light of their fire. Smack was gone in a flash. Ignoring the soreness in his muscles from their last battle, he plunged like a shark into shadow and danger. His bright sword was lost in the ruins outside the circle of firelight. Angel remained by the fire, staring into its depths- bait again.
With a hand beneath her cloak, she moved her fingers through the arcs that activated the spell of Sight. The spell flickered in her eyes, and the three intruders appeared before her mind's eye. They were approaching slowly, probably hoping to catch them off-guard.
She smiled, evil plans forming. With another hidden gesture, she made the pattern for Farspeak and whispered into the fire. "It's them. I think they're trying to get the drop on us. Lets have a bit of fun, babe."
Perhaps twenty meters away, crouching in the blackness, Angel's spell put her whispered words in Smack's ear. He was distracted by her use of the familiar term. It had to be unhealthy to feel this way about someone you've never really seen. 'Forbidden passion' sounded a lot less geeky than the reality of his feelings.
"Gotcha... babe." He whispered into the mystic channel between them. They both smiled.
"Ready, honeymuffin?" She said playfully.
"When you are, sugarbumps."
"They're to your right... poofakins. You take Lo Pan, I'll get the others."
"Poofakins?" he whispered, "That's just wrong. In position now, snugglebunny." He whispered, gripping his sword with both hands. On the other side of a partially fallen wall, he heard a boot scuff on the broken stone of the walkway.
He bent his knees, coiling before the strike. Then he was sailing through the air, pulling his head back and his knees up. He loved this part.
Angel traced a subtle pattern with her hands and the fire rushed out to engulf her, tickling harmlessly across her skin. The torrent of flame swept her up and carried her toward the intruders. Swimming in the fire geyser, she streaked through the darkness, shadows radiating away from the brightness of her star. Flames leapt from her outstretched hands, striking two of the startled Avatars dead center. One managed to deflect the fireball with a large metal shield, but he was still rocked back, staggering from the impact. The third intruder's staff moved toward Angel, energies building along its length.
From above, Smack tumbled out of the darkness, blade flashing. The blade struck the staff between the Avatar's hands, cutting it in half with a blinding flash of released energy. Smack followed the down stroke into a crouch, and then jumped into a spinning roundhouse kick that hit the reeling wizard in the jaw; Lo Pan landed on his back, dazed.
The staggering shield-bearer recovered his footing, and with his patented 'Mighty Shout', swung his heavy axe at Smack. There was a ringing clash as Smack's blade intercepted the axe. The clash of weapons had a definite victor as the axe's head split in half, severed by Smack's humming blade. The sheared part of the axe head spun through the air, catching Smack on the forehead with its flat edge. With the same type of luck that doesn't kill people in freak car crashes, but only leaves them maimed, Smack hit the ground unconscious, but not dead.
"Did'ja see that?" Rygar shouted, brandishing his axe handle in victory. Everyone who saw was laughing. Angel halted her assault to see what all the laughing was about, and joined in when the others explained. Though unconscious, Smack was laughing too, poking fun at his own performance.
"Serves you right!" Lo Pan waved his broken staff at Smack's unconscious form. "This was my best reserve weapon!"
"Sorry about your spawnfodder, David" Smack couldn't stop laughing long enough to really achieve the sarcasm he intended.
"Spawnfodder!? Now this really pisses me off to no end! Two thousand platinum! That's what you owe me!"
"Yeah, an' you owe me four thousand for guarding your stinking corpse... but don't worry, I take credit."
The broken staff bounced off uncononscious form.
