Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone (5 page)

As the questions plagued her, the snake-man pressed his torso harder against Vortex’s back, forcing his prey forward, his tail digging deeper into the man’s guts, cutting off his ability to breathe. Any moment would see Vortex black out, and then she would again be alone with—

The end of the snake-man’s tail whipped along the ground between Vortex’s legs, seeking to wrap around his knees. As she watched, twin beams of red light shot from Vortex’s eyes, burning through the reptilian flesh in an instant and slicing at least twelve inches of that tail in half.

The snake-man had roared when his fang broke, but this time his eyes flew wide and he screamed. Vortex hit the tail again, lasering from the center outward so that part of it now hung loose, held together only by an inch of scaly flesh. The rogue screamed louder.

Twisting around on the pavement, Vortex planted his feet and bucked against the snake-man, and when his chest thrust outward, he lasered through part of the body of the tail where it wrapped around his torso.

The rogue could not take anymore. Flopping around like a fish, he unwrapped himself from his former prey, panicking to get away from the burning assault.

As soon as the pressure relaxed, Vortex bent forward again, this time of his own free will, and kicked backward — his boot caught the shrieking rogue in the face, knocking him away. He spun on one knee to face his opponent, the air between them rippled like asphalt under the sun, and the rogue’s head snapped back as if struck by a sledgehammer. He collapsed to the pavement, unconscious.

Vortex struggled to his feet, his right arm hanging loose at his side, the shoulder bulging at an unnatural angle.

Kimberly limped over to his side. “Th-thank you,” she said.

Vortex sort of chuckled, but it sounded more like a brave effort. “It’s my pleasure, miss. It’s what I do ...” He looked to his left as the police siren chirped yet again. “Sounds like the cops are almost here. And we have an audience, too.” He nodded his head to the side.

Kimberly followed his gesture, seeing a heavyset Asian man in a grey jumpsuit standing out on his porch. He was chattering into a cell phone, probably to 911.

“
Now
they come out,” she grumbled, bitter.

“Yeah,” Vortex commented, “most people dive for cover when a paranormal fight starts. Can’t really blame them.” He started shuffling toward the grey sedan, still idling in the intersection. “I need to get going now. The police will—”

“Wait!” she said, mindful of his injured right arm. “We should get you to a hospital.”

“Can’t do that,” he said as he kept moving.

“Please, Vortex. I ...” Kimberly didn’t know what to say, and so what came out next surprised her. “I’m sorry.”

The masked hero stopped, turning halfway to look back at her. “You’re ‘sorry’? For what?”

“I ... I thought some, uh, belittling things about the way you’re dressed when you first showed up. That was mean. You saved my life. So, I ... I’m sorry. And thank you again.”

Vortex looked at her for a moment before nodding his appreciation, then he glanced past her. She turned to see the police car rounding the corner two streets down and driving toward them, its lights flashing.

“Tell you what, miss,” Vortex said. “They’ll stop soon as they see the rogue, but that might not give me enough time. If you could maybe stall ’em, keep ’em distracted ‘til I get back to my car ... that’d be awesome.”

Kimberly Bryce nodded and said, “Thank you,” one more time. Then she hobbled toward the oncoming police car and waved her arms as big and wide as she could.

PCA

“Okay, Steve ... are you ready?”

“No. Just do it.”

“Okay ... three, two, one.”
Snap!

Steve Davison bit down on his leather wallet until his jaws twinged, and squeezed the edge of the wooden work table he sat upon until his knuckles turned white, but he absolutely refused to give voice to his pain. He knew that if he did, his swearing would echo throughout the training center — the refuge where Vortex stayed in shape, trained with the weaponry of his mechanical eyes, and, when injured, where he withdrew to lick his wounds.

Fortunately, in this case, he found that once Ardette Blounts maneuvered the joint into its proper place, the throbbing pain was rapidly replaced by a heavy ache that was nonetheless an improvement over how he’d felt a minute ago.

“Oh, Jesus ...” Alan Russell, looking green around the gills, moaned as he ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. “I know it has to be done, I know, but God how I hate the
sight
of that ...”

Steve spat out the wallet. “I’ll take the sight if you take the feeling.”

Alan rewarded that remark with one of his patented half-grunts. “
No
, thank you. You’re the masochist here, not me.” Then he said to Ardette, “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for Jeremy to handle stuff like this?”

Ardette cracked and shook a chemical cold pack, wrapped it in a thin washcloth, and placed it against Steve’s bare shoulder. Given that Ardette had been taking first aid and other medical classes that catered to the layperson, Steve wasn’t surprised when her reply came out a little peevish. “Jeremy can’t help with the actual dislocation, only the aftermath. Speaking of, why don’t you make sure Steve’s uniform is out of sight and call him?”

Alan replied, a bit placative in response to her tone, “I already called him. He should be here soon.” He walked around to where they had tossed the Vortex uniform after helping Steve out of it, to tuck it inside its designated footlocker.

Ardette moved the cold pack to evaluate the discoloration around Steve’s shoulder, hissed through her teeth when she saw the back portion was almost as black as her own skin, and replaced the pack. “I really wish,” she commented, “that we’d been able to get that skeletal reinforcement in your uniform to work. It might’ve prevented this from happening,
again
.”

Steve started to shrug, but a spike of pain reminded him to keep his right shoulder still. “It wasn’t worth the hassle,” he assured her. “It restricted my movements, and it chafed like a son of a bitch. Present situation notwithstanding, I can live with the tradeoff.”

Steve had been speaking to Ardette, but it was Alan who grunted again. Steve knew well enough where his priorities lay: Anything that could help protect Steve through his insane adventures as Vortex should get top priority, raw skin be damned.

But any verbal comments Alan might have made were cut short by a knock on the closer set of outer doors. All three of them took a quick look around, spot-checking for anything that might scream
Vortex trains here!
to the world. Finding nothing, Steve nodded to Alan, who hurried over to escort Jeremy Walker inside.

“Hello, Mister Russell,” Steve heard Jeremy say when Alan opened the door. “Another MMA injury?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Come on in.”

As Alan held the door open, Jeremy Walker stepped into view. Steve waved to the young man with his good hand; Walker reciprocated and strode their way.

Walker was a former middle school teacher who lost his job after going paranormal; he could never prove that was
why
he was let go, so he hadn’t bothered with a lawsuit. A few weeks later, he was hired by
Davison Electronics
. Steve’s company already made an effort to provide work for paranormals who had fallen on hard times, but once it came out exactly what Walker’s new ability was, his case took on a higher priority: Jeremy Walker was a paranormal healer.

Now Walker worked on-call assisting with any employee injuries, and he was paid bonuses on the side for helping patch up
Davison’s
owner, who had an unfortunate passion for mixed martial arts (a viable enough excuse, once Alan and Ardette made sure everyone knew about Steve’s kick-boxing and gymnastics background).

“Would you have any problem performing these extra duties?” Alan had asked Walker during his interview. “I must disclose that Steve indulges this dangerous habit of his day and night, so you might be called in at some very odd hours.”

“Mister Russell,” Walker had answered, “I’m black, I’m gay, and now I’m paranormal — I’ve hit the minority trifecta. For guaranteed employment at the salary you’re offering, I’ll be at Mister Davison’s complete disposal.”

Walker took off his jacket as he reached Steve. “How are you doing this afternoon, Mister Davison?”

Steve smiled; he’d asked Walker to call him “Steve” before, but it clearly wasn’t soaking in. And if he thought anything of Steve’s sitting here in nothing but a pair of kick-boxing shorts, it didn’t show. “I’d be doing a lot better if I’d just kicked the guy instead of going for that headlock.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Walker replied as he tossed his jacket onto the table. “Mizz Blounts, you can take away the cold pack.”

When Ardette complied, Walker placed his hands upon Steve’s shoulder and closed his eyes. The pain relief was almost instantaneous, and Steve could feel the swelling diminish in seconds — not all the way, as Walker wasn’t that good yet, but it shrank by half.

Nothing in this world
, Steve thought,
feels as good as the
absence
of pain.

After perhaps ten seconds total, Walker opened his eyes and took his healing hands away. “Please remember to take it easy with the MMA for a few days,” he reminded Steve. “I’m getting better and better at this, but for now, I’m more of a ‘paramedic’ than a ‘parasurgeon,’ okay? How’s your neck feeling?”

Steve shrugged, pleased that he could now do so. “It always bothers me, but I’m seeing the chiropractor twice a week, and the massage therapy helps keep it loose.”

“Here ...” Walker closed his eyes again and placed a hand around the back of Steve’s muscular neck, giving a healing zap to the year-old injury. Steve’s neck had never recovered from when a paranormal who could turn into a monstrous bear smacked him upside his head, but since he couldn’t own up to that, he had told Walker that the chronic discomfort was the result of really bad whiplash. Would it make a difference if he explained the real injury? Maybe.

For now, though, Walker’s touch knocked the familiar pinch down a few notches. “Thanks, that’s better.”

“Good,” Walker said. “Is that everything ...?” His eyes glanced down Steve’s torso, which bore scars and other signs of old wounds that couldn’t really be explained via mixed martial arts.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve told him. “Thanks for coming. Your compensation will be in your next direct deposit.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister Davison.” He collected his jacket and followed Alan back toward the door through which he had entered. Just before they moved out of range, Steve heard Walker comment to Alan, “Mister Davison really should take it easy, Mister Russell. He’s already got more scars than Christian Bale in
The Dark Knight.
What kind of rules do they follow at these fights ...?”

Then the door closed behind them, and Steve could only imagine the mutual Steve-should-take-better-care-of-himself fest Walker and Alan would share.

But Steve wasn’t the only one to note Alan’s unexpected absence, and Ardette decided to take advantage of it. “Tell me the truth, Steve: How
are
you doing, really? It’s just us, so no bullshit, please.”

Steve sighed as he gently rubbed his still-tender shoulder. “Being Vortex is getting harder,” he admitted. “I’ve only been at this for
one year
, Ardette, but the injuries are really stacking up on me, faster than Jeremy can keep up. I feel like I’m racing past my prime at an accelerated rate.”

“That’s not good,” she observed, “when you consider that you’re barely old enough to walk into a liquor store.” She folded her arms and leaned against the table beside him. “Alan worries about you, you know. I mean, really worries, not just ‘mother hen’ worries. Sometimes he has trouble sleeping, tossing and turning all night long ...”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. This was the closest either she or Alan had ever come to openly admitting that they had a romantic relationship. It was on the tip of his tongue, as it had been many times before, to finally flat-out ask her about it, but, once again, he opted to keep his questions to himself and respect their privacy. After all, it wasn’t all that different from his relationship with the PCA’s Lieutenant Takayasu — Steve was almost certain that Michael knew he was Vortex ... and yet, thus far, they had avoided talking about it, directly (“plausible deniability” and all that). Sometimes it felt silly, playing the game, but once that line was crossed, they couldn’t go back.

“Alan still wishes you’d officially join the PCA,” Ardette was saying. “That’s what he wanted all along, you know, when he gave you the eyes. That way you’d have some consistent, dependable backup, instead of going the whole ‘lone superhero’ route.” She nudged him with her elbow. “And think how much easier today would’ve gone if you had a partner, hmm? Someone to watch your back?”

“I know ...”

Steve stopped rubbing his shoulder, then gestured past Ardette. She glanced over, spotted what he wanted, and passed him the bottle of lotion. He spurted a glob onto one hand and began applying it under his arm — the skeletal reinforcement might not have worked, but the uniform still chaffed when he wore it too long; such was the tradeoff for the protection of his micro-chainmail suit.

In a quiet voice, Steve said, “I know I won’t be able to do this forever, Ardette. But I still don’t feel like I’ve accomplished my number one goal, a goal I had in mind even before I helped take down McLane’s group ...”

Ardette closed her eyes in anger at the mention of the bastard who slaughtered Steve’s entire family.

“... to inspire new and old paranormals to turn
hero
, not rogue. I’m glad that some have tried, I am. And I’m sorry that the Magnet got himself killed in the attempt. But I had dreams of, I don’t know ... a bigger effort? A greater turnout? A true Class One stepping up to the plate in spectacular fashion?” He chuckled under his breath. “Hell, maybe I should change my uniform colors — go from black-and-gold to something vibrant, like blue-and-yellow, you know?” He flipped a thumb toward the door, after the departed Jeremy Walker. “Tone down the Christian Bale and put a little more Christopher Reeve in my approach. Maybe that would help. What do you think?”