Shades of Gray (28 page)

Six weeks go by.

… Vixen, exhausted after yet another sleepless night (damned colic) mentioned to Luster that Hypnotic had accused Corp of raping Angelica’s mind and enslaving her to Blackout. That led to a heated discussion about Hypnotic, whom Luster thoroughly despised, and
that
led to Vixen distracting him with a kiss. She didn’t mention the bit about the comlinks brainwashing extrahumans; frankly, she thought that was complete cowcrap, and Lester was in no mood for such nonsense.

Eighteen months come and go.

… Luster, patrolling with Blackout, was horribly short-tempered because Vixen had had a miscarriage yesterday and Luster had spent the whole night holding her and telling her he loved her and everything was going to be okay, so when Blackout made a bad joke about Vixen getting her girlish figure back, Luster snapped that Blackout would be better off focusing on his own wife even if their marriage was a sham—that everyone knew the only reason Angelica was with Blackout was because Corp made her do it. Luster apologized immediately, and sheepishly told Blackout about the miscarriage and said he hadn’t meant it about Angelica, and Blackout said he completely understood and was so very sorry for their loss … but then he became strangely quiet and said nothing for a very, very long time. Luster, who was grieving, was too upset to notice.

One day passes.

… Night, sparring with Blackout, commented that the other Shadow power was fighting poorly, and he asked what was wrong. Blackout wondered aloud if Angelica truly loved him. Night, who didn’t care about such things, merely shrugged and suggested they continue sparring. He noticed splotches of Shadow staining Blackout’s eyes as they fought, but Night decided that was simply from the physical exertion.

The very next night, Blackout hit Angelica for the first time.

Interlude

S
o,” Jose says after a long sip of coffee. “Any word from the hospital?”

Garth manages not to slam his fist through the table. “None. Julie’s like everyone else that’s been brought in: catatonic.”

It’s enough to drive a person mad. No help from the nurses at the hospital, and even less from the doctors. No one knows anything, other than the hospitals are overflowing with zombies.

A hand claps him on the shoulder. “Hang tough, mate,” Terry says. “She’ll pull through. She’s no porcelain doll.”

Garth wants to punch in Terry’s dentures. If the man had agreed to have the Latent Network up and running, maybe Julie would be sitting by Garth’s side even now. But no—lashing out at the leader of their ragtag group wouldn’t help matters, especially since now, at least, Terry was willing to hear him out.

Although punching Terry would make Garth feel a hell of a lot better.

The five of them take up the small card table in Jose’s back room: wiry Jose, beanpole Luke, broad Terry, hardened Claire, and Garth himself, each with a minor power that keeps them safely off Corp’s radar. As if old Terry with his minor control of levitation could be Squadron material, or scar-faced Claire with her ability to sharpen knives. Jose could whisk away dust with a thought. Luke’s cast-iron stomach and unbreakable teeth let him bite through and eat anything, which was a plus whenever he’d tackled Julie’s cooking.

Ah, Julie.

Garth grimaces, pushes away her image.
She’ll be all right. She has to be all right.

He’d just finished telling the others about what had happened over the past few days, from the fights in the street to Arclight’s crashing into his apartment to Julie and the others falling victim to the so-called zombie plague. And now he’s waiting for Terry to tell him that yes, the Latent Network will become active, and to hell with Corp and being discovered.

But time passes as Garth and the others sip coffee and half listen to the newscast in the background as the tele blares. And Terry doesn’t say shite about it.

Garth drains his coffee and slams down his cup. “So what’s it going to be? We going to sit here and watch the world burn? Or are we going to do something about it?”

Silence from his friends. In the background, the newsie blathers about Mayor Lee condemning extrahuman activity—possibly even those who have been helping the police and National Guard. “They cannot be trusted,” the mayor rants. His voice sounds tinny and ineffective.

“Do what?” Terry finally says. His voice is old and strong, his tone is thoughtful. “Tell me how we’re supposed to stop this insanity and I’ll happily listen.”

“Just get out there,” Garth replies, pointing toward the door and beyond that, to the city. “Do the little we can do. Something’s got to be better than nothing.”

“We’re not real extrahumans,” Jose says with a shrug. “Barely any
extra
there. We’d get killed.”

“Something’s better than nothing,” Garth repeats, his voice a growl. “We call up the whole Network, get everyone to come out. Yeah, there are hundreds of Squadron members gone bad, but we’ve got a
thousand
tucked away.”

“A thousand wannabes,” Claire grumbled. “None of them battle trained.” She, of course, could hold her own—the woman had been in more knife fights than Garth could count.

“And all living normal lives,” Jose says. “Paying bills. Avoiding Corp. We get involved now, we can’t go back to that.”

“There may not be anything to go back
to,
” Luke says quietly, and Garth could kiss him for having his back. “The city’s in ruins, and Corp’s still not saying anything about it. And it’s not just New Chicago. The Americas are dying, man. The Squadron’s gone mad, and they’re destroying everything.”

“What’re you supposed to do?” Jose asks. “Eat the country to safety?”

Claire stiffens in her seat. “Guys.”

Luke snarls, “Now look—”

“Boys,” Terry sighs, “come on, this won’t help …”

“Help what?” Garth demands. “We’re not helping
anything.
”

“Guys! Shut it, will you?” Claire points to the tele. “Listen to this.”

Garth pivots in his seat, and he sees on screen a text banner declaring
DOCTOR HYPNOTIC AT LARGE
. The anchor, the lovely Gena Mead, looks appropriately serious as she tells the world, “It’s been confirmed that the supervillain Doctor Hypnotic has in fact escaped from Blackbird and is at large.”

A clip appears: Commissioner Wagner, looking haggard. “Harold Gibbons, known to the world as Doctor Hypnotic, has escaped Blackbird Prison. Citizens are strongly encouraged to stay off the streets until he, along with the other former Squadron members, have been captured.”

Right,
Garth thinks.
Just stop our lives for the next who knows how long. Just stay cowering in our holes while the gods duke it out.

Wagner is bombarded with questions, but one stands out: “Commissioner, does Doctor Hypnotic’s mind control have any bearing on the zombie plague infesting New Chicago?”

“Too soon to be determined,” he says grimly.

“However,” Gena breaks in, “some are already pointing to Hypnotic as the cause of what’s being called the zombie plague. Specifically, the few Squadron members who haven’t, as they call it, gone rabid.”

The image shifts to a black screen, and a woman’s voice is heard as the text appears along with the spoken words: “Not all Squadron members have gone rabid. There are a handful of us still sworn to protect the citizens of New Chicago and all of the Americas, and we’re doing everything we can. Our top priority is bringing in Doctor Hypnotic and curtailing the effects of his mind control.” The speech is attributed to the strongwoman Steele.

“That message from Steele was delivered to Commissioner Wagner earlier today,” Gena says. “Whether that will sway Mayor Lee, who is still contemplating whether to ban all things extrahuman, remains to be seen.”

Her coanchor dives into another story—the stock market has continued its swan dive—and Jose clicks off the tele.

None of them speak.

Doctor Hypnotic.
Garth’s mind is churning so fast, he can barely think. A Mind power in a long line of Mind powers with the same name. He’d flipped two decades ago and gone rabid. When he’d tried to take over New York, thousands of people had lost their minds. Hundreds had died. Garth had been a teenager at the time, but he still recalled the despair in the streets, the palpable sense of fear and loss that had filled the air. Until Hypnotic had been captured, no one had been safe.

He thinks of all the people already in the hospitals, their minds captured.

“You still think we should sit around,” Garth says softly, “and wait until we succumb to the zombie plague?”

All of them agree that they can’t just wait to be ensnared.

“But what do we do?” Jose asks, sounding like a man going under for the third time.

Terry shakes his head. “I don’t know. But one thing’s clear.” He eyes Garth, and when he speaks again he doesn’t sound anywhere close to seventy. “We’re calling in the Network.”

CHAPTER 37

JET

Project Sunstroke proceeds. Good news: No rats died in the transformation.

—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #295

J
et hated hospital waiting rooms.

Meteorite had worked her magic, because when Jet had arrived with Hornblower she was met immediately by the trauma team, who quickly shunted her out of the way and fell on Hornblower like lions on an antelope. When Jet refused to leave, she was ushered to a private room by an ER nurse, who told Jet in no uncertain terms that she was to wait there. “In case we need you,” the nurse said. Jet knew it was to get her far away from the public, whose patience with extrahumans was coming to a crashing end.

So she’d settled down in an uncomfortable chair. And she waited. She owed Hornblower that much. If she hadn’t frozen—if she would have blanketed the mutants sooner—then Tyler would still have both legs.

It was very straightforward, all cause and effect. Hornblower was being operated on right now because she hadn’t reacted soon enough. She knew this. She might have felt it, too, except she was numb on the inside. Cold.

Shadowed.

She replayed the fight in her mind, again and again. She saw herself freeze instead of blanket the mutants immediately.

She heard Hornblower’s agonized scream.

I did that,
she told herself.
I didn’t act appropriately and I cost him his leg. Maybe his life.

It was the fourth time she replayed the battle that she realized she’d nearly attacked Taser … and that the Shadow voices had been silent all the while. She’d danced on the edge of madness, and this time there was only herself to blame.

It should have made her feel angry, or terrified. It should have made her feel something other than this empty chill, this almost clinical detachment.

She wondered if you knew when you were going crazy.

As she sat alone in the small spartan room, she tapped into Ops periodically to get status reports: The group had deposited the mutants at Illinois State Prison without a hitch (at least something had gone right, she thought); Taser was rounding up the Runner network (he’d probably want some sort of payment after); Iridium had reported there was a rumor that Squadron: India would be entering the arena (maybe they’d all live to see that day happen). Tail-chasing conversations about how to stop Hypnotic. Iridium storming out instead of turning on Steele.

Jet leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Something had to go their way. They couldn’t keep on at this pace—even if the Runners did come back to help them, there were only a handful of extrahumans doing the job of hundreds.

She never thought she’d feel so old at twenty-two.

“Jet?”

She opened her eyes, sat forward. Her neck complained hugely, and her teeth had grown fuzzy. Blinking away the dregs of sleep, she looked up at the duty nurse. “Yes?”

“I wanted to tell you,” the nurse said, a tired smile on her face. “He’s going to pull through.”

Midnight—the witching hour. Jet allowed herself a tiny smile as she glanced down at her city. Backlit by the full moon, she hovered in the air like some darkling angel, Shadows playing on her face as she beheld her charge.