Super Human (16 page)

“Why aren’t
you
infected?” Roz asked.

“Reckon I’m too young.” He flashed a crooked-toothed grin. “I’m eighteen, but I’m a bit of a late developer. Never thought I’d be pleased about that—the other guys are all, y’know, muscles and stubble and everything. I’m a coupla years behind them. Man, they always give me such a hard time about that. Not anymore, though.”

“Is there any word from Paragon?” Roz asked.

Nazzaro shook his head. “I haven’t heard. But they don’t tell me more than I need to know. Colonel Morgan’s been hit pretty bad and the whole chain of command is messed up—we’re just trying to do the best we can with what we have left.”

Roz decided not to ask him anything else: He was one of those drivers who had to look at their passenger when talking to them.

It was close to midnight, and the roads were almost empty. Nazzaro roared the jeep through the town as though traffic laws didn’t apply to him. He cruised through the red light on Main Street, screeched around the corner onto Gardner— taking the turn so wide the jeep ended up on the other side of the road and almost demolished a phone booth—then hit the accelerator.

As they reached the town’s outskirts they passed four army trucks going in the opposite direction. Nazzaro honked the horn and waved, but they didn’t return his greeting.

“Jerks,” Nazzaro muttered. “All right, guys,” he shouted. “Keep an eye out for a place called Maple Towers. Should be coming up on the left.”

“We already passed it,” Lance said, “way back there.” He was holding on to the back of Nazzaro’s seat.

“OK, hold tight!” Nazzaro slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel at the same time. Roz and Lance were almost thrown out of the jeep as it left curved skid marks across the road.

They roared back the way they had come and eventually turned right into a wide, tree-lined avenue. After a quarter-mile Nazzaro slowed the jeep to a crawl.

Roz and Lance looked around as they waited. It seemed to be a fairly wealthy neighborhood—large houses, plenty of space between them, lawns so perfectly clipped and level they could have been used as pool tables.

After a few moments Lance said, “Now what?”

“Should be around here somewhere,” Nazzaro said. “You guys have the exact address?”

Before Roz or Lance could reply, a disembodied voice said, “Stop there. I heard you coming ages ago. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

Softly, Roz said, “Can you actually hear us right now?”

“Yep,” Thunder’s voice said.

Nazzaro whistled. “That is one freaky power you have there, kid.”

“It’s pretty useful at the movies, though,” Thunder said. “I can shut out all the sounds around me and concentrate on the show.” As he spoke, it sounded to the others like his voice was slowly circling them.

“How
are
you doing that?” Lance asked.

Thunder’s reply came from the left sleeve of Lance’s jacket. “I’m agitating the air molecules. Or something. I don’t understand the physics of it myself. I just know I can do it.”

The location of the sound jumped again, this time coming from Roz’s mouth: “I’ve already spoken to Abby. She’s on the way—has to pick up her costume first.”

Roz jumped. “OK, never do
that
again!”

“Sorry. But if you look to your left . . .”

They looked.

“Your
other
left,” Thunder’s voice said directly to Lance.

Thunder came running around a corner, dressed in his makeshift superhero costume.

“Abby’s on the other side of town,” his voice said, though Roz could see that he wasn’t moving his lips.

Thunder clambered into the jeep next to Lance. Private Nazzaro fired up the engine again and returned to the main road. This time, however, no matter how heavy Nazzaro’s foot was on the accelerator, the engine was completely silent. “I don’t want you waking up the whole neighborhood,” Thunder explained. “Don’t you people ever service your vehicles?”

The soldier shrugged. “Not my department.”

“I was watching the news,” Thunder said after a few minutes. “People are beginning to panic about the plague. There’s going to be riots, looting, murder. . . .”

Lance said, “No there won’t. They’ll all be too sick to riot.”

The older boy gave him a withering look. “Yeah? What if the plague kills all the adults and there’s only kids and teenagers left? Imagine a whole bunch of guys just like
you
trying to run things. The country wouldn’t last a week.”

“Strange,” Lance said. “You’d think that someone who had the superhuman ability to manipulate sound wouldn’t need such a big mouth.”

“Why are
you
here, exactly?” Thunder asked. “What can you actually do, apart from steal things and get a whole freeway closed? That was on the news too. Skinny kid on a jet-propelled bike doing two hundred on the freeway and crying his eyes out.”

“I was
not
crying,” Lance said. “The wind was in my eyes.”

“That’s enough,” Roz said. “Look, we don’t know what The Helotry are up to, but we’re probably the only ones who have a chance of stopping them. All the adult superheroes are out of commission. Max has files on almost all of them—each of their hometowns has been targeted with the plague. There’s been no reported sightings of
any
of them since this afternoon. So we’re going to have to work together. Start acting like a team.”

The others fell silent for a while, then Thunder said, “When you say ‘team,’ you’re not counting this guy, right?” He turned to Lance. “I mean, no offense, kid, but you
can’t
do anything, can you?”

Before Lance could protest, Roz said, “Give it a rest, Thunder! I’m in charge here. I make the decisions.”

“Who says you’re in charge? I’m the eldest.”

Private Nazzaro muttered, “Actually,
I’m
the eldest.”

The others looked at him, then Roz said, “Right. But . . . you’re not really on the team.”

Another red light was fast approaching—Nazzaro pressed harder on the accelerator. “Why not? I’ve got military training.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward Lance. “I’m more useful than this guy. No offense, McKendrick.”

“None taken,” Lance said. “You make a good point. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Roz considered this.
He could be right. Max never had any problems working with the Rangers.
“All right,” she said. “You’ll need to check with your superiors, but if they’re happy with that, you’re in.”

Nazzaro turned to her and grinned. “Yes! Always wanted to be a superhero!” He twisted around and smiled at Thunder and Lance. “So what are we going to call ourselves? We need a cool name like The Sensations. Maybe not that, though. Sounds like a sixties beat combo.”

Roz grabbed his arm. “Will you watch where you’re going?”

“Right, right . . .” The private returned his attention to the road. “My old man’s always giving me grief about that.” He turned toward Roz again, grinning. “This one time I was—”

“The road!”

“Gotcha. Anyway, I was—”

Something dark and heavy crashed down onto the jeep’s hood. Nazzaro screamed and stamped down on the brake. The jeep skidded to a stop and the body kept moving—it hit the ground hard, rolled a good twenty yards, and lay still.

Lance was out of the jeep and running for the body before it had stopped rolling. Roz leaped out after him, slowed as she approached. Lance was in the way, and it was pretty dark. She couldn’t see much, but the closer she got the tighter the knot in her stomach became. “Oh no. . . .”

Without turning around, Lance softly said, “It’s Abby.”

Twenty-five minutes earlier, Abigail de Luyando had silently pushed open the window of the bedroom she shared with her sister and climbed out onto the fire escape. Instead of descending the creaking metal steps and taking the risk of waking up old Mr. Sutcliffe two floors down, she’d vaulted over the rail and landed in the alley.

Her conversation with Thunder had been odd. She’d been half asleep, going over the day’s events in her head, when a voice whispered her name. She’d jumped up and flicked on the light, but the only other person in the room was Vienna, softly snoring to herself.

Then the voice had come again. “It’s me, Abby. Thunder.” He’d told her how he’d been contacted by Roz and that she was coming to pick them up.

Now, Abby ran along the town’s deserted streets. Leftover’s—normally open until two in the morning—was dark and empty. She darted past, ducked down the side street, and three minutes later was back on Main Street dressed in her homemade costume. Thunder had told her where he lived, so she started running in that direction.

She was still pulling on her gloves as she reached the front of the diner when she saw the woman standing in the middle of the street, watching her.

Abby stopped.

The woman was now wearing a close-fitting bloodred costume, with purple gloves, belt, and boots, but Abby still recognized her: Slaughter.

Abby’s mouth suddenly dried.
Oh God.

Slaughter walked forward slowly, almost casually, her hips swaying as though she was stepping onto a dance floor.

Abby had seen enough TV shows and movies to know what was coming next. Slaughter would sneer, boast a little, threaten to kill her, and then the battle would begin.

All right,
Abby thought, her hand slowly rising toward the sword on her back.
Don’t give her the chance. As soon as she starts talking—

Slaughter darted forward, leaped, spun in midair. She landed on one foot in front of Abby, still spinning. Her other foot slammed into the side of Abby’s face, knocking the army helmet from her head. Abby staggered to the right, almost losing her balance.

Still spinning, Slaughter struck Abby’s face in the same spot with her left fist, then her right. Abby reeled backward.

Slaughter dropped to the ground, pivoted on her arms, crashed her legs into Abby’s. Abby felt herself hit the ground hard.
Got to move—

The woman pushed herself up and flipped over in one movement. She came down with one foot on either side of Abby’s head, the toes of her boots almost brushing Abby’s shoulders. Abby stared up at her, not knowing what to do.

Slaughter reached down and took hold of Abby’s belt, effortlessly hoisted her into the air.

Dangling upside down, Abby made a grab for Slaughter’s left leg, but the woman was too fast: She jabbed upward with her right knee, hitting Abby in the stomach and letting go of her belt at the same time.

Abby tumbled as she sailed through the air and had a brief moment to see a large painted
O
approaching—then she crashed through the plate glass window of Leftover’s.

She skidded on her back across table seven and hit the floor hard.
Move! Get out of here!

Abby jumped to her feet and grabbed her sword from its sheath on her back, and in the half-light noticed that her right glove was glistening red.
Blood! I’m cut!
Then an all-too-familiar tang reached her nostrils. It wasn’t blood—it was the cheap ketchup that Dave the manager bought by the gallon and decanted into genuine Heinz bottles.

Then Slaughter was leaping through the shattered window.

Abby jumped backward, felt the edge of the countertop pressing against her back, and slashed at Slaughter with her sword.

But the woman was already two yards to the left, having turned her leap into a short flight and changed direction. Abby lunged toward her and slashed again.

Slaughter cartwheeled over the counter and passed feetfirst through the rectangular window into the pitch-dark kitchen.

Abby ran for the kitchen’s double doors, jumped at the last moment and hit the doors with her shoulder, crashed through and rolled to her feet.

In the triangle of weak light from the doorway, Abby saw the cook’s largest knife thud into the tiled floor an inch away from her right boot. She ducked to the left as a second knife whizzed past her head so close she felt the wind. At the same time a third knife clipped the shoulder of her jacket and spun away to clatter across the floor.
No fair! She can see in the dark!

She ran for the back door.
Can’t take her on in here. Not with all these things she can use as weapons!

A heavy steel frying pan embedded itself in the back door, followed almost instantly by a horizontal hail of razor-sharp steak knives.

Abby ducked down behind the largest oven, and as she did so she caught a faint glimpse of Slaughter. The woman was standing in the corner next to the well-stocked cutlery drawers. Tiny points of light glinted off the knives in her hands—at least three in each—and from her eyes. Slaughter’s pupils looked huge, wide, and dark.

Abby snatched up one of the fallen steak knives and threw it toward the far wall, to the left of the double doors. It spun as it flew. The wooden handle clipped the light switch.