The Push Chronicles (Book 1): Indomitable (8 page)

Choi flipped through her notepad for a few minutes.  I remained silent and alert; I would simply have to let them hash this out themselves.

“The evidence, as astonishing as it seems, points to corroborating at least the broad facts she’s presented.”  She chewed on the end of her pen, then sighed.  “Okay, fine.  I don’t want to risk anyone’s lives here but our own, but I don’t see another way out that doesn’t end with you and I in the morgue and all of this investigation evaporating with it.”

“Well, Irene, I guess we’re going to help you become a superhero.  Shit, that sounds as crazy as it feels.”  Agent Choi nodded in agreement but finally added a shrug.  Neither one of them saw any better options.  She was gracious enough to put the massive meal on the FBI’s dime as we departed to begin the most insane series of actions I have ever contemplated in my life.

Chapter 10 Mask

The suit was ridiculous.  Alright, it wasn’t as ridiculous as some of the costumes I had already seen cropping up on the news, but it felt no less silly to see myself in it.  I couldn’t say no, however; this was my plan as much as it was the two agents’.  They had only procured and assembled the materials.  Unfortunately, that had meant they made most of the aesthetic choices.

At least Brooks and Choi had made some nods to practicality.  In essence, the suit was a top-of-the line leather motorcycle suit, complete with all the best safety features from the racing circuit.  Obviously, all logos and corporate emblems were taken off; anonymity was vital.  Don’t ask me how or why, but they had procured a suit that was pure white with bright blue highlights and panels.  I had argued for black, a sensible color, so obviously the opposite was chosen.  With matching touring gloves and boots, I at least had steel-toed boots as a weapon because, fighting all common sense, that’s all the agents would let me get away with.  I knew it was the Whiteout twisting their sense, but it was still frustrating.  The odd thing was, despite the insanity of this entire get up, it felt so very right.

Even the mask, something that in design reminded me of something out of a Hollywood movie and colored bright blue as if in attempt to bring more attention to my vulnerable head, felt more like a second skin than the irritating annoyance it was.  The mask was Duane’s idea.  Apparently the trend had swept like fire among the publicly-seen Pushed, which is amazing when you consider it had only been two days since the Whiteout.  That made it another piece of the ‘superhero’ disguise needed to fit in.  Rachel was the one who pointed out that it might also help keep me from being tracked down by any local police agencies I might run afoul of.  It was comforting to know that it didn’t matter really, because the FBI would just arrest me for everything at the end of it all.

“OK, Doctor, you’re coming through loud and clear on the pick-up,” Agent Brooks informed me through the tiny earpiece.  “Just remember, the less shit you get into, the less shit we have to clean-up when this whole thing is done.”

“What my partner means to say, Irene, is that you are have no official status or law enforcement powers,” Agent Choi added.  For such small equipment, it certainly worked well.  “You are what is known as a confidential informant.  Anything you do that is considered a crime is still a crime.  We only have the power to work an appropriate deal to lessen or wipe away those offenses, assuming we all live through this.  Oh, obviously, the pick-ups are always on, so remember, everything you say is being recorded.”

“Understood, loud and clear,” I whispered low to myself.  Even though my motorcycle was tucked in a side alley, I already felt amazingly conspicuous.  No matter how I felt about the suit or how important it was to what we were trying to accomplish, it still felt like I was wearing a walking target. 

“The whisper mic is working perfectly,” Rachel confirmed.  “It’s all on you now.  Duane is arranging some discrete transport for us to Washington for the rally tomorrow.  I’ll keep you appraised of the details when he gets that done.”  I heard some keyboard chatter.

“If you want to get your feet damp, local police are getting calls about a series of house invasions, Push activity suspected.  Brook Heights housing project, east side of town.”

“Sure, sounds good to me,” I said.  One kick and the Kawasaki roared to life as I secured my helmet.  “I’ll head that way, if you can give me directions once I get close.”

I didn’t bother ask if they had a GPS tracker in with the wire, the pick-ups, and the other tidbits of electronics I had under the suit.  As much as I hated it, for now, I was under the government’s thumb.  I just hoped, as I raced through the Atlanta traffic, that what I was giving up would pay off in the end.

What worried me more than my two new friends in the FBI was the fact I was about to put what was so far mere guesswork, backed up by limited field observation, to a very real and very dangerous test.  After the agents and I had come to our arrangement late yesterday, I had been 'encouraged' to travel with them, to avoid curfew entanglements, and stay in the hotel where they had been put up by the FBI.  In the morning, as both of them made arrangements for the equipment they would need and Rachel did some work putting it all together, I had some free time.

Well, if you define free as ‘not being actively monitored but strongly suggested to stay in the hotel room and stay out of contact with the rest of the world’.  As angry as the conditions made me, my rational side could see that it was certainly logical that neither Choi or Brooks completely trusted me yet.  To not waste that downtime, I decided to run some figures based on what analytical programs I had on my laptop, using my observations about the Pushed and my own reactions to them as data.

That’s when I discovered yet another wrinkle the Whiteout had brought about.  I was about to do the calculations regarding muscular force and the current theories on hysterical strength when I noticed there was an error in some of the constants the program was showing for the formula.  I checked and double-checked, then cross-referenced with several online resources.

What I discovered is that many known facts and measurements regarding not just the physical makeup of the human body, but a wide variety of scientific fields, had all changed.  I could remember how it was before the world changed but, in every recorded form, it was as if the numbers had always been the way they seemed to be now.  In terms of the human body, by the new numbers, a human being was, theoretically, capable of far greater physical feats than before the Whiteout.  Nothing compared to what the Pushed were capable of, but still scarily impressive.

I couldn’t help but believe that this may be why I wasn’t hurt as badly as I thought I should have been and why I was recovering far quicker.  By nature of the changes to the universe, my body, like every other human being’s, was tougher, stronger, healed quicker ... everything was simply better than before.  What it didn’t explain was why I, unlike everyone else, was able to see the reality underneath the changes of the Whiteout.

Maybe being at the core of the Whiteout protected me, like being in the eye of a hurricane.  Maybe it was some x-factor immunity that cropped up not only in me but scattered others in the world.  The only person who might be able to figure it out would be Eric.  Whatever the reason, I told myself as I weaved through traffic with an abandon I never had previously, I had to trust in my strange immunity and the knowledge I had of how much further I could push my body to keep me from getting killed before this could be set right.

It was a testament to how stretched the Atlanta Police Department was that there was only one police cruiser in front of Brook Heights by the time I arrived.  There was a cluster of terrified people hiding behind whatever cover they could find in the parking lot while an older officer was staunching a bleeding wound in the side of his partner.

I had no idea what it was they were hiding from exactly until the pavement no less than five feet away from me exploded violently, followed immediately by what I was sure was a sonic boom.  Whatever had just struck the ground next to me had literally burned through the air, the rapidly fading path of fire angled up to somewhere in the upper stories of the building.  My skin crawled with the now familiar feeling of the Pushed.

Ignoring the twist in my gut, I turned the bike into a skid as I braked and, in a fit of bravado and stupidity, I ditched the bike in mid-motion.  Somehow, I had managed to gauge the speed perfectly.  As the bike started to tilt and my knee came precariously close to the earth, I was able to kick free and instantly rise into a run.

My poor motorcycle did it’s job as a target, as another supersonic projectile punched through the center of mass with a horrendous screech of metal.  There was just enough time for me to make the mad dash to the police cruiser.  Old softball instincts kicked in as I did a classic slide, skidding to a halt prone next to the officers.

“Who the hell are you?”

I couldn’t blame the officer for his attitude.  His partner was gushing blood, he was pinned down by an apparently homicidal superhuman, and some crazy woman in a motorcycle suit and a mask comes sliding in out of nowhere.  It didn’t help that I had Rachel yelling in my ear, wondering if I had been shot.  Frankly, I was shocked that the police hadn’t started shooting anyone in a mask on sight just to be sure.

“Look, officer,” I said, raising my hands, still on my back, “I know you have no reason to trust me, but believe me, I’m here to help.”  It was obvious this man had seen plenty of action and frankly didn’t look impressed.  “Do you have a choice right now?  We can both be pretty sure you don’t have backup coming and the only way your friend is going to make it is if you can get her to a hospital.”

“I can’t leave these people to get picked off by some maniac up there.  At least now he’s-”  The officer, Officer McDaniels from his name tag, was interrupted as another projectile ripped through the top corner of the police cruiser’s top. “-shooting at us instead of those folks over yonder.”  At this rate, there wouldn’t be a car that could drive anyone anywhere in a few minutes.  I took a deep breath and looked McDaniels in the eye.

“OK, how about this?” I said.  “I’m going to go out there.  If he shoots twice in a row at me and I’m not dead, will you take that as a sign that I can keep him from killing anyone else long enough for you to save this woman’s life?”

I could tell that she was fortunate to be alive as it was.  She must have only been nicked by whatever this crazy was throwing down at us and even then, it had torn a horrific wound through her side.  McDaniels looked torn, then nodded.

“Deal.”  I took one last fortifying breath and started to stand.  “You’re crazy, but still, good luck, lady.”

I nodded and rose to my full height, reminding myself that no matter what this Pushed guy was doing, it wasn’t entirely real.  The real world didn’t have people flying or throwing jets or made of fire.  That’s when I felt the impact into my right shoulder.

The pain radiated out down my nervous system like wildfire and, snap, just like in the office, just like in the graveyard, my mind and body hit that zone.  Time, at least my perception of it, slowed, pain became simply a series of indicators instead of crippling agony, and every muscle in my body was primed and ready.

Even so, whatever had hit me was forceful enough to send my unbraced body into a twisting spiral, flung off my feet.  I landed in a heap on the pavement but I was already in motion, pushing myself back to my feet.  As I reoriented, testing my arm as I moved, I could see McDaniel staring at me with his mouth agape.

There was something lodged in my shoulder, I could feel it, but a glance told me it was only a sharp shard of rock, no more than two inches long.  It would be messy to clean and probably bleed horribly later, but for now, the rock itself was jammed in so good it was staunching the bleeding.  Nothing I couldn’t handle, at least not in this state I was in.

Without realizing it, I had been counting the time between shots.  That subconscious count informed me that the sniper hadn’t shot any faster than once every twenty seconds.  As I pushed off into a full sprint, I figured it was theoretically possibly I could make the building before he shot one of those rocks into my skull.  Not that I would let that stop me.

I had only one thought, one focus right now: Stop this man before anyone else died.  I ate pavement in rapid strides.  Exactly at twenty seconds, another sonic boom shattered the last remaining windows in the apartment building as a street light right to my left was blown neatly in half.  I hit the front doors, now consisting of metal frames with a few hanging shards of jagged glass, and burst into the front lobby.

“Irene, I’m going to pray that the fact all I’m hearing is you panting as proof you’re alive and in the lobby,” Rachel said in my ear.  “What’s your situation?”

I had caught my breath already and I hit the stairs before I answered.  I wasn’t going to lose focus now ... the sliver of my mind that was free for analytical thought was wondering if that was the trick to this: a totality of focus on one purpose.  Raw willpower focused into a razor edge.  Poetic, but hard to scientifically quantify.

“Doesn’t matter, not like you can help,” I whispered as I bounded up flights of stairs.  I was always athletic, I had been since I was a little girl, but I was amazing myself today.  The Whiteout would be good for one thing at least: the next Olympics would be spectacular.  I rounded the stairs and realized I had gone too far.

Every access door to this point had the locks punched through with melted jagged holes.  This one didn’t, which meant, most likely, the rock thrower was in the floor below.  In a fit of irresponsibility, I found myself vaulting over the handrail, neatly landing on the next landing down.  I pushed through the door, senses straining, wondering if I wasn’t just going to collect a rock in my chest for my trouble.

My assailant wasn’t in this hallway, I could see.  What I could see was that the apartment doors had been blasted open in what seemed systematic fashion.  I could even see where he had stopped.  What I couldn’t see, but could feel, was the skin-crawling, gut-twisting feeling of a Pushed approaching, the growing intensity I took to mean he was coming closer.  He probably heard the landing door slam open, or the clatter I probably caused jumping down like a spider monkey.  Before I let my focus wander from too much second-guessing, I slipped into the nearest blasted open apartment, trying to quietly push the door back in it’s original position.