No Hero (9 page)

The sword sweeps through the steel of the car’s hood. It rips and splays, falls away. The bare-chested student is standing there. He staggers backwards. He’s holding the car battery.

“And transmogrification. Of all things.”

“Oh bugger,” Clyde groans. Then he breaks into a run.

“Trans what?” I say. “Why are we running?”

“Battery!” Clyde is yelling. “He’s got a car battery!”

“Move it!” Tabitha’s yell is an electronic screech in my ear.

Transmogrifi-what?

I can see Kayla raising her arms. The sword doesn’t come up, though. She’s not going to strike. It’s a defensive gesture. She’s protecting her face.

There’s a magnesium-white flare, bright and brilliant, like the birth of a star in the street before me. My vision goes white, then red, then black. I stumble back, grabbing at my eyes. And Jesus does that hurt.

Slowly the street comes back to me, slowly it resolves. Black, to red, to blinding white. Then blurs of shape. Focus evolving out of chaos. Into chaos. People about me are down on their hands and knees, pawing about blindly. Screaming. Cursing. I rub my eyes. The car. The detached hood. A shadow shape still standing on the car’s roof. Kayla. I see Kayla. And the student, where’s...?

Holy shit.

There’s something where the student was. Something massive. Something growing. It’s human in shape, I’ll give it that. Squat powerful legs, broad as my chest, thickening at the thigh, ropes of muscle bursting through the jeans he was wearing. Above the waist—an inverted pyramid of flesh, each abdominal muscle a chopping board of flesh, the pectorals as wide as the hood of the car Kayla just cut away, but thicker, vault door thick. And the arms... They grow longer, knuckles strike the ground. Forearms thicker than the thighs. Biceps thicker still. Shoulder muscles like a cow’s carcass dragged over the joint. He’s colossal, ten feet tall and still going. Twelve foot now.

And perched on the massive crossbar that is his shoulders is a curiously small head. Not the student’s head anymore. A second face.

His hair grows as I watch, is longer, blonder now. The cheekbones lift, the chin thins, the eyes grow larger. It’s a girl’s face, a child’s face, pretty, actually, despite the monstrosity beneath. And then it twists, contorts, one side of the skull crumples, caves in, its tongue lolls out and it sneers. It roars. It bellows, from its crushed head, and the street vibrates with the sound.

If ever there was a moment to bail, then this is it. Running and screaming are pretty much the only rational things left to do.

So I start running. Except... well, if I ever meet Kurt Russell I think I’m going to have to give him a piece of my mind, because I’m running toward the bloody thing.

I’m halfway to the car when the monstrosity swats Kayla like a Scottish fly.

She watches it happen. She stands there. Does nothing. Her sword dangles by her side. She stares up at the misshapen head while the fist goes back. While it comes back down.

At first I think something must be happening so fast I don’t even see it. I almost expect to see her dancing up the thing’s arm, standing astride its shoulders. But she’s flying through the air like a broken mannequin. And it doesn’t seem like part of the plan when she lands and lies there unmoving.

Our biggest gun was just taken out in under six seconds.

My pace slows. And... isn’t she...? Isn’t the plan that...? Aren’t I backup? Kayla does the whole inhuman speed and agility and stabbing things with a sword bit. And I...? I’ve never even punched a wall.

Why did she take that hit? Why would she do that?

The thing that was the student closes a massive fist on the roof of an old Ford Escort. Metal crumples. He hefts it, one-handed. Weighs it. Muscles ripple—inhuman anatomy flexing. In his spare hand, he still holds the car battery, two fingers pressed to the contacts. I wonder about that. Not for very long. Too busy wondering about the best way to dodge a flying car.

I dive left. There’s a sound like the sky cracking. Chunks of glass and metal fly. My ears pop painfully. I eat pavement, scraping to a stop, skinning my chin. I roll, breathe, come up and the street keeps rolling. The student... Where’s the student? And then there’s another car. It’s in the air, already coming at me. And it’s unfair to blame Kayla for the whole thing, but I do anyway.

Why did she take that hit?

I brace for a vehicular enema.

The car lurches sideways in midair. Something invisible slams into its side and knocks it spinning away. It crashes into the middle of Cowley Road. Rolls like a barrel. Bounces over the roof of another car. Collision glass shatters in an explosion of white shards.

Clyde stands there, hand outstretched. There’s a tear in the elbow of his jacket. He brings his second hand to bear on the student, the monster. A slow deliberate movement. He bunches his shoulders. Pulls back, curls into himself. The student takes a step toward him. The ground shakes. Clyde explodes outward, flings his arms out. A great shove into midair.

The student slams to a halt. His feet grind backwards. He stumbles, goes down on one knee. Clyde takes a step forward.

Holy crap.
Clyde
is the backup.

The student grunts, something animal, something guttural. He bellows. Everything vibrates. Clyde’s feet shake; he’s putting everything into the invisible shove. The student smiles. The student leers. The student stands. Clyde staggers back.

I lurch to my feet. I stare.

They come at it again. Clyde slams something massive and invisible into the massive and very definitely visible student. I see the student’s muscles quake. But he doesn’t go down. He just pushes back. They stand there. Stalemate.

I think about the two flimsy batteries in Clyde’s mouth. I think about the car battery the student is clutching. Clyde’s power level isn’t even close.

But... maybe, yes, maybe there’s the start of an idea there.

“What’s going on?” Tabitha’s voice is sudden and sharp in my ear. I shake my head. I need to concentrate.

The student needs power. That’s why his fingers are still pressed to those contacts. Electricity is power. Electricity powers the break in reality that’s causing this spell. Electricity needs a circuit. Break the connection, break the spell. We don’t have the monster to deal with, we have the man.

All I have to do is think of a way to get the big bastard to loosen his grip.

And the thing about movie cops is that they have guns. Magnum 45s and Uzis. They have biceps the size of my head. I don’t even have my steel baton so I can give him a rap on the knuckles.

The student lets out another bellow from his misshapen child’s mouth. He takes a step forward. Clyde’s sneakers skid back down the road, soles screeching. He grunts. The student takes another step.

All I’m left with is running for cover. Head down. Feet slapping against the asphalt. I half expect a Peugeot up the arse.

“Keep using Elkman’s Push.” Tabitha comes online again answering some unheard statement from Clyde. “Emphasis on the second syllable. Searching for something bigger. More oomph.”

I slam into the limited shelter of a doorway. Tabitha is whispering a stream of curses into my ear. Whatever she’s trying to look up, she’s not finding it.

From my momentary cover I look again at the student’s car battery. I look at the fist gripping it. It’s as big as my chest, fingers near the width of my forearm. I can’t get it to let go. There’s no way to prize those fingers apart.

Still, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Even a twelve-foot-tall slavering monster cat. I hope.

“Tabitha,” I say. “I need something sharp. Something with a rubber grip.” Something that won’t fry me like an egg when I jam it into that battery. “A fire axe would be nice.”

“Have fun with that. Kind of busy.”

I scan the street, the rubble. Nothing. I look over at Clyde. Doesn’t seem to have a fire axe on him.

“Come on,” I say to Tabitha. “Please.”

“Where are you?”

“Cowley.”

“I fucking know Cowley. Where on Cowley?”

Adrenaline is screwing with my ability to keep up with conversation. I look left, then right. There’s not much to go on. “Opposite an Indian restaurant,” I say.

Nothing. No reply. Clyde is in full retreat now. The student is grinning, mashing his way down the street.

“Turn around,” Tabitha says.

“What?” I was rather hoping to keep my eyes on the terrifying, death-dealing monster stalking down the street.

“Turn around,” Tabitha repeats. “Pretty simple.”

I hesitate, and then I turn.

I’m looking into a hardware store. I’m standing in the doorway of a hardware store.

Talk about staring you in the bloody face.

I kick in the glass of the door. Which jars my leg in an uncomfortable way but still looks sort of awesome. Then I go and spoil the effect by trying to avoid slicing myself open on the remaining jags of glass as I edge through. The lights of the place have gone out. I can see people cowering in the aisles, heads down. Someone standing behind the counter furiously rubbing his eyes. Axes. Axes. Which aisle for axes?

I can feel time running out. I can feel Clyde’s batteries running out. I hear a yell from the street and see him flying backwards, sailing through the air. Time’s up.

No axe.

Then I realize I’m staring at crowbars. Crowbars with easy-to-grip rubber handles.

I grab one, turn, feet skidding. Adrenaline flushes my system and this suddenly feels like it might even be a good idea. I start running. My feet pounding down. I smash through the remaining shards of the door. I hit the street sprinting. My legs burn. A good burn. The burn of fire. Of power. The world is slipping past me in slow motion. It’s like a dream. The student is hefting another car. But I’m going wide, and he doesn’t see me. He looses the car at Clyde. I don’t have time to look. I’m coming up parallel with it. I’ve got the crowbar lifted like a javelin. The student looks left for another projectile. I’m coming up on its right.

I jump. Right foot on the hood of a car. The twang of steel beneath the impact of my foot. The thing starts to turn. My left foot hits the roof of the car. Smack. And then I’m in the air, crowbar lifted above my head. A steel snake about to strike.

The student swats me. Dismissed by the back of his hand.

I am vaguely aware of pain. I am vaguely aware of my vision jagging abruptly sideways before it blurs. I am even vaguely aware of the pavement as it robs me of my senses.

An alleyway. Dirt-strewn. Trash-spattered. And I think I must have fallen down, must have landed badly, because everything hurts. My chest hurts. Jesus, it feels like I’m splitting in two, starting right there, right between my ribs. And how did I get here?

Behind me I hear a rustle of movement, like a thousand petticoats all moving out of sync, yet together. And then, as I let out a grunt of pain and surprise, a woman’s voice says, “Hush.”

I get my right arm working. Lever myself onto my back, and lie facing up. The sky is a dead, dull gray. It was blue back in Oxford.

Back in Oxford?

Yes. I don’t know how I know it, but somewhere deep in my bones I can say for sure that, Toto, this is not Kansas anymore.

A woman stands at the end of the alleyway, framed by steel fire escape stairs that stretch up to the swatch of cloud-choked sky above us. She’s beautiful. An incredible softness of features. Large, pale, gray eyes framed by thick black lashes. Hair held up by an architecture of jeweled pins, a few loose curls spilling free to hang around her ears.

She wears something like a princess’s dress, though that phrase makes it sound gaudy, and she is to gaudy as matter is to antimatter. She’s wearing the dress that every other princess’s dress echoes—layered cream fabric, lace, and silk. She’s as out of place as Halloween in the middle of July, yet somehow she seems to make the rest of the world seem out of place. There is something utterly genuine about her in a way I cannot quite describe.

To be honest, I’m rather impressed with my own subconscious. Who knew I could summon these sorts of images? I’m going to have to get knocked out by giant monstrosities more often.

She puts a finger to her lips and again says, “Hush.”

I open my mouth to explain that I hadn’t said anything and she gives me a benevolent yet reprimanding look. I feel like a naughty child.

The princess, the vision, takes two steps toward where I lie, crouches down with the rustle of fabric and crinkle of crinoline. She leans forward like a conspirator.

“She is not what you think she is.” Her voice is soft and melodious.

I let that percolate a moment.

“Who?” I say

The woman pulls back sharply.

“Hush!” The word is a demand now. Then she softens. She steps forward again, comes to crouch beside my head. It feels as if light radiates from her dress.

“You do not want to wake me up,” she says. She lies a cool finger on top of my forehead and—

—Kayla is lying next to me. She is wide-eyed, breathing shallowly, close to hyperventilating. Not unconscious but caught in the grip of something.

More unfair thoughts rise up. She bailed on us. When she took the punch. Why did she—

“She is not what you think she is.”

No. Obviously not. That’s just subconscious burbling, just me letting my thoughts run away with me.

The ground shakes. Footsteps—slow and ponderous and inevitable. I look up. The student is advancing on Clyde. I try to get up. I don’t. My arms barely even twitch. My chest aches. Each breath burns. I taste blood and gravel. A stone is embedded in my lip.

Clyde pops AAAs like Alka-Seltzer. His cheeks bulge with them. Hardly a threatening image. Still, he musters some power. He flings his hands out, as if throwing air, and with each movement the student visibly reacts to some impact. But it’s not enough. The student keeps walking.

“Tabitha!” Clyde shouts. There’s an edge of desperation in his voice.

“Not getting anything.” Tabitha’s voice is thin and reedy, a sense of hysteria slipping through the rising static. “Databases are blank.”