Super Human (4 page)

Wieberg shook his head. “Mission comes first.”

Roz glanced back at Quantum. “Yeah, but he looks
really
sick. I’ll see what Max says.”

She reached for the radio handset on the dashboard, but Wieberg grabbed it before she could. “No, we have to maintain radio silence. They—aw hell! I think they’re jamming us!”

“That could mean they know we’re here. I should get out there. . . .” She looked back toward Quantum. He was sitting forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

Wieberg turned to her. “And do what? Sit down, Roz. You’re not ready for something like this.”

Roz jumped at a sudden voice inside her head: Max was communicating telepathically. “You hear me?”

I hear you,
she thought.

“Don’t recognize these guys, but I don’t think they’re superhuman. There’s at least a dozen outside now, maybe more. We’re pinned down—can’t get to the wall.”

That was Max’s greatest power. He could read most people’s minds, and communicate directly with some, but the ability to control someone else’s thoughts made him one of the most formidable of the superheroes.

“I’m not getting much,” Max’s voice said. “I’ve got one for sure—he’s currently running for the hills convinced that a swarm of spiders is after him. But I’m not getting through to the others. Think something’s blocking me. Hold on. . . .”

After a moment, Max said, “Roz, we’re going to have to call in backup. Our radios are down here—get Wieberg to contact the air force. He knows the codes.”

There was a thump behind her: Roz turned to see that Quantum was lying facedown on the floor. She rushed back to him.
Quantum’s down—he’s fainted. Max, he looks
really
sick!

“Gotta be some kind of weapon—they’re hitting us with it too. French just got a bad dose of the shakes; Lashley’s doubled over coughing his lungs up.”

Roz bit her lip.
Do you need me?

“I don’t think we have any other option, Roz. Get out here and stay low. And keep your eyes open. Tell Wieberg to take the Bell back to the nearest safe house and get medical attention for Quantum.”

Roz did as she was instructed, and the helicopter was already starting to rise as she leaped through the doorway.

She hit the ground, rolled to her feet, and ran in a half-crouch toward the small fern-covered hill.

Lance was more than halfway home before he finally calmed down. It was bad enough that Paragon had taken his money—the man didn’t have to humiliate him as well.

He was sure that some of the people in the crowd had recognized him as Cody McKendrick’s little brother.

Mostly, he was concerned with how his parents were going to react. Maybe, if he was lucky, it would all blow over before they recovered from their bout of flu.

The McKendrick house was like a hospital ward at the moment. His father had it the worst. He’d woken up Sunday morning in a cold sweat, shivering and coughing up great big lumps of green phlegm. Then Lance’s mother had caught it. In between her bouts of coughing and sneezing, she’d ordered Lance and Cody to take over the housework.

So every afternoon since, when Lance returned from school, he diligently dragged the vacuum cleaner out to the hall and switched it on. After twenty minutes, he switched it off again and shouted “All done!” up the stairs.

He promised himself he would actually use the machine sometime before they recovered. He’d also throw out the pizza boxes and the half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout on which he and Cody had been living for the past few days.

As he turned left on Jade Avenue he heard the familiar whine of Paragon’s jetpack.
Oh, not again! What does he want this time?

He looked up to see where the sound was coming from, cupping his hands around his eyes to shade them from the sun. Paragon was a dot high against the sky, but dropping quickly, growing larger as he approached. Lance debated whether to run or hide, but before he could do either a battered Ford Pinto screeched around the corner so fast it almost went up on two wheels.

He had a brief glimpse of the driver—an official-looking man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses—before the Pinto careered across the road, coming within inches of clipping the front of a bus. The Pinto’s driver spun the wheel, zoomed around the bus, but oversteered. The car hit the median with an ear-shattering bang as one of its tires blew.

Seconds later it slammed into a thick concrete lamppost.

Lance dropped his backpack and ran toward the car. The driver was slumped over the wheel, blood pumping from a deep gash in his forehead where it had collided with the now-shattered windshield.

The driver’s door was buckled. Lance ran around to the passenger side, pulled open the door, and leaned in. “Can you hear me? Are you conscious?”

The only response was a weak moan.

His mind racing, Lance tried to remember what he was supposed to do in a situation like this. He’d attended first-aid classes in school but hadn’t really paid much attention.
Get him out or leave him? If I move him, I could make his injuries worse, but if I leave him—

A dull
whump
from the engine made up Lance’s mind: Already he could smell the smoke. He grabbed hold of the man’s right arm, pulled him back from the steering wheel.
There’s no way I can lift this guy.
He tried to pull the driver over onto his side so that he could slide him out. “C’mon, mister! Can’t do this on my own!”
Please don’t let his legs be trapped!

The man suddenly jerked upright. His head whipped around and for a second he stared at Lance. “Get me out of here!”

“I’m trying!”

The man wrenched his arm away from Lance, started grabbing for the door handle.

“That one won’t open!” Lance said. “You need to—”

The driver’s-side door was ripped off its hinges. Lance stared.
How did he . . . ?

Then a metal-gloved hand reached into the car, grabbed the man by the collar, and dragged him free.

“Get out, kid!” Paragon’s amplified voice bellowed.
“Move!”

Lance jumped back out of the Pinto and tripped over his own feet. He landed on his backside and started scrambling backward.

There was another
whump
from the engine. Lance got up and had just reached the far side of the street when the car erupted into a ball of fire. The shock wave knocked Lance back to the ground, rocked the entire street, and shattered the bus’s windows.

Lance opened his eyes and saw a large chunk of red-hot metal that had landed only two feet away from his head.
Oh man . . .
He tried to push himself up, but his arms were quivering and weak and he had to roll onto his back first. He quickly checked himself for injuries.
I’m OK, I’m OK.

The same couldn’t be said for the Pinto’s driver. Through the thick cloud of oily smoke that billowed from the car, Lance could see that the wound in the driver’s forehead was still seeping blood, but Paragon didn’t seem to be too concerned with the man’s well-being: He lifted him into the air by his shoulders and roared, “
Where is it?
”

The driver’s head lolled back and forth.

Lance couldn’t help himself: He shouted, “Hey! You can’t do that! He’s injured!” He got up, wavered a little.

“Shut up, kid,” Paragon said. “A couple of minutes ago this maniac was doing over a hundred down on Canal Street. He went up on the pavement and hit a guy and didn’t stop.” He shook the driver again. “One more time: Where is it?”

Lance ran over, skidded to a stop next to Paragon. “You’re supposed to be one of the good guys! You can’t . . . You have to wait for the paramedics!”

“He’s faking,” Paragon said. He lowered the man to the ground. “Now get lost, kid.” The hero’s opaque visor momentarily turned in Lance’s direction, then did a double take. “You again.”

The driver took the opportunity to roll to his feet and begin to run.

“Told you he was faking,” Paragon said.

Lance and Paragon stood side by side for a moment, watching the driver race along the street, then Paragon said, “Stay here. Tell the cops everything.” He patted Lance on the shoulder. “You did the right thing back there, kid. You might wanna consider giving up the life of crime before you end up where this guy is going to be.”

Then Paragon broke into a run. After a few steps he activated his jetpack and soared along the street after the running man.

 

 

Lance did as Paragon instructed. He waited for the police and paramedics, explained what had happened.

The white-haired, red-faced police sergeant told Lance he was a hero and shook his hand. “Yer gonna get yer pitcher in the papers fer this.”

“I seen you somewhere before. What’s yer name?”

He almost responded with “Jason Myers” but then realized that he was too close to home: A lot of the onlooking neighbors knew who he was. “Lance McKendrick.”

“What? Not Cody’s kid brother. . . .” The sergeant grinned. “Seems bein’ a hero runs in the family, huh?” Lance wanted to say that being able to hit a baseball out of the park didn’t make someone a hero, but he kept his mouth shut.

Paragon returned a few minutes later, dropping out of the sky with the driver—unconscious for real this time—in his arms. He handed the man over to the police, talked with them for a few moments, then was engulfed by reporters and autograph-hunters.

The sergeant had told Lance to stick around until they were sure they were done with him, so now all he could do was watch as Paragon awkwardly tried to sign autographs with his metal-gloved hands. Eventually Lance remembered his backpack and wandered over to where he’d dropped it.

The accident felt like it had happened hours or even days ago, but in reality less than a quarter-hour had passed. The burning car had now been extinguished, and already a tow truck was approaching, slowly trying to get through the crowds.

The massive concrete lamppost had survived the crash intact.
God, if that thing had fallen back on the car . . .

Lance walked up to the car, peered along its path. If the lamppost hadn’t been there, the Pinto would have crashed through the Sternhams’ hedge and probably plowed into the front of the house. Two-year-old Ricky Sternham was nuts about cars and frequently spent hours on the porch watching the traffic.

As Lance was turning away, something beyond the Sternhams’ hedge caught his eye. A glint of polished metal. He checked to make sure that no one was watching, then he ducked past the hedge.

On the lawn was a small leather briefcase with brass clasps.

Lance picked up the briefcase and stuffed it deep into his backpack.
Today might not be a total loss after all.

Roz Dalton kept as low as she could as she crawled over the fern-covered hill.

She hadn’t heard from her brother in several minutes.
Max? Are you there? Max?

A moment later Max’s voice appeared inside her head. “Yeah, I’m . . . Roz, they’ve got me too. I’m shaking like Jell-O here! Has to be some kind of subsonic weapon. I’ve got aches in my back, my legs. . . . Even my jaw feels like I’ve been trying to chew marbles. Keep your distance until we know for sure.”

The gunfire died down, and Roz could hear shouting from the far side of the copse. She crept forward on her hands and knees, and wished that Max would allow her to carry some sort of weapon.

Then Max’s voice—much weaker than before—said, “Roz, get away. . . . They’ve caught us. Can’t move, too weak . . .”

For a second Roz froze, unsure of what to do. With the radio signals blocked, she couldn’t contact Wieberg in the copter.