Chapter Fourteen:
A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall
Cody Martin and Mercedes Lackey
Most of the time, Atlanta was so humid it felt like you could almost cut the air. Today there was no “almost” about it. The air was supersaturated, and the black clouds slowly rolling towards the city promised that it wouldn’t be long before the place was under what some of the locals were calling a “toad-strangler.”
Those clouds weren’t quiet either; there was enough lightning and thunder off on the horizon that John Murdock was fighting to sleep through the midmorning, if not the afternoon. “Working” all night, in addition with the handyman stuff he did during the day, took its toll. Nightmares didn’t help much, either. Metas usually needed less sleep than normals, but John actually dreaded the few hours of sleep he got.
When he finally did manage to rouse himself from bed, it wasn’t even dark yet, aside from the clouds blocking out the sun. His squat was muggier than usual, leaving John’s clothes soaked with sweat. It’d be worse once he got outside, of course; he could only hope that the storms would have a nice accompanying breeze to keep him cool while he did his errands and made his rounds in the ’hood, and maybe the rain would provide a free full body shower. Absolutely nobody’s hygiene in his neighborhood was great since he’d arrived, but then again, whose ever was after a disaster? It didn’t matter who you were, smelling April fresh wasn’t a huge priority when your main priorities were, oh, food, shelter, and a lack of bullet wounds.
It hardly seemed fair. The weather reporter on the tube was getting positively frantic with his flash flood warnings, and John had to wonder how all the folks in their tents and temporary shelters were going to weather this one.
Well, at least his people would be all right.
His people. Damndest thing, but that was the most honest way to describe the situation. He was responsible for them, now. This wasn’t to say that the ’hood was helpless; everyone had banded together a lot since the attacks, and had become fairly self-reliant. But John was still a big part of their protection and aid, and they used him like the resource he had become.
Jonas seemed to think that he should just settle down into the position of local sheriff and get over it. He just couldn’t do it. He’d never been a fan of the police, and was even less of one now. And yet, he couldn’t not do it either, at least in deed if not in badge.
John privately dreaded the day when things got back to “normal,” and someone official decided to poke around. Or worse, to offer him a job. But hell, that was gonna be a long time coming; things just weren’t stable enough yet for these folks to take care of themselves.
He steadfastly refused to listen to the little voice in his head that asked “And what if they never are?”
Shaking his head to clear out that troublesome line of thinking, John got himself cleaned up to walk of his territory. The little voice in his head gave a last sardonic snicker and receded into the dark depths of his brain. Rain or shine, someone had to check on things. Bad guys didn’t stop for flash flood warnings.
But the moment he left his door, his clothing was plastered flat to his body by the pounding rain in seconds. If there had been wind, he would have suspected a hurricane, the rain was coming down that hard. “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Pulling the collar of his jacket up higher, he trudged off through the flooded streets. The worst part about hard rains like this one was that all the trash and filth came up with the deluge, clogging everything. Garbage floated up from the storm sewers, got spread out from trash piles, and got washed down off roofs. Add to that, the dust and powdered brick and wreckage…Yep, the garbage was hitting the streets. Usually in more ways than one.
Tonight was no different. John was only a few minutes into his walk when he saw quite the scene unfolding. Underneath one of the few working streetlights in this part of town, two people were fighting. Scratch that; one person was beating the ever-living crap out of another. The storefront that they were brawling near had been smashed in; bits of glass glittered in the lamplight and a few boxes were scattered into the street.
That store had only just reopened too. Cracking his knuckles and shrugging off his sopping wet jacket, John started off at a clumsy jog to reach the pair. “Hey! Knock it off, both of ya!” No guns were in evidence, not even knives. This looked like a garden-variety drunken brawl, or a couple of crooks getting into an argument over the spoils of their latest heist. John was a few paces from the stronger-looking one when it happened.
He felt a sharp pain in his left bicep; a needle dart of some sort was sticking out of it. Immediately, he began to stumble, finally splashing down on his hands and knees. The world swam in front of him, the dirty runoff water and rubble blurring. John’s head began to feel very heavy, and his breathing was slowing down.
Poison…tranquilizer…something. Straining, he managed to turn his head to his left flank; three men carrying assault rifles and dressed in non-descript, black military uniforms—“ninja suits,” the kind of stuff you saw in mall-ninja magazines and Soldier of Fortune—quickly closed in on him, setting up a perimeter. Looking over to his right, he saw three others doing the same. The two bruisers that had been fighting when he showed up had stopped; the smaller one was shivering in a pile under the lamp, and the tougher one was walking very calmly towards John. He shrugged off a dirty trenchcoat, revealing a similar get-up as the other men; the sole difference was the pair of swords that hung on his belt, one long and one short.
The man had a swagger, a self-assuredness that set John’s teeth on edge. He’s a smug bastard. Feeling his anger rising that he’d been stupid enough to walk into the trap, John’s vision began to clear, strength returning to his limbs. He didn’t let on, though; he kept his breathing erratic, and acted as if his every move pained him. Finally, he looked up at the tough brawler; he assumed that the one with the swords was in charge. “Who…are you?” he choked out.
The leader ignored him. “Secure the package. We’re leaving as soon as I tie up the last loose end.” The leader turned to face the shaking man on the ground; John caught a glimpse of an insignia stamped onto the sheath of the longer sword. It was a single snake coiled caduceuslike around a sword. The sword was silver, the background red. The snake was black.
Son of a…Blacksnake.
The team closed in around him; they figured that he was beaten, and had already slung their rifles. John acted; he splashed hard to his left, flinging gobs of water and trashy muck into the eyes of the nearest merc. In an instant, he was on his feet, lunging right; a flash of hands, and he shattered the collarbone of one of the commandos, ripping his rifle away and snapping its sling. There was no time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, so by its barrel and flash suppressor John swung it in a wide arc, pivoting on his back foot. The butt of the stock connected with the blinded merc’s temple, and there was a sickening crack; from the stock splintering or the man’s skull, John didn’t know, and didn’t care.
“The package” must be him; for some reason they wanted him alive for now. But he wouldn’t stay that way for long, no matter what the reason was that they were taking him. There was no way out of this except over bodies.
He hefted the rifle and swung it backhanded, aiming low and to his right; one of the commandos had taken a step forward and tried to grab his shoulder. The rifle fractured his target’s knee, sending a cruel shard of bone to protrude through his battle-dress uniform pants; the merc screamed, crumpling lopsidedly to the ground as his leg collapsed. John jumped over him, the rifle clattering to the ground as he was reaching for the merc with the shattered collarbone. He grabbed the back of the man’s ski-masked head, then hooked his thumb; a split second later he had jabbed his hand forward, puncturing the mercenary’s eye and ripping it out. Drenched with rain, John’s hands were already slippery; the fluids and blood that gushed over his thumb made no difference as he let go and moved on to the next target. The man’s scream spiraled upwards into a whistling shriek, then stopped as he passed out cold from the pain and dropped into the gutter. One more on the right side; the man had cleared his pistol from the holster on his thigh sub-load, and was racking the slide. Stupid. Didn’t keep a round in the chamber? Gonna cost ya. John turned his body so that it was parallel to the pistol, and then quickly stepped next to it. Gripping the merc’s wrist with his left hand and the semiauto’s barrel with his right, John twisted the pistol sharply so that it was perpendicular to him but still pointed in a “safe” direction. The merc’s fingers snapped, bent outward from his palm. Completing the movement and sliding behind his opponent, John placed the disabled man in between himself and the remaining mercenaries.
No time to wrench the gun free and ready it, John drew his own pistol from the back of his waistband. Suppressed rifle fire sent supersonic cracks shrieking into the rainy night; the muzzle flash and report was muted, but they weren’t using subsonic rounds. A moment later the crack and flash was uncannily echoed by a nearby lightning strike and simultaneous boom of thunder. Rounds impacted with John’s hostage, and the man’s body went limp; John watched as the top of his head exploded into a mist of blood, bone, and brain matter. Falling backwards, John cleared the “target box” and began firing; no time for looking down the sights, he relied totally on point shooting. He killed one for sure, and wounded the last remaining commando. Rolling the body to the side, John got up into a crouch; he ejected the expended magazine for his pistol and loaded a fresh one, thumbing the slide release to chamber a new round. Another lightning strike and explosion of thunder lit up the street.
The injured merc was on his back, pistol in hand. John’s mind barked a harsh laugh, reminded of something he was asked once a long time ago. “Are you injured, or just hurt?” He shot the last merc twice in the face. John didn’t want to have to worry about someone reporting back; killing these losers would keep him from having to kill more second-rate mall ninjas, or so he hoped.
Standing up to his full height, he walked around the irregular circle of dead and dying, and finished the job by shooting each in the head. More lightning cracked, punctuating and covering his shots. If anyone had heard this, and he frankly doubted they did or cared, by the time the storm was over there would be no signs of the slaughter.
John ejected the magazine from his pistol, examining the back of it; he still had two rounds, plus one in the chamber. He hadn’t brought a third and fourth magazine; he didn’t think he’d need them tonight, since he hadn’t fired his pistol since starting these “patrols.” Slamming the magazine back home, John looked over to where the streetlamp was still blazing its sickly yellow light. The Blacksnake team leader, the one with the swords, was standing calmly. His palms were resting on the pommels of the still-sheathed swords. Guess this guy never heard of what happens to folks that brings knives to gunfights.
“If I were you, John Mur—” John raised his pistol and fired twice at the merc leader. Talkers. They’re always talkers, for some reason. Just as John was sighting his follow-up shot, something flat and shiny was flying towards him; before he could react—which was saying something with his reflexes—his pistol was knocked from his grip and into the darkness, his hand cut on the back. John’s gaze was just returning to the merc when he felt the first cut; a tickling slash across the ribs. Enough to draw blood, but not enough to nick organs. John hadn’t noticed the merc leader taking the sword out of its sheathe, but he sure noticed how sharp it was.
“Shit!”
The leader was on him again. John lashed out, leading in with a strong jab followed by several kicks; the surviving merc easily dodged all of John’s attacks, parrying with the flat of his blade or simply evading. John realized that his opponent was toying with him; he was keeping John at sword’s length, trying to tire him out.
John made a gamble. He turned his back to the mercenary, and knelt down. Over the sound of the pouring rain, John thought he heard a whisper of words with the curiously toneless quality of a voice over a radio. The leader paused for half of a heartbeat, and then surged forward. John twisted around, bringing his right hand slashing upward in an uppercut. He was clutching a chunk of concrete, and hit the merc squarely under the chin, staggering him. John threw the piece of debris as hard as he could at the mercenary, who turned to have it strike him in the shoulder, twisting around and bringing his sword up into a high-ready position. Serious for ya now, ain’t it?
John didn’t have time to twist out of the way, or slap the blade aside. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and John felt a dull thud as the blade of the longer sword plunged into his side. The mercenary was up close to John, their eyes locked together. Still smug, still cool and collected. Damn it, they sent someone like me after me, John thought. With a grunt, John smashed his head forward once, twice, three times; his opponent’s nose cracked and started to spew blood through the ski mask. John locked his arms together and smashed them downward, breaking the leader’s grip on his sword. Stepping back, turning, and then launching himself backwards, John cried out in pain as he impacted the dazed mercenary. He swayed on his feet, and then fell forward, twisting in time so that he didn’t land on the handle of the sword. The merc had a hole in the front of his uniform, displaying pale flesh that was just as quickly flooded with blood; his hands were on his short sword, the blade already halfway out of his sheath. Then, the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed, dead.
With a gasp of agony and curses muttered through clenched teeth, John pulled the sword out of his side, bringing it out as straight as his shaking hands could manage. It cut through the water, disappearing as soon as he dropped it. Had it hit anything vital? He couldn’t tell. His augmentations shut out most of the pain, flooding him with the endorphins that were supposed to keep him fighting long after everyone else had dropped.
This time he didn’t have to fake the pain; he looked down at himself, and he knew it was bad. Worse than it felt, probably. And he had a limited amount of time here, buoyed up by adrenaline and endorphins, with extra control from his implants, to get done what needed to be done. And just as he thought that, the implants kicked in, numbing him down to the bearable level. He got to his feet, methodically going through the bodies and collecting all of their equipment, even down to their boots. It wasn’t surprising that they weren’t carrying anything that could be used to identify them. Well, except for the emblem on the sheath of the longer of the two swords, a bit of vanity that the dead merc would probably have paid for eventually if John’s bill hadn’t come in first.
Once he was done, he had amassed a nice-sized pile of tactical gear, rifles, and boots, all soaking wet. Now to the other business. Slowly, John began clearing away some rubble from across the shop; once he was done, he dragged each of the bodies to the pit he had created, and then closed it with as much broken concrete and bricks as he could stand to; the pain was finally getting past his reserves of strength. His purpose in throwing the bodies under a destroyed building was twofold. First, no one would really pay that much attention to some bodies in rubble; disaster-relief services were still uncovering people from the invasion. After tonight’s rain and a few days in the heat, he seriously doubted that anyone would care to examine them too closely, either. At most, they’d call it a dump site for a gang hit. Second, Blacksnake would be wondering what had happened to their team. If they had bodies, they’d know exactly what happened. Making those people disappear, however, would scare someone. No one would know what had happened. No one would know if the “disappeared” people might show up again. Had it been John? Had it been the Nazis? Had it been Echo? No way to tell. Knowing was good; not knowing was terrifying. And it just might be enough to keep him from having to kill more merc goons.
He’d need someone to help stitch him up and to carry the gear back to his place in the morning. He could have done both himself, but he was honestly too screwed up at the moment to want to. He’d have to take the rifles and sidearms with him tonight, though; wouldn’t do to have some kid find them after the storm cleared up. Lugging the rifles and pistols in his arms, John finally remembered the one man still alive, aside from himself. The stranger was still on the ground under the lamp, shaking almost to the point where it looked like he was going into convulsions. John staggered over to him, weaving a little from side to side. “What’s your story?” John barked.
“H-hired m-m-me. B-bait for you.” The man recoiled from John like a wounded animal shrinking away from a predator. “G-gonna k-k-k-kill me?”
John looked at him thoughtfully. “Naw. I’ll leave ya for someone else to deal with; I’m done for tonight. Get outta this neighborhood, an’ you’ll live awhile longer.” Without another word, John continued to bleed and slog his way back home, disappearing into the rain. He might be closer to dying than living. C’est la guerre.
* * *
Jonathon Frieze liked his job. What was more, he was good at it. Tonight was a pisser of a night, but he was getting paid; it sure beat a cubicle.
Their job was to bag and tag a meta that BS wanted alive; he couldn’t fathom why, but he didn’t really get paid to worry about such things, either. The team for the job was assembled locally, pulling a number of different guys from security jobs at corporate headquarters and government institutions; the operation leader was called in from out of town, and brought a weird ninja guy with him to lead the team. After everyone was briefed on the target’s location, abilities, and likely avenues of retreat, the op leader sent them out to take care of business. A stealthed chopper ride later, and they were set.
Frieze hated having to climb the water tower in this rain, but it was his preplanned spot to set up his lurch. The thirty-pound rifle that he was lugging with him wasn’t helping things; not only was it a load to tote, but he was the tallest and most conductive thing for at least a couple dozen blocks. He just hoped there was a lightning rod somewhere nearby so he didn’t end up a crispy critter.
His rifle deployed, his body settled into a semicomfortable prone position, and his comm gear double-checked, all he had to do was keep his eyes peeled and wait. The trap they had set up was pretty decent; there’s not much arguing a person can do when he’s subject to tranquilizers and a half-dozen assault rifles. There were some pretty tough metas out there, resilient ones that could shrug off bullets and even bombs or worse, but they were a rarity. And most of them were already with Echo or Blacksnake or in jail. Or were super-Nazis. This joe was none of the above. If things went south, Frieze had a friend in Mister .50 BMG. It was a heavy round, normally reserved for antimateriel roles, but the head honchos didn’t want to take any chances. If Dead is Good, then Really Damn Dead is better.
Frieze did his little squirm exercises, as regular as clockwork, as all good snipers do. When the rain started up, he clicked his scope one notch to compensate for drag. Eventually, he saw the package; walking down the street on the outside of the neighborhood he inhabited, just like their intelligence had indicated. He notified the team leader using their op order. “Deliberate, stage left. Package. Unarmed. Approaching from the east. Forty meters, slowly.” All he received was a cold double click on the comm in acknowledgement. He watched their target through his rifle scope; the rifle’s kit was monstrous-looking, but had nifty things like Generation IV night vision. It wasn’t perfect, especially at these ranges, but it was better than using moonlight. He saw the target, sopping wet, move in closer. Saw the teams close after he had fallen to his knees, and then—the comms exploded in chatter. In an instant, the man was on his feet, moving like a blur; within seconds, several of the retrieval team members were down, some undoubtedly dead. Frieze bunched up on his rifle stock, settling it into his shoulder. Things had definitely gone south.
But he hadn’t gotten the go code yet. He had to follow procedure; clicking his comm over to the leader channel, he radioed back to base about the “rapidly deteriorating situation” and how chances for success were diminishing. Within seconds, he had a kill order authorized; he relayed this to the team leader, lining up his shot without missing a beat. He already had the range dialed in. “Got him. Stand by.” Center of mass, center of mass, center of mass…gotcha! Jonathon Frieze’s finger slowly tightened on the feather-light trigger…
* * *
Seraphym was all but invisible in the pouring rain, with her fires dimmed down to next to nothing. Navigating the blind spot around the life of John Murdock had brought her here. She periodically dashed off to save or help those that the Infinite wanted her to—the mortals who would be critical in protecting their world—but on the way back from the most recent one, it occurred to her that she might learn more about John Murdock’s future by staying near him and seeing what, and who, he affected. She decided that unless the Infinite advised otherwise, his vicinity could be as much of a home base as she had so far.
She hovered, without a wingbeat, above and north of a water tower set atop of the roof of an industrial building, not thirty feet from a man stretched out prone on the roof of the tower. The man had a huge rifle propped up and aimed below him.
He was dressed in a mottled dark gray that blended into the gray metal of the roof, but he could have been dressed in scarlet and not have been seen in this weather. Between the rapidly closing dusk and the rain…he, too, was all but invisible.
A mortal would have frowned or sighed. Seraphym did neither. A quick brush of the mind, a search in him, revealed details about his life. Knowing the darkness of the souls of so many that had joined Blacksnake, she was neither surprised nor disappointed. They had made their choices. This man had made the choices that brought him here. And those choices had summoned her.
She had sensed this moment in the futures, and had waited until he was fully preoccupied with his target before igniting her fires and dropping down between him and his target, silent as a raindrop.
* * *
Frieze went mind-blank with utter terror, a blur of fire in his scope, and a terrible fire in his mind.
You are a wicked man, Jonathon Frieze, something said in his brain, which was nothing but the truth. The choices that led him here had uniformly been bad, beginning with the wanton slaughter of wildlife with a BB gun at age five, an adolescence and adulthood of torturing animals and his fellow humans, the decisions to murder, and ending on this rooftop, a contract killer in the employ of Blacksnake.
But, as was predictably the case, he had rationalized all those choices. He told himself that he’d had no choice, for those situations he could not rationalize. In his own mind, he was justified, a hero.
But now he could not rationalize that anymore. That fire that caught around his vision and then felt like it seared into his skull, lit up everything in his mind equally. The tricks and deceptions were as plain as the choices he had made, and their results. Nothing that helped him cope in years past worked anymore. Suppressed memories were as plain as ink on paper. Painful realities that had been drugged or drunk away were clearly defined. The truth was burning his mind.
He recoiled, letting go of his rifle. Scrabbling away on his belly, he was desperate to get as much distance as possible between him and the terrible weight on his mind. Without realizing it until it was too late, Frieze went over the edge of the water tower, whimpering pitifully as he plummeted to the rooftop, and then got up and staggered to fall off the building to the asphalt below.
* * *
Seraphym watched as the sniper followed the rifle over the side of the tower.
Felt his life end with a wet, muffled crunch on the pavement below.
And that too, was his choice.
She banked her fires, bowed her head, and sank down to the rooftop, giving over a moment to mourn, for the death was also hers.
That was her choice.
* * *
John’s gray shirt was soaked with blood from the stab through his abdomen. He was bleeding out, with blood flowing freely from the entrance and exit wounds. The sword hadn’t hit a vein or an artery, but it didn’t need to. You could bleed to death just as efficiently from an injury like this one. He had used up his “blow-out kit” to try to stop the bleeding; these emergency medical kits were normally used on gunshot wounds, though. He was dying, and he knew it. His heartbeat was speeding up, and he was getting dizzier and weaker with every step in the driving rain.
The circumstances being what they were, John couldn’t help but to think back on his life, to growing up in Virginia, his parents, school and friends. He’d had friends once. And a life. Graduating college and joining the military, with his retired Army father and stay-at-home mother proud to see him in uniform. Basic, Rangers, and then later being lucky and skilled enough to make it into the famed Delta Force. Several tours of duty, some in the Middle East and South America…and then the Program. The changes there, and…her. Escape, and then five years on the run from everything and nothing, but mostly himself. And here he was. With nothing much to show, nothing much accomplished, and all of it ending in a rain-drenched street.
Well, that wasn’t true. He had genuinely helped some people: the people back at the bar when all of this started, some scattered and lucky souls he had found in the rescue work of picking through wreckage, and the people of his neighborhood, his adopted “territory.” There were also the people he had killed and maimed—no small number, in the last few months. He didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t do it casually either. The lives saved and the lives taken all added up. A good tally for just one dumb jerk. A good ratio.
John was starting to gasp for breath: “air hunger,” since there wasn’t enough of his blood to carry oxygen away from his lungs. He didn’t have much longer, but his feet continued to carry him onwards. Those implants: they’d keep him walking after he was dead, maybe. John Murdock, Zombie. Braaaaaiiiinssss. The hilarity of it was too much, and started him laughing. He didn’t have the breath to do it, but he laughed anyways, which gave way to hiccups. He laughed even harder, and must have been a terrible sight. Except there was no one out here to see it. If a dying man gets the hiccups in a toad-strangler rain, does anyone hear it?
He was stumbling more than walking, now. He had a general idea of where he was going, but was getting to the point where he was past caring. Sitting down and resting seemed like an increasingly good idea. But he was stubborn; he knew that if he stopped now, he’d never get up again. So, he kept walking. After what seemed like forever and then some, he reached his destination. It was a worn-down office building with an adjacent warehouse on the edges of the factory district. The door for the office building had been replaced with a sturdy metal one that looked like it belonged in a bank vault. Over the top of the door was a red star with Cyrillic letters in gold in the middle of it, the letters looking like CCCP. That wasn’t what they were of course, the letters really stood for esses, not cees, but ninety-nine rubes out of a hundred wouldn’t know that.
John staggered up the concrete steps, almost slipping and ending his comedy right there. He made it to the door, one hand clutched at his side as he slammed a free fist against the heavy portal. The last of his strength used up, John fell to his knees, hand still holding his injured side.
“Keep your shirt on!” came a muffled voice from within—good English? It puzzled him. There were several banging and clunking sounds, a curse, and the door was hauled open with a harsh scrape. John was bathed in light and warmth from within, and he squinted up at the female silhouetted by the glare.
“Jeebus Cluny Frog!” said the woman, who dropped to her knees beside him. She knocked his clutching hand aside, slapped her own where his hand been and bellowed at the same time. “SOVIE!”
John chose that time to slip into unconsciousness. Good ratio…for one guy…
* * *
To say CCCP had welcomed Bella’s help was simplifying the situation. Red Saviour seemed to have a certain amount of respect for her, possibly because Bella stood right up to her, but Red Saviour was not going to admit that CCCP needed help from anyone. Not even from Moscow, let alone nekulturny capitalist.
Sovie—Soviette, the CCCP’s official doctor in residence—had been only too happy to have her, and welcomed her with open arms and an amazingly generous nature. CCCP had opened a free clinic along with their soup kitchen—both of which were understaffed—and even if Bella had not been a healer, she still would have been a translator and an extra pair of hands. As it was, she was working from the time she hit their door to the time she walked out of it.
Even now, in this deluge of a rainstorm. She was setting up first aid kits at all the doors, and jump bags too—because if an emergency came up, you might not have the time to run up the stairs to the third-floor infirmary. She was right beside the front door, double-checking the contents of both, when the hammering started.
After practically jumping out of her skin, her main reaction was of annoyance. What idiot would be out there in this weather? The locals all knew to come to the free clinic entrance around the side. Surely it wasn’t another snoop from City Hall, not after Saviour had run the last one off with a crowbar.
“Keep your shirt on!” she shouted, irritated, as the pounding continued. With a curse, she began wrestling with the half-dozen door locks, some of which seemed to date from the time of the Caesars. Finally she got the last of them unlocked, and hauled the heavy door open, wincing as it scraped the concrete floor.
The light from behind her poured out over the man, half kneeling, half falling over at her feet. She didn’t need the red-stained rain pooling around him to tell her he was hurt, and hurt badly. Her own senses screamed it.
Shocked, she dropped to her knees beside him, pulled his clutching hand from the wound in his side, and felt her energies being sucked away from her into that terrible injury.
“SOVIE!” she bellowed, knowing that the man was near death, just by the way her power was pouring into him, and that if he could be saved, whoever he was, no way she could do it alone—
But then something made her tear her eyes away from her patient and look up.
Just in time to see the fire-wreathed figure touching lightly down in the street, wings of flame outstretched on either side of her. Just in time to feel the touch on her own mind, and—
—fire exploded behind her eyes.
It was like turning on a water fountain to get a drink, and having a fire hose open up in your face.
If she’d had any thoughts, they were completely washed away in the flood of…what the angel was. There was only this that was at all coherent: Heal him. Save him.
And managing to isolate and grasp a tiny, tiny thread of energy, tiny in relation to what She was, though easily a hundred times the strength of what Bella and Sovie combined could do, she did just that.
The angel nodded, as Bella mended tiny capillaries, knitted up muscle, stopped the bleeding, kick-started the man’s own body into replacing the lost blood at an accelerated pace. She felt the heartbeat falter a moment, then skip two beats, got ready to kick-start that too, but then it resumed beating on its own, steady and strong.
It is well. Keep him there. Keep him safe.
The overwhelming Presence left her mind. The angel arrowed upwards and was gone into the dark of the night. Bella was left alone in the rain, kneeling over the previously-dying man, wondering what the hell had hit her.
“Blin!” said Soviette behind her. “Who this is—no, never minding. We must get him upstairs. Who and what and why and how can being wait.” And it was her turn to bellow, this time for the CCCP’s all-purpose workhorse, Chug, as Bella tried to catch her breath.
And then came another touch on her mind.
We must talk, you and I.
* * *
When John Murdock woke up, he initially panicked; he didn’t feel any real pain, which wasn’t a good sign. After what had happened to him, not feeling pain probably meant that he was dead or close enough. He could sense that he was still breathing, and could hear someone else’s heartbeat and the other little noises of life nearby. With immense effort, he cracked his eyes open.
He was looking at the ceiling: an old-fashioned, embossed-tin ceiling that probably dated to the turn of the previous century. Someone had slapped a fresh coat of thick institutional-green paint on it. Some other wag had mounted a poster in the middle of it, of a Herculean woman holding a Soviet banner. He didn’t recognize her; she had bobbed hair but it was shorter than the woman he’d seen on the television and the costume was white with a red star on the chest.
“You are wakink?” The soft, pleasant voice made him turn his head slightly to see the original subject of the picture on the poster coming to the side of the bed.
She was stunningly beautiful, in the top-model-beautiful way that most metahuman women were. But a kind expression in her blue eyes softened what could have been cold beauty. Her black hair was cut in the same bob as the woman on the poster, but she was wearing a doctor’s smock and there was a stethoscope around her neck. Upon seeing her, John groaned as if in pain.
“You are beink still hurt?” the woman asked, frowning slightly.
“Naw. I just realized I’m in hell.”
“Shto?” Her frown turned to puzzlement.
“This has gotta be hell. There aren’t any pretty gals in heaven.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “If is beink Amerikanski funny, am not gettink it.”
With an effort, John propped himself up on his elbows; his wound didn’t hurt, but he was still fatigued beyond belief. He imagined that between his own implants and the half-dozen IVs running into him that he must be pretty well medicated at the moment. “Don’t worry ’bout it. If I’m not in hell, where am I?”
“Is beink infirmary of headquarters of Super-Sobratiye Sovetskikh Revolutzionerov,” the woman replied, holding her head up with a flash of pride in her eyes.
“So, looks like I stumbled to the right place. This is the CCCP’s HQ.”
“Da, is beink—what you call CCCP incorrectly. And why you are beink fall on our doorstep, Comrade—?” She arched an eyebrow, inviting a name and a reason for being there. “I am beink Doctor Jadwiga Pavlova Tikonov, but am mostly beink known by callsign Soviette.”
John regarded her coolly, sizing her up for a few long moments before speaking. “Murdock. John Murdock, pleased t’meetcha. To answer your question,” he looked down at his side, then back to her, “I got into a bit of trouble.” He tried to stand up then, and immediately regretted the decision; he swayed in place before the Russian woman steadied him. As resilient as he was, his body just had not caught up with the damage that had been done to it yet. He had lost a lot of blood; it was a miracle that he was still alive and breathing.
John extended his hand. “Thanks, Jadwiga.”
She didn’t seem to notice his hand, so he dropped it quickly to his side. In fact, she pushed him rather insistently back down onto the bed. She was a lot stronger than she looked. “Is not to be thankink me, Comrade Murdock. Was Amerikanski Comrade Bella Dawn is findink you like drowning cat on doorstep.” Jadwiga’s smile was rueful. “She is leavink me werry little to do.”
“Sestra, is drowned cat ready for interrogation?” The woman that stalked through the open door was one he recognized. This was Red Saviour II, the redoubtable leader of this group, just as beautiful as Soviette, but with none of the softness. She looked down at John with her hands on her hips. “So, Comrade—”
“Murdock,” Jadwiga supplied.
“Murdock. Why is it you are here in my headquarters and not in decadent Amerikanski hospital, eating popsicles?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure why I stumbled over to y’all. I was pretty out of it. Guess it has somethin’ to do with the sorta negative attention that ninja stab wounds get from the cops at regular hospitals. Plus, I don’t have the sorta cash to throw away on a hospital.” He shrugged and tried some flattery. “Heard from some folks that I know that y’all ran a free clinic. An’ that you were Reds, so y’all can’t be completely bad.”
“He is dressed like sturdy worker, Commissar,” Soviette put in. “Perhaps enemy of the people ambushed him.”
“Bah.” Before John or the doctor could stop her, she peeled off the gauze and peered at his wound. “Enemy of the peoples are carrying katanas now? Did you not pay your sushi chef, John Murdock?”
“ ’Tis a scratch.’ Like I said, I got into some trouble.”
“These hands, they are laborer’s hands,” Jadwiga added.
Saviour frowned fiercely. The tattoo on his hand was an ouroboros: a snake swallowing its own tail. It was wrapped around the number 155, and done in bold, black ink. “This tattoo and these scars—are nyet what I see on common laborer, sestra—” And then she switched to Russian, and continued her sentence, speaking urgently and with some apparent recognition of what John’s scars might mean. The doctor kept shaking her head, causing Saviour’s frown to deepen.
She glanced suspiciously at John, then tapped the tattoo. She switched to English. “And what is beink this?” Jadwiga tried to shush the Commissar, but she stared at John, still expecting an answer.
John looked down at his hand and the symmetrical scars that covered most of his body before replying, deadpan, “Birthmark.”
“Ho, ho,” Saviour said flatly. “Is beink Amerikanski comedian. Is nyet so funny. I am needink to know what has been dropped on my door. Jadwiga is soft heart of us. I am iron fist.”
John shrugged. “To be accurate, I didn’t exactly force my way inside.”
“Yes? And are you viper in fruit basket?” Saviour’s eyes brightened with anger. “I have obligation to protect the comrades, John Murdock. I have seen scars like these before, and am nyet to be lied to.”
“He cannot leave, Natalya,” Soviette put in firmly. “And at the moment, he is nyet threat, either.” John allowed wisdom to prevail, and kept silent. If they had examined him while he was out, they both probably already knew that that statement was false.
Saviour turned her attention back to him. “Why here, Amerikanski? Are you here from CIA? FBI? NSA?”
“Not exactly my sort of crowd anymore. I’m an anarchist.”
“Nat.” It was a new voice from the door, one somewhere between a soprano and a contralto, a speaking voice that promised it belonged to a singer. “Chill. The Hog Farmers vouch for him.” The young woman in the paramedic outfit that stood in the doorway was also—clearly—a metahuman. There just were not a lot of blue-skinned, blue-haired people around that weren’t metas. “Besides, I got a decent read on him. He’s no threat.” At Saviour’s skeptical glance, the young woman sighed. “Come on, Nat, what can the CIA find out here that you wouldn’t just tell them?”
Red Saviour gave the newcomer a look that would have burned a lesser being where she stood. “You scanned him.”
“Da, I scanned him.” The blue woman added something. “On ne sostoit v pravitelstvennoi organizatcii nikakogo tipa.” It was in Russian. Finally Red Saviour nodded.
“He can stay for now. But when he is healed—”
“When I’m healed, I’m outta here.” Scanned? What was the medic talking about? Unless—John got chills down his spine. Was she a telepath? Had she read his mind? Weren’t there supposed to be protocols about that?
“Out of here—maybe. We will see.” Saviour raked them both with her eyes, then shrugged and strode out. The blue medic nodded at Soviette.
“Get some rest, doll. I’ll take over the infirmary for now.”
The Russian didn’t protest, which might have demonstrated her level of weariness. She gave the blue medic an affectionate arm-pat as she passed, and a moment later they were alone.
John started to get up. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, but one thing for sure was that he didn’t want to be two seconds more in a room with the kind of telepath that would read his mind as ruthlessly as this woman implied she had.
He tried to get up, that is. This woman was also stronger than she looked. Or he was weaker than he thought. She gently but firmly shoved him back down on the bed and held him there.
“Since I just lied my ass off for you, buddy, the least you can do is glue your ass to this bed and heal,” she said, more good humor showing in her eyes than appeared in her voice. “I’m Bella. I am a telepath and an empath and I did not scan you, or at least, no more than I can help. But I needed to give Nat a reason to keep you here, and I don’t think she would have accepted the one I got.”
John was having the feeling that events were rushing past him faster than he could keep up with them. All he could think of to do was to ask the question that occurred to him with her last sentence. “An’ what would that reason be?”
“That an angel told me to heal you, save you, keep you here and keep you safe.” The absolutely sober expression she wore made the words hit him like a gut punch.
This Bella—she had seen the angel too? And talked to her? But if another person had seen her, did that make her—real?
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’re in trouble, laddie-buck,” the medic continued. “The angel seemed to think you’d fit in with this motley crew here. Now, Nat and Sovie both reacted to those scars of yours, as if they had seen something like them. Add to that you survived a gut stab that would have put John Q. Public on a slab, that you have been keeping a profile so low you’re looking up at ants’ bellies, and that someone seriously wanted you out of the way, I can add two and two as well as anyone. Scars plus all the rest of it says high dollar implants to me, and that says government program. The fact that you aren’t running around either with Echo or some Army goon squad tells me you’ve escaped them, and you don’t want them to know you’re still around.”
He was ice-cold inside. Even if she hadn’t read his mind, she was good. Smart. He was in no shape to kill her and run; he didn’t want to kill her anyway, and he couldn’t run right now…
So he just kept quiet.
“Here’s my point, cowboy,” she continued quietly. “Someone out there, someone absolutely extraordinary, wants you as alive as whoever you were running from wanted you dead. And if I were to assess your situation, there is one thing that stands out. I don’t think you can run and bury yourself again. So that means you have two choices. You can get friends and allies, or you can run and die like a lone wolf—a ‘nekulturny running dog,’ as the parlance around here goes.” She shrugged, but her eyes were compassionate and understanding. “There would be worse people you could take up with than CCCP. They share a lot of points of philosophy with you, if you are what you say you are. And they are extraordinarily loyal to their own.” Now she took her hand away. “So for right now I am going to leave you and let you think that over. I need to—make a quick inventory of the supplies.”
He nodded although he got a sense that she was going to do more than that. And when she left him alone with his thoughts, he found himself turning what she had said over and over and finding very few flaws in it.
And that…was terrifying.