Night's Fall: Night's Champion, #2

Chapter

One

W hat I’m thinking, said Carlisle to the barman, is that you’re a thief.

The barman blinked at her. Say what?

Because I know a thief when I see one, she said, her words slurring just a little. She leaned forward over the bar. "Serious … seriously? Twenty bucks for a shot of Jack is theft."

You could drink somewhere else, said the barman. Free country.

Carlisle gave a long, lazy smile. Free country. Only bar in this town. If you can call it a town. She’d heard of one-horse towns, and this place was a horse short. No one else was in the bar tonight, the broken-down old jukebox spitting out the same two songs on repeat. She’d had about as much Johnny Cash as she could take. The door to the bar opened behind her, and she felt a gust of cold chase someone inside. She didn’t turn to look, still holding her glass of Jack.

That’s right, said the bartender, his eyes lighting up a little as he saw a new potential customer. He started to clean a glass — Carlisle was about to say something else when a man slipped into the seat beside her.

She knew it was a man before she turned, the way he put himself in that chair like he had sovereign land rights. Carlisle spent some time taking him in. Close cut hair, ebony skin, stacked like a Vegas deck of cards inside a suit worth north of a couple grand. Like. She kept the lazy smile on. Well hello, sailor.

I’m not really a sailor, said the man. But I’m impressed you guessed that I came here in a ship.

Carlisle let the smile fade away into a frown. His accent was strange. Where you from?

The Caribbean, originally, he said. More recently, Queens. The man gave the barman a nod. Rum and Coke. Easy on the Coke.

Starting hard, or… Carlisle let herself trail off. Something isn’t right. That old instinct came back, the cop inside her refusing to die like it should. Too much damn alcohol, that’s your problem. Thought you’d come out, get lucky, and here you are talking to a — a something. You some kind of soldier?

Not really, said the man, lifting his rum and Coke, breathing in the aroma. He smiled, his eyes closed. More of a problem-solver.

Carlisle pushed her barstool back a little. What kinds of problems you looking to solve tonight?

The man laughed, something easy in it, and turned to look at Carlisle properly for what seemed like the first time. That depends. You bring any trouble with you?

Left all my problems behind, she said, the lie coming easy. Why else come to a shit hole like this?

Hey, said the bartender.

Maybe your problems are trying to catch up, said Caribbean. Maybe your problems are only just starting. He gestured with a hand to the air around her. I can see your problems. They tug at you like needy children.

The bartender took a look around the bar, then moved through a grimy door to the kitchen. It was old and stuck just before it was fully closed. It was funny the things you noticed, just before everything went to hell. So look, said Carlisle. I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?

Caribbean downed the last of his drink in a long swallow, then turned the glass over in his hand. Detective Carlisle?

Fuck. Not anymore.

Detective Carlisle, we’re trying to track down some friends of yours. Do you know a⁠—

No.

What?

No, I don’t know anyone. Not who you’re looking for. And, she said, as the man’s eyes widened slightly, not her either. And definitely not the next person you’re going to ask about.

That’s a shame, said Caribbean. That’s what we call a ‘crying shame.’ Do you know why it’s called that?

Carlisle tipped her head from side to side, loosening up her shoulders, just getting the kinks out. Because someone always ends up crying.

He nodded. Do I look like the crying sort to you?

Carlisle laughed, and Caribbean looked startled. No, she said, "but you’ve made a huge mistake — and I mean, a massive, colossal fuck-up — if you think I’m the crying type."

The name I was going to ask you about, said Caribbean, was Elliot.

Carlisle blinked at him in the silence left between the tracks changing on the jukebox. Her veins felt like they’d just started running ice instead of blood, her head clearing from the fuzz of the alcohol. She could hear the machine catch, clicking as it tried to drop another disc in. She swallowed. What did you say?

I thought that might get your attention, said Caribbean. What would it be worth to you if you could see him again?

Elliot’s dead, said Carlisle.

Is he, now? Caribbean reached behind the bar, snagging out the bottle of rum. I wonder about that.

I don’t.

Let me ask you something, said Caribbean. Let’s assume he’s dead. What if I said I could bring him back to life?

I’d say you were crazy in the coconut, she said.

Well, said Caribbean, that’s not an unusual reaction to get.

You ask people about their dead friends often?

Often enough, he said. It’s a growth industry, in my line of work.

Right, said Carlisle. Here’s a good one. Guy walks into a bar, asks about your dead friend Elliot… "What exactly is your line of work?"

I get things done, he said. The job title changes week to week.

First you said you were a problem solver. Now you say you can raise the dead.

They don’t have to be different things, said the man. And I don’t raise the dead. I’m more of an intermediary. The woman who stands behind me is the one who can raise the dead.

Fancy trick, said Carlisle, turning on her stool to lean back against the bar. She took in the room — no one else here, clear exits, she should just get out. This kind of crazy talk wouldn’t lead to any good.

I can tell, said Caribbean, the soft touch of his accent making him easy to listen to, that you’re having trouble believing me.

You think?

Here’s a little taste, he said, reaching — slowly, Carlisle noticed — into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a few items — a small vial of clear liquid, a hand-rolled cigar, an old-style lighter. He placed these on the bar, then splashed a generous portion of rum into his glass. He emptied in the clear liquid, then raised the cigar.

There’s no smoking in here, said Carlisle. Not that I give a shit, but you know. She pointed at the sign on the bar top, right next to the lighter. Thank you for not smoking.

I see it, said Caribbean. I don’t think they mean this kind of smoke. He picked up the lighter, flicking it open, a long tongue of flame kissing the end of the cigar. He drew big puffs, then blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. That feels right. He puffed a few more times, then blew another stream of smoke over the top of his glass. Instead of the smoke flowing past, it clustered and gathered at the top of the rum. Small eddies pulled the tiny cloud about, which then seemed to be drawn into the dark liquid.

There’s a thing you don’t see every day, said Carlisle. But if you think I’m drinking that, you’ve got another thing coming.

Just watch, said Caribbean. He pushed the glass closer to her. Carlisle noticed he seemed … drained, tired around the edges. It won’t be long now.

Despite herself, Carlisle looked into the liquid. She knew it would be some parlor trick, but she had to look anyway. The smoke seemed to bunch just under the surface of the liquid, a small storm in silent motion, then cleared, the liquid reflecting the room. No. The liquid can’t reflect the room, I should be seeing the ceiling in there, if anything. She could see a room in the liquid, drawn out in shades of brown, and a man stepped into view. It was like she was looking through a peep hole and seeing⁠—

Jesus fuck, said Carlisle. It was Elliot, standing in there, picked out like she remembered him, even the gut. Jesus fuck, she said again.

The image of Elliot walked closer, and his voice came out of the glass, blurred, like if it were a picture someone had colored outside the lines. She was hearing him from a long way away. Carlisle?

Elliot, she said. Is that you?

It’s me, he said. It’s⁠—

What was the last thing you said to me?

Hell if I know, said Elliot. That was a long time ago.

Take a guess, she said.

I think we were talking about… It’s so hard to remember, Carlisle. I think we were looking at some footage of something— his face scrunched up as he tried to remember, and the surface of the liquid shimmered. I can’t remember. I’d started smoking again. Can you believe that? Praise no day until it’s ended, that’s what I always say.

I can believe that, she said. "I can’t believe this, though. What is this?"

It’s— he was cut off as Caribbean knocked the glass over, the rum spilling out.

What the hell did you do that for? Carlisle said.

Just a taste, said Caribbean. Now we need to make a deal.

Carlisle looked at him, then at the splash of liquid on the bar. That … that was Elliot. But Elliot’s dead. No deal, she said. She pushed off from the bar, jacket already in hand, and turned towards the door.

Just remember, said Caribbean’s voice behind her, that we offered you a deal. You can still take it.

Ain’t no way, said Carlisle, that I’m taking a deal like that.

But you don’t know what the trade is, said the voice at her back.

She paused, her hand on the door outside to the street. I know well enough, she said. She reached up and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes before she stepped out into the snow.

The Caribbean watched her step out into the cold and the night and the loneliness of the world, then looked down at the bar. The spilled rum sat there, empty of purpose, but not of power. Not of faith.

He traced a finger through it. He felt the warmth of that power, a spill that had held — just for a moment — the captured soul of a man. He tugged on that faith, scooped his hand through the rum and closed his fist around it.

Liquid leaked and dripped around his fingers, and he looked at the door where Detective Carlisle had gone. What was it that she had said?

I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?

He breathed deep, opened his hand as he closed his eyes, and blew air through his fingers, spraying rum into the room. Sending it on a path after her.

Maybe get laid.

So lonely, hidden behind that facade. She needed, longed with a will. All that she lacked was direction.

Can you help with any of that?

The rum floated in the air, slipped around a table, crossed over the top of a chair, and misted under the door after her.

Yes, Detective, said the Caribbean. "I can help you with that. And you will help me."

Bound. Her need, balanced against the soul of a dead man. He felt the ties as they found their mark. Carlisle would want him. Follow him. Do what he needed, for as long as he needed.

So they could catch a monster, and save the world.

Chapter

Two

W hat I don’t get, said the man with bad teeth, is why people don’t carry cash no more.

Sign of the times, said his partner, wearing a low-quality smile under a worse haircut. They say it’s a … what do they call it?

Regression, said Bad Teeth. That’s what they call it.

Please, said Lacie, backing away. I don’t have … I don’t have anything.

Bad Teeth lifted Lacie’s purse up in front of her face, shaking it upside down. A cascade of incidentals fell, some lipstick, her phone, a make-up case, her taser. Lacie watched the taser fall to the grass, just outside of arm’s reach. It may as well have been at the end of a football field. She felt so alone, so frightened. Her mouth was dry, her heart hammering. If her taser had been near to hand instead of in her bag… There’s nothing here, said Bad Teeth. And you know what that means, don’t you, pretty thing?

It’s a recession, said Worse Haircut.

Bad Teeth paused, then shot a glance at Worse Haircut. What?

It’s a recession, said the other man. I think that’s what it’s called.

Who gives a fuck what it’s called? said Bad Teeth. Call it Tinkerbell if you want.

Tinkerbell’s a tiny little woman, said Worse Haircut. Not a sign of the times at all.

Lacie stared at the two men with wide eyes. This … this isn’t happening. Not like this. She’d thought she could just cut through Fuller Park on her way to Bridgeport — save some goddamn time — and these two had stepped out as she’d been walking. Like they’d been hiding in shadows that weren’t even there. She hadn’t been talking on her phone. It wasn’t even late⁠—

What you think, pretty lady? Bad Teeth leaned in closer with a leer, the alcohol sharp on his breath. "You think it’s a recession? Leaves honest men like us out of work."

Her eyes darted between the two men. I don’t⁠—

Don’t lie! Bad Teeth’s hand slapped her hard across the face. She rocked back, the heel on her Guess Odells twisting. She landed, her head hitting something so hard her teeth ached. Lacie was stunned, her arms moving weakly as she tried to move, to just get away…

Now look what you’ve done, said a voice. It sounded like Worse Haircut, but he was so far away.

She made me, said Bad Teeth. You saw.

I saw, said Worse Haircut. It’s still a recession.

Jesus, will you give it a rest with the … you got a problem, buddy? It sounded like Bad Teeth had turned away. Lacie struggled to make her eyes focus, picked out a man-sized shape, that’s all it was, just a shape really, but hope hit her hard. She tried to focus, tried not to throw up.

No, said the newcomer. Lacie blinked, and when she opened her eyes the man was at her side. Miss? Are you okay?

Hey, said Worse Haircut. "That one’s ours."

The newcomer didn’t look away, his eyes concerned. My name’s Val, he said. You’ll be all right.

They… Lacie coughed. "I just want to get home. Her words tasted like metal in her mouth, her teeth like hard stones. She felt like being sick, and reached a hand up to the back of her head. It came away sticky and red. One of them⁠—"

Don’t worry about that, said Val. He leaned in close. Can you keep a secret?

Lacie looked up into his face. She didn’t know why, but he seemed… safe. Yes.

She was rewarded with a smile, generous and warm, before she fell backwards into black.

Hey, said one of the men at his back. "Asshole. I’m talking to you." Val heard them close in, felt the⁠—

Fear and blood.

—smile that was more snarl come onto his face. He stood, quick and easy, turning to face them. I hear you, he said.

That stopped them. None of the usual posturing they’d expect. No what’s your problem or let’s dance the man dance bullshit. Bad Teeth looked at Worse Haircut, then pulled some tatters of bravado closer to him. "You hear us, he said. You get that? He said he hears us."

Yeah, said Worse Haircut. Next he’ll be⁠—

There won’t be a next, said Val.

He could see them shuffling, indecisive, but warming to the task. This was more like it, a bit of hidden threat in someone’s words. It’s what they needed to⁠—

Kill.

—get their blood up. Two minutes ago they’d been about to beat some poor woman senseless, maybe worse, for a handful of dollars and a bad pair of heels. Now they were seeing a man, sure just the one man, not a whole group, but the threat profile was all different. It took a shift in thinking, and these guys did not look like mental athletes. Val stood with his arms at his side, thinking about relaxing his hands. Just breathe, he said to himself. It doesn’t always have to get bad.

That sounded like a threat, said Bad Teeth.

Okay. Maybe it does have to get bad. Val shrugged. Doesn’t have to be, he said. Life’s really what you make of it.

A philanthropist, said Bad Teeth.

I think it’s a philosopher, said Worse Haircut. That’s what you call it when⁠—

No one cares, said Bad Teeth. He was clenching his fists at his side. He wasn’t trying to relax, and something inside Val⁠—

It wants to die. Let us kill it.

—wanted what was coming next. He held up a hand, a careful distance from touching Bad Teeth. There was a hidden language in this dance; a hand held a certain way said give me a minute and held another way said I’ll slap you silly. He was aiming for the middle ground of hold up. I’m not a philosopher, he said.

See, said Worse Haircut. Philosopher, like I said⁠—

What I am, said Val, continuing like the other man hadn’t even spoken, is someone who’s trying to help.

No one wants your help, said Worse Haircut. No one⁠—

What kind of help? said Bad Teeth.

Val’s teeth glinted in a smile. The worst kind, he said. The light was fading from the sky, all the color leaking out as night — my old friend — walked closer. The air felt cool and heavy, a blanket held before the coming storm. Or the best. It depends on your … your point of view.

This isn’t the first time, said Bad Teeth, that you’ve tried to help, is it? He seemed uncertain, his hands no longer clenched. There was doubt in the way he held his shoulders, the way his mouth turned down at the side. We’re … we’re not the first.

He’s not helping us, said Worse Haircut. "He’s helping her." The man pointed at the woman on the grass behind them.

No he’s not, said Bad Teeth. Are you?

No, said Val. There might be a chance. I’m here for all of you, one way or another.

Well fuck you, pal, said Worse Haircut. There was a gun in his hand, a small revolver.

Val looked at it and laughed.

Worse Haircut looked at Val, then at the gun. What are you laughing for?

Sorry, said Val. It’s nothing.

Bad Teeth was backing away. I’m done, he said. I’m out.

Worse Haircut ignored him. "I asked you a question, he said, stepping forward. What’s so funny?"

That gun, said Val. It’s more of a … it’s really not your size, is it?

Punch a hole in you, said Worse Haircut. Kill any philosopher.

Val let his face go serious, felt the⁠—

Kill them.

—adrenaline rise. He looked at Bad Teeth. You better go. Your friend here is going to start something that neither of us can stop. Doesn’t matter if he’s got a kid’s cap gun or not.

Bad Teeth turned and walked away into the falling dusk. Worse Haircut didn’t even turn to watch him go, the sound of the other man’s passage fading out. More for me, was all he said. His eyes flicked to the woman behind Val, and he licked his lips. All for me.

I’d like— said Val, as the gun went off. He felt the bullet hit him in the chest, the sharp stab of it coming a second after the sunburst flare of the weapon firing. Something uncoiled inside him⁠—

KILL THEM ALL.

—with the fury of an awakening volcano, and he stepped forward faster than thought. He lifted the other man off the ground as if he weighed less than a wasted thought, heard — felt — the light and burn of the pistol firing again and again. His free hand pulled back, slammed forward through the Worse Haircut’s chest, grabbing at the⁠—

Flesh. Meat.

—warm wet interior. The other man tried to scream, but no sound came out through a rib cage torn and shredded. The light faded from his eyes like a snuffed candle, and Val dropped the broken body at his feet. He paced left and right, then looked into the darkness to where Bad Teeth had left. He could smell where the other man had gone, the path laid out in scent like a bright arrow. Smell the blood all around him, on his hands. He licked it, the sticky sweetness filling his mind. Val closed his eyes, breathing fast. He could⁠—

Hunt. KILL.

—follow the other man, track him down.

No, he said into the falling night. "No. We gave him a chance and he took it. We made a deal."

There is only the hunt.

We made a goddamn deal! He shouted the words at the empty park around him. His eyes fell on the woman’s body on the ground, felt⁠—

There is only the hunt.

No, said Val. "No." He clenched his teeth, his fists, squeezed his eyes shut until the voice inside quietened. He felt his breath ease, let himself relax a fraction. When he opened his eyes, the evening was the same as it ever was. He bent over in a smooth motion and grabbed the man from the ground, slinging him over his shoulder. Not much he could do about the blood, but she didn’t need to see the body when she came around.

When he got back to her, he picked up her purse, a few things from the ground. He found — thank Christ — her phone, jabbed in 9-1-1 with a thumb, leaving red marks on the screen. He waited until the call connected.

9-1-1. What is your emergency? The woman on the end of the line had that crisp way of talking that he’d grown used to. He’d done this a hundred, a thousand times before.

Yeah, he said into the phone. I’d like to report a murder.

Sir? The voice sounded more alert. Are you hurt?

Val looked at the holes in his shirt, the skin already smooth and clean underneath. No, he said, then dropped the phone next to the woman. They’d track it, find it, and he shouldn’t be here for that. The emergency operator’s voice was still talking, made tiny by the speaker, as he walked off into the embrace of night.

Lacie was coming around, her head pounding. She hadn’t had a hangover like this since forever, and maybe she shouldn’t have had that last drink⁠—

Memory slammed back into her and she jerked herself up with a cry. You didn’t have a last drink. The park sat quiet around her. The two men who’d threatened her were gone. Her purse sat to her side. She held her head with one hand, wanting to throw up almost more than she wanted to run. Lacie took a breath, then another, and looked up. The night stabbed at irregular points by the beams of flashlights. She could hear voices shouting to each other as they moved towards her.

An officer found her, his flashlight feeling like a stab right in the back of her head. She really wanted to throw up, but started crying instead. Found one, the officer said. He crouched down. Ma’am? Are you okay? Can you tell me what happened?

Lacie looked past him into the night. She was about to speak when⁠—

Can you keep a secret? She remembered the warm smile when everything else had seemed so cold.

I— She stammered to a halt. What happened?

The officer looked around the park. You’ve been attacked, he said. We’ve heard that there’s been a murder.

I’m not dead, she said. Her thoughts were lazy and slow, running around like milling sheep. I’m okay.

Not you, said the officer. There’s a … we found a man. He swallowed, his head tipping towards the trees. That way. What do you remember?

Can you keep a secret?

Yes.

I don’t remember anything, she said. I didn’t see anything at all.

Chapter

Three

When Rex had pulled left onto Wabash, he hadn’t been expecting to die.

He’d been thinking about that family — from Arizona, was it? — who’d stopped right in the middle of an intersection. They’d got out of their truck, spent some time dancing on the roof of the Chevy. Been arrested, some such, didn’t matter anymore, but Rex had figured it was a shame — the mother, if that’s what she was, had a tight body. It was a crime to stop that kind of natural entertainment. He’d glanced up at the Sears, thinking about that tight body, ignored the red, and jammed his foot down on the peddle. His Prius made its sensible, economic way right into the path of a bus. The little car had been picked up, tossed like a toy across the intersection. He’d felt the impact not once, but twice, then a third time, as his car had hit against other cars, the road, God knows what else. There was broken glass flying around inside his car, and his airbag punched him hard in the face.

It seemed hours later that he came around. He could see a slice of the world through the narrow opening in the front of the Prius, the roof tamped down like a piece of tin foil. He could smell smoke, and over the sound of his radio — This Kiss playing still through the ruins of the cabin — someone was screaming.

Rex coughed, then tried to claw himself free of the seatbelt. There was something wrong with his arms, they wouldn’t — probably broken, some part of his mind said, and get up another part said — work right. The smoke was getting pretty bad. He could hear movement outside of the car, voices.

Get back, man. It’s going to blow! Panic, real fear in that voice. Rex was no stranger to that kind of fear, he’d seen more than his share of fires. But a Prius blowing? That’d be something else. Wasn’t enough fuel left in this one to start a camp fire. Was there?

It’ll be okay, said another voice. This one calm, relaxed as he spoke over Faith Hill.

Rex thought a little bit about Faith Hill. Now there was a woman who knew how to carry herself, back in the day. He drifted again, then was yanked back to the here and now as the pain shot up his arm, and he screamed.

Sorry, said the calm voice. Rex pushed his eyes open, but it was hard to see. There was so much smoke in the cab.

He coughed. It’s ok, he said. Say.

Yeah? Calm Voice had a calm face, easy smile.

I’m gonna die, aren’t I?

Calm Voice frowned. What makes you say that?

I’m all crushed up in here, said Rex, and I smell smoke. I’m pretty sure I can’t get out, and I’m pretty sure my arm’s busted good. Faith called to him over the radio again, and he swallowed. It’s okay.

The other man pushed his face a little closer through the broken windscreen. Why do you say that?

My fault, said Rex, coughing again. Did I hurt anyone?

Calm Voice nodded, nice and slow. Yeah.

Who?

Bus driver’s pretty banged up. Another car over there smashed through the front window of Sears. They’re shook up.

No one’s dead?

Not yet, said Calm Voice.

That’s okay then, said Rex. Hey, pal.

Yeah?

You better get out of here. I’m pretty sure this thing’s gonna go up in flames.

Sure, said the other man. Can you keep a secret?

What the hell kind of question— As good as anyone else.

No, said the man. It needs to be better than anyone else.

Rex tried to make out the man’s face through the smoke, but it was getting too thick. Yeah, he said. I can keep a secret.

My name’s Val, said the other man, and I’m going to get you out of here.

Rex tried to respond, but he couldn’t stop coughing.

Val looked up from the wreck of the Prius. There was blood all over the ground; the guy inside was hurt pretty bad. The smoke from his car was coming off in thick black clouds, one of the tires on fire. Something in the back of the bus caught with a low thwump and flames started to lick out the shattered windows along its side. He caught tall letters written in red, Damned If You Don’t. Val looked at the writing, then down at his hands.

Yeah. It was then that he looked up and saw a small oval face in the window of the bus, a kid maybe fifteen years old. He was waving at Val, trying to get his attention. Val looked back down at the Prius, then at the kid.

Flame and death.

Not today, said Val. He took five long steps back from the bus, then pushed himself forward in a sprint, his Nikes gripping the asphalt like claws. Three sprinter’s strides saw him moving fast and low, and he jumped into the air, crashing through a window on the side of the bus. The fire at the back coughed with the influx of air, then whooshed up loud as it sucked, greedy, eager. Hungry. He landed hard against one of the seats, shaking his head as he stood up. The kid was still there, his foot caught between two seats. Pale face, eyes wide with fear. Val looked at the flames that were burning hotter than ever, then back at the window he’d just broken to come in. Nice move, dumbass.

Kid, said Val. What’s your name?

James.

James, huh? Val walked closer, taking a look at where the metal was caught and twisted around James’ leg. Not Jimmy?

No. James had streaks of tears down his face, tracking clear footprints through black smoke dust. Just James.

Well, Just James, said Val, I’m going to get you out of here.

I’ve tried, said James. I can’t get out.

I know a secret, said Val. But you have to promise not to tell.

I promise, said James.

Okay, said Val. Where’re your parents?

Dad got off, said the kid. Step Dad.

Step Dad, huh? Val frowned. What kind of asshole leaves his kid on a burning bus? I have to tell you, Just James, that this is going to hurt a little. That okay?

Yes, said James. Then, after a moment, Can you … if I die, can you tell my Dad to give my Nintendo to Tommy? He’s my friend.

No, said Val. He reached a hand down, felt the metal spar that was twisting around Just James’ leg.

Why not? The kid’s eyes were wide with something, a little shock, a little fear. Perfect.

You can tell him yourself, said Val, muscles bunching in his back as he wrenched the metal aside. Just James screamed, then passed out. Val did a quick check of Just James’ leg — going to be a hell of a bruise, but nothing broken — before he grabbed the kid from the seat, tossing him over one shoulder and jumping back out the broken window. He landed easy on the ground, glass crunching under his shoes. He ran to the edge of the crowd — always a crowd, no one wants to get involved, they just stand there — and handed the kid’s unconscious body to a woman.

She looked at him, tugging down the scarf she held against her mouth. I — he’s not my⁠—

Lady, said Val, I don’t give a fuck. Take the kid.

She nodded, mute, seeing something in his eyes. She took James from him, staggering under the weight — sometimes it was easy to forget how easy some things were now. Val turned to go, then spun back. Make sure he gets help for that leg.

His leg? The woman looked down at James’ leg, seeing the blood for the first time. My God, how did⁠—

You see that bus over there? Val jerked a thumb behind him.

Yes.

He was in there. That’s how, said Val, and sprinted back to the Prius. Smoke was all around now, the fire coming off the bus in big sheets. He felt it lick at him, cringed⁠—

Only flame and smoke.

—a little before pushing himself through. He could feel the cotton on his shirt starting to catch as he grabbed at the door of the Prius, setting a foot against it. The heat in the metal of the frame seared his hand, the pain coming with a hot sizzle. He yelled, pulling at the door. The metal groaned before tearing away with a shriek. He tossed the door aside, his hands hurting but the pain already starting to fade. Val bent over, his hands feeling inside the Prius — come on Val, faster, he’s not going to survive the smoke let alone the damn heat — for the man trapped there. His hand came up against the seatbelt, and he grabbed it with his other hand, twisting the nylon⁠—

He will be free.

—like taffy, the plastic turning white as it stretched before tearing with a snap. Val grabbed the man, dragging him clear, then turned to run back to the safety of the crowd. He was about half way when the gas tank of the Prius exploded, picking them up like a couple of dolls. Val tucked himself around the man, felt something sharp and hard stab into his back before they crashed together on the ground.

Val looked up to see the woman he’d given James to. She still held the kid, half clumsy, half protective. He looked around at the crowd. Caught a phone there, trained on him. Another phone, pointed at the inferno. Amateur reporters — no keeping this one a secret. Still. He hadn’t changed. Not yet. He pushed himself to his feet.

Are you — are you okay? It was the woman holding the kid. Her eyes were wide, a hand reached out towards him, but not quite touching.

Val looked over his shoulder, saw the piece of metal lodged in his back. He coughed around the pain. Yeah. I’ll be fine. He reached around, grabbing at the edge, yanking it free. It looked like a California plate. Of course. Only place a Prius would come from. Val turned to go, felt the woman’s hand on his arm.

Your back, she said. It’s— Her eyes widened as she saw his face. Your … your eyes, she stammered.

Val didn’t need to see his reflection. He knew they’d be⁠—

Change. Rise. Be free.

—a fierce, bright yellow. Without another word, he pushed into the crowd and away.

What’s your name? Do you know your name? The paramedic looked down at Rex, adjusting the air mask.

How bad is it?

Bad if you can’t remember your name, said the paramedic.

Rex, said Rex. My name’s Rex.

Like a dog?

Like a fucking Tyrannosaurus, said Rex.

Got it, said the paramedic. You’ll be fine.

Fine?

You got two sprained wrists and your ribs are going to be feeling everything for a couple weeks. Smoke inhalation too — don’t take off the mask. We need to get you in for a scan to be sure, but your belt took the worst of it. That, and the airbag. The paramedic looked over at the emergency cordon, the firefighters still working on putting out the flames.

Damn airbag. Rex remembered the feeling of it punching up into his face. He remembered a man, too, who’d promised to get him out. What had he said? Damndest thing, like can you keep a secret … or something. Rex could keep a secret, especially when he knew that it wasn’t for the grace of God that he’d come out of this. The grace of something quite different. Quite, quite different.

He’s all yours, said the paramedic to an officer standing nearby. The cop walked over.

Sir?

Yeah.

Sir, do you remember how you got out of the car?

Can you keep a secret?

No. Rex coughed a little, adjusting his mask. Mystery to me.

You sure?

Pretty sure, said Rex. 30 years in the fire department, I should be dead, some kind of … some kind of goddamn hero pulled me out of a car wreck it should have taken industrial machinery to crack open. Yeah, yeah. I see why you’d want to keep that a secret.

You’re absolutely sure? The cop was folding away his notebook, a frown on his face.

Yeah, said Rex. What, no one else see anything?

No, said the cop. Some kid was yanked from the bus but he says he was out when it happened. Good for him too, ankle looks like it was dislocated, would have hurt like hell. You wouldn’t want to remember that.

Can I… Rex coughed again. Can I see him?

Who?

The kid.

Why?

I figure… Rex licked his lips. Maybe it’ll jog my memory.

Maybe,