Contractor (17 page)

He had to stay on the offensive. He

struck out at the one closest to him before its

friends could get around to help it. A few

two-handed swings left it totally armless.

It went for one of its kicks. Daniel

repeated the move he’d used earlier—he

ducked sideways, grabbed the heel, then

elbowed it in the knee. It bent backward with

a satisfying crunch.

The other two extractors were almost on

top of him. He tried to circle them. Black

lasers ripped and melted the asphalt around

his legs as he ran.

They weren’t as confused as before—

they kept following his movements; the

lasers were scarily accurate. Were they

learning?

No, they weren’t getting stronger—he

was getting slower. Too much power, too

fast. His lungs were burning. His toes

throbbed from jamming into his shoes every

time he changed direction.

He let one get too close, but he saw the

kick coming. He stepped back.

The back of his heels hit the curb. He

held there for a moment, leaning back, arms

circling for balance. He saw the punch

coming, and pushed power into his

chestplate.

The fist landed. Black lightning crashed

and sparked against his white light. He was

sent to the ground, but he was lucky, rolling

across grass, not pavement. His armor held,

and he got away with a bloody lip.

The fight went on. He dodged. He

jumped. He attacked, whipping his baton

against their iron casings over and over. He

made dents, disabled limbs, cracked their

heads.

He was exhausted. His vision felt dark

at the edges, narrowed. He couldn’t focus.

His movements felt automatic,

repetitive. He stopped planning. He was too

tired to think. He just kept reacting, kept

hitting them.

His baton struck a crack it had made

earlier. The extractor’s casing buckled, and

his weapon smashed through its core. He put

his foot on its chest and kicked his weapon

free.

With a long, grinding creak, it fell back

onto the street. Energy surged through him as

he absorbed it.

He had to use that opportunity. He

lunged at the second extractor, overcharging

himself with his magic.

Just as it had before, time slowed to a

crawl. Daniel attacked so fast it was as if he

struck from five directions at once. Its arm

broke off from the shoulder. It tried to catch

itself, but a damaged leg crumpled with the

strain. Daniel hit its torso once, twice, three

times, crushing it. It began to disintegrate.

Even as Daniel absorbed the energy

from the crumbling machine, he was grabbed

from behind. Steel fingers wrapped around

his back. He activated his armor.

The final extractor’s hand shone black

with power as it attempted to squeeze him to

death. If its other arm hadn’t already been

damaged, it might have been over right then.

Daniel wormed in its grip, trying to slip out,

but the hand held firm.

It became a sick game of tug of war;

Daniel pressing outward with his armor’s

power, the extractor’s grip tightening like a

vice. Black and white light shone in his eyes.

Putrid smoke roiled around them.

And then the pressure was gone, and he

was flying.

Some shred of good sense told him to

put his power into the armor on his back. It

was just in time for him to slam through a

brick wall. He tumbled over carpet, broke

through a table, and crunched into the wall of

a living room.

His head rang. He was buried halfway

in the drywall, his legs splayed over the

carpet. He shoved a hand under himself to

get up, but slipped, and fell back on the rug.

His baton was gone.

Pain throbbed up his calf. He looked

down. A splinter of wood the size of his

wrist was sticking out the back of his ankle.

Blood streamed down to his foot.

It didn’t feel as painful as it looked.

Hazy. Like it was happening to someone

else.

He sat upright. The room spun. He put a

hand on a broken part of the wall, trying to

steady himself.

There was a grinding sound. He looked

up.

The extractor was dragging itself over

the curb, then across the lawn, pulling a dead

leg behind it. Its hand was melted and

twisted where it had held him. The other arm

dangled free, useless. But it was still

moving.

He had to move. He tried putting

pressure on his injured leg. His vision went

black and red. A noise like a dog’s whimper

leaked out of his mouth.

The extractor reached the house. It

ripped a wider hole in the brick so it could

fit through. An iron foot crushed the carpet.

His leg was shot. That was his

advantage, speed. He was screwed.

The extractor took another step. He

pressed himself back against the wall,

gathering the precious inches between

himself and the robots.

In the debris of the table he saw an old

radio, a fat speaker on one side, a dial for

different stations on the other. A big antenna

stretched up from the top. The way it

telescoped reminded him of his baton.

The extractor reached him. It raised its

twisted hand. Energy gathered under its

fingers. The blackened iron hissed and

rattled with the strain, but the laser was

coming.

Daniel grabbed the radio. He pointed

the tip at the machine, and poured himself

into it until it glowed like white-hot iron.

He jammed the end of the antenna into

the extractor. It punctured through its

weakened hull. He brought it up, up, tearing

a line through his enemy. He was screaming.

The extractor’s inscriptions fizzled. Its

palm dropped. The laser fired. It burned a

hole in the wall under Daniel’s arm, leaving

him unscathed.

Daniel sat there, still holding the radio.

He heaved air. His throat was hoarse.

Metal creaked. The machine tipped. A

half-ton of steel was about to fall on top of

him. He tried to raise an arm to protect

himself, but he didn’t have any strength left.

The extractor’s head thumped onto the

wall above him, and it rested there, propped

over Daniel’s body like a lean-to.

Daniel started laughing, a half-hearted,

coughed-up chuckle. Or was he crying? He

wasn’t sure. He didn’t care.

The extractor’s body disintegrated.

Black smoke rushed into him. He felt the

burst of energy.

And then he saw the true potential of

what the Ivory Dawn had called a vampiric

enchantment.

The broken piece of wood driven into

his leg was pushed out. It dropped to the

ground, still covered in blood. The exposed

muscle and flesh knit together. His skin

swam and neatly folded over the hole,

leaving nothing to show he’d ever been

harmed.

Daniel tested his leg, then shoved to his

feet, leaning against the wall for balance. His

ankle definitely still hurt, but it worked. He

ached all over. He felt like he could have

fallen asleep standing up.

He’d done it.

Darkness flickered.

He stumbled out of the house in a full

panic. If more came, he was dead. He had to

run, survive, live to fight another day.

The crack in the sky closed.

The dome’s world-stopping spell

vanished. The grass was green again. The air

smelled like heavy mid-summer damp. He

fell to his knees and sucked it in.

He put his hands on the grass. It was wet

with dew. He clenched his fists, feeling it rip

from the ground, feeling the plant-matter in

his hands. It was so normal. So real.

Brick and plastic siding collapsed from

the hole behind him. Lights flashed on in

windows. He heard a shout. He jogged his

half-dead corpse back down the street before

the police showed up and asked what the hell

he was doing in the middle of a warzone

wearing a homemade suit of armor.

He crawled up into his bedroom

window and stripped off the belts holding

the pads in place. They were a steaming

wreck, and his hoodie was ruined, too.

Besides the hole in the center, the giant’s

hand had left an imprint where it touched

him, burning through the Plexiglas and steel

and rubber all the way to the last fibers of

his clothes. Probably explained why his ribs

hurt every time he turned.

He dropped onto his bed and was asleep

before his head hit the pillow.

****

Daniel woke up with a stiff neck and a

throbbing headache. He wandered down the

stairs, wincing as he passed the bright light

coming in through their windows. Felix was

on the couch, legs splayed over the cushions

in a cartoon-induced stupor. Their dad was

gone, already at work. Daniel stopped at the

edge of the kitchen.

"You eat?" Daniel said.

"No."

"I feel like pancakes. Want some?"

"Yeah!"

"Good."

They had a small TV in the kitchen.

James had left it on the local news. A woman

with way too much makeup was standing in

front of a street that looked like a bombed-

out picture of London from World War II.

"As you can see, the damage is

extensive. Authorities are still investigating,

but believe there may have been a problem

with a natural gas line. The epicenter of the

explosion is thought to have been located

under that house." The woman pointed. The

camera zoomed in on the hole in the brick

house, which was cordoned off with yellow

police tape. "The resulting brick shrapnel

decimated the remainder of -"

Daniel turned it off.

He used the instant stuff, and in a few

minutes, he had pancakes frying in a pan. A

stack slowly grew on a plate next to him. He

ran out of batter, mixed more, and poured

another pancake.

He felt like his mind was a hundred

miles away from his body. His hands kept

working without his thoughts to guide them.

Autopilot.

It all seemed fake. A dream. Now he

was back. Everything seemed too normal,

too average. Was the world really like this?

News reports and pancake breakfasts? Or

was it the black-and-white frozen world of

vorid, and forgotten victims, and magic?

"Hey Danny?"

"Hmm?"

Felix tramped over the tile. "Are you

really hungry or something?"

Daniel glanced at the plate and realized

he’d made ten pancakes for the two of them.

He took a long breath, then put some plastic

wrap over the rest of the batter and stuck it in

the fridge.

They sat at the table, slathered the fried

dough in butter and syrup, then sawed it to

pieces. Daniel shoved it into his mouth. It

was warm and sweet. He chewed for a long

time, then swallowed. He set his fork down.

"Danny?" Felix looked at him. "What’s

wrong? I think they taste pretty good." Daniel

got up from his seat and hugged his brother.

He grabbed on tight and cried over his

shoulder. "Dan? Dan, are you ok?"

"…yeah." Daniel stood straight and

wiped his eyes. He sniffed. "I’ll be fine."

"What happened?"

Daniel sat and shoved more pancakes

into his mouth. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Are you sure?"

"I’m sure."

"…hey, Dan?"

"Yeah?"

"…thanks."

"You’re welcome."

"No, I mean…Dad was off for a while,

you know? I didn’t know what to do."

Daniel stared. Felix had never talked

about their father’s depression. He’d always

thought his kid brother wasn’t really old

enough to notice it.

"But," Felix said, "you always did. That made it better."

"…good."

"Why were you crying?"

"…it’s nothing you need to worry

about," Daniel said. "Something I already

took care of. Just…bad thoughts."

"…I miss mom, too."

Felix started in on his food again.

Daniel sat down and did the same. They

didn’t need to talk. There was a sort of silent

communication, thoughts conveyed through

the clatter of forks on plates as they finished

their pancakes.

Daniel thought hard. He had to have

gotten a big boost from absorbing three more

extractors. He had to measure his powers

again. And make more armor. And order a

new baton.

But did he want another baton? It wasn’t

quite right. He was already fast—he needed

something heavy that could do big damage

when he had the chance for a hit. Less like a

stick and more like a club.

He had two more months until he moved

to Boston. Even if the Vorid kept to their

schedule, he’d be facing the extractors two

more times—and probably more than he had

the last time. On that point, and on everything

else, Xik’s information had held true.