Ann taps my shoulder, points to the right of the clearing. Butted right up against the tree line is a small, wooden shack. Half of the boards appear dry-rotted and smoke billows through a vent in the roof. The door opens, and a man walks out.
Jackson McCarthy is average sized with a big pot-belly sticking out from under a dirty wife-beater. He wears a giant respirator and swimming goggles, and his shirt is stained yellow from sweat and full of holes. His NASCAR logoed pajama pants are in a similar state of skankiness. McCarthy rubs a hand over his bald head and turns his ear toward the blaring alarm. With his head cocked to the side and the mask, he looks like some kind of confused, nightmare alien.
My heart freezes. My hand is glued to the butt of my gun, finger on the trigger.
McCarthy turns his bug-eyed gaze towards us. I catch a glimpse of recognition through his goggles.
“Fuck,” I yell and take off running.
Our perp rips his goggles and gas mask off as he sprints towards the RV that I assume is his home. My hip burns with every rotation of my legs. Every time my foot connects with the ground a jolt of pain runs from my knee to my ribs. He’s pulling away. For a dude with a gut like that, he can haul ass. Fucking tweakers.
I bend down and grab a fist-sized rock. I chuck the rock and it connects with McCarthy’s back. He grunts and peers over his shoulder. Like a wraith, Ann charges from behind and drives her shoulder into his midsection.
McCarthy hits the ground gasping. He coughs and spits and sucks down more oxygen. Ann stands and brushes dirt and grass off of her clothing.
Now I believe the whole thing about SHI workers needing to be in great shape. “Impressive.”
“Thanks,” she says, dusting her hands.
The alarm and Angus Young are still blaring at us. Frankly, I’m not sure which is more irritating. I pump the shotgun and fire a round into the alarm horn mounted on top of McCarthy’s meth lab. That takes care of one wail. Another shot to the 73-inch diameter speaker on the front porch keeps me from hearing an encore from AC/DC.
On the ground at our feet, McCarthy is finally starting to get some air. “Fff-fu-fuck you,” he says, stoned-out-of-his-mind ballsy.
He thinks we’re cops. We didn’t flash a warrant, so he thinks he’s safe. He figures we’re here to jazz him for info. Career criminals aren’t afraid of cops, and after so much meth and TV, they figure themselves untouchable. He’s probably thinking,
Cops couldn’t be here without a warrant
. Too bad for him, I’m not a cop today.
I grab McCarthy by the back of his wife-beater and drag him to his feet. The shirt rips under my grasp. He stands on his own and throws his ripped shirt down on the ground. His arms instinctively wrap around his midsection. Ann tackles like a linebacker.
“Mr. McCarthy, we need to have a little conversation,” I say.
He curls his lip at me, showing off a few beautiful brown teeth. “Fuck you, Cop.” He spits on top of his torn shirt.
This should be fun.
MIDDLE-AGED JACKSON MCCARTHY
strolls over to the front step of his porch with all the swagger of a sixteen-year-old gang-banger. He takes a seat on the stairs and glares at us with a look that the word ‘mutinous’ doesn’t even begin to touch. I can already tell this guy’s going to be a wealth of information.
McCarthy squints in the afternoon sunlight. “If this was a real arrest, there would be more than one limp cop and his bitch, and I’d be in cuffs right now.”
My temper flares, but years of police training have taught me to hold back. Everyone thinks they can get a free pass if they get a rise out of a cop. Bait him into beating the shit out of you and scream ‘police brutality’ to everyone willing to listen. “Very astute of you, Jackson.”
Ann walks toward the tree where she left the bag. I notice the vein in her forehead bulging again, but I don’t think McCarthy catches it. If this creep is getting under her skin, I’d be willing to bet this is her taking a literal walk to recompose her thoughts.
“You can call me the King. Cause I’m the king ‘round these parts.” McCarthy leans forward gawking at Ann. “That’s one fine piece of ass you’ve got for a partner there. She hits like a train. Look at all that muscle on her arms. Boy, I bet she could tear you apart.”
I shoot McCarthy a shut-the-fuck-up glance. He ignores it.
“Hey, if that’s your thing, more power to ya. Me, I like ‘em a little soft around the middle. You know what I mean? I knew this girl once. Name was, uh, name was Charlene. She didn’t have no teeth and let me tell you, the things she did with her…” McCarthy trails off as Ann approaches with her duffle bag, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing is tongue against the inside of his cheek to make it puff out.
He catches Ann watching his mimed fellatio and blows a kiss at her. “Just telling your partner here about a girl I knew and the one thing she was good for. ‘Bout the same as any other
bitch,
I s’pose.”
Ann bristles. She’s playing this thing cool. I imagine it’s not the first time she’s caught shit like this. Hero training camp can’t be easy to get through.
Time to steer this conversation back on course. “Mr. McCarthy, we’re here to talk about your online activates with a superhero hate group forum.”
McCarthy laughs. “You twos really ain’t cops, is you?” He spits again, scratches absently at a bloody spot on his left forearm. “You mean to tell me a couple upstanding human beings such as you’selves are here about some cape bullshit?”
“What the bloody hell do you mean by ‘upstanding human beings’?” Ann asks around clenched teeth.
McCarthy gapes at her for a moment before he smirks and says, “What I mean is, those
capes
is an abomination. They is unnatural. Against Gawd and the Good Book isself.”
Why do these fucking kooks always have to use the Bible as an excuse for their hate crimes? “Do you participate on a forum under the screen name ‘CapeH8er69?’”
“I sure do.” His chest sticks out a little as if his name isn’t something a fourteen-year-old boy couldn’t have come up with in fifteen minutes. Hell, McCarthy’s avatar is probably a picture of a naked woman if I had to guess. Or a gun. Or a naked woman holding a gun and a Bible and the American Flag. That’s the most plausible.
“Did you converse with ‘LeDeL’ and a man named Kevin Gagnon?”
McCarthy glares some more. “’LeDeL’ is a good man. He knows how to put in work. That Gagnon sucker ain’t nothin’ though. He weren’t prepared to do Gawd’s work, didn’t have the kind of strength required for the Alliance.”
“Does
Gawd’s
work include bombing parades? Parades full of innocent bystanders, yeah?” Ann snarls and I have to wonder how much longer until she pulls that machete out from her bag and starts the throat- slitting.
McCarthy smiles. The smile isn’t real. No humor, no good intent, not even any amusement. Just a kind of odd self-appreciation. “It’s never been proved who set that particular device, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for the one who done it. Took care of lots of traitors to our race, that one did.”
“Traitors to our race?” My heart jumps in my chest. Years of training can only put up with so much.
“Yeah, humans. That’s the problem with these fucking cape freaks. They change their bodies and it’s against the Good Lord. He made us in His image and changing that image is against the Bible. The capes are an abomination against Gawd and they should be cleansed from this gift He gave us.” McCarthy turns his palms up and looks to the sky as if begging the Good Lord to take him. I fucking wish He would.
Long breath in, hold, long breath out. This butt-fuck crazy Jesus freak is not going to get under my skin. “You said the Alliance. Is that the Anti-Hero Alliance?”
“Yeah.” McCarthy laughs. He digs around in his pocket at something. Ann watches closely, making sure he’s not pulling a weapon, I assume. McCarthy catches on to Ann’s attention and jerks his hand up and down in his pocket, winks at Ann. “Ridiculous name, AHA, fucking pussy-sounding name if you ask me. Warriors of Gawd such as myself deserve a better name, but I’m not here to question, just to serve.” He pulls something out of his pocket.
I swallow the bile brewing in the back of my throat. Instinct is to puke in this guy’s lap right now. The urge is strong, but I fight it. “Who is it you serve, exactly?”
McCarthy salutes and says, “I serve the Grand Sovereign Mage of the Anti-Hero Alliance.” He opens his palm and there’s a small baggy he took out of his pocket. He opens the baggy and slides a crystal rock in his palm. He drops the rock on his porch and punches it with the biggest knuckle on his right hand. The rock smashes to dust and a cut opens on his hand. McCarthy swipes the powder into his palm. The powder mixes with the blood from his hand and he snorts the red goo.
“What,” he says, looking up at Ann and I. “You ain’t cops, can’t arrest me.”
There are no words to describe how much I hate this guy. “Who is the Grand Sovereign Mage?”
And what in the fuck does that even mean?
McCarthy cackles. He shakes on his stairs. His body twitches and convulses like it would love to do anything other than sit still. Fingers drum across the wood step. Feet bounce up and down over the packed dirt ground.
“He asked you a question,” Ann says. Her voice is strung tighter than a piano wire. I’m betting she’d like to wrap one around his neck right now.
“I told you, you ain’t no cops and I don’t have to answer no questions I don’t like. I’ve been friendly up to this point, but I’m done talking.”
“You’re right,” Ann says, “We
ain’t
cops. That means we don’t have a law to report to. There’s nothing to stop us from killing you right here. No one would miss you.”
If she’s bluffing, it’s the best goddamned poker face I’ve ever seen in my life.
A twig snaps in the bushes behind the un-mobile home. I swing my shotgun toward the sound, expecting another hole-brained meth-zombie to come walking out. Instead, I’m staring down a large deer. Antlers stretch taller than any buck I’ve ever seen. The animal lifts its head. Its ears twitch. Bushy tail flicks three times. In a blink the deer bounds through the woods.
A piece of plastic behind the house catches my attention. I move closer to investigate.
“Hey, get back here,” McCarthy yells.
I ignore him. A green and yellow bag flaps in the breeze. The package reads ‘Fertilizer 34-0-0’ across the top. High concentration of ammonium nitrate, top-notch for making shit bombs. Bombs like the one that destroyed the Engine. I snatch the half-empty bag and bring it back around to the front of the house.
“…believe you did that you fucking
cunt.
” McCarthy is still sitting on the stair of his porch, spitting blood and teeth.
Ann’s shotgun crosses her body, a smear of McCarthy’s blood across the stock. Her jaw is jutted out in one of those I-fucking-dare-you kind of expressions.
“What the hell just happened?”
“This fucking racist cock tried to follow you back there. I showed him his seat, all right.” Ann smiles and I almost expect it to come with a curtsy. “What did you find?”
I hold up the bag of fertilizer. “Been doing some yard work, Jackson?”
His eye twitches. He rocks back and forth, rubs a hand across his face, smearing blood all over. “Fuck you.” Spit and blood dribble down his chin.
“I doubt it. I think you’ve been making bombs. The same kind that blow up parades and the same kind used in terrorist attacks on SHI. Now I don’t believe that you are smart enough to pull that kind of thing off, but I’d be willing to bet that you built the bomb that did.” I want so bad to punch this guy right now. I might be a little jealous that Ann got to hit him.
McCarthy smiles, broken teeth and blood proud. He sticks his tongue through the gap and flicks blood at Ann. “What’s the matter,” he turns on the self-assuredness again, “someone throw a wrench in that little engine of yours?”
“What did you say?” Ann’s hand tightens around the gun.
“I’m done talking,” he says to me. “You two are both traitors to your race and your Gawd and I’ve got nothing else for you. So pack your uptight cunt and your handicapped ass back in the government vehicle you drove here in, and get the fuck off of my property, you no-good cape-lovers.”
Ann lunges, drives the barrel of the shotgun into McCarthy’s throat. She pins him between herself and the porch, gagging and spitting profanities. “What did you say, you racist piece of filth?”
He coughs and spits. Blood spatters across Ann’s face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I put a hand on her shoulder and pull her away. This creep could have any kind of disease. She fights me at first, but finally gives up. McCarthy lays against his steps, wheezing.
“You made the bomb for Leroy DeLaCruz, didn’t you? Did Gagnon know about it too?” I fight the urge to kick dirt at him. “Forget that. I don’t care about DeLaCruz or Gagnon. Tell me who your grand master or whatever the fuck is.”
“Grand Sovereign Mage. And you sinners can go right to Hell for all your acts against the righteous such as myself. The Devil will have fun flaying your flesh and burning your souls in the pits for your outrageous acts against humanity. You will burn!” His voice goes hoarse as he yells his sermon of fire and bullshit at us.
I take a deep breath. The air here still stinks of meth and the excess of it burns my nostrils. I look up at the sky, hoping for guidance and finding none. “Who is your Grand Sovereign Mage?” I speak each word slowly, hoping to get the question through his meth-addled tough-guy façade.
He looks me square in the eyes. Brown irises flicker side-to-side at a speed that probably tops even his pulse. “Why are you such a bastard? Is it ‘cause your partner won’t put out? Don’t worry, son, a woman as uptight as that one would probably snap your dick off if you ever made it inside.”
Every single punk kid whose given me the cold shoulder, every drunk who thought he was clever, every girl who thought she could pout or flirt her way out of a ticket, every single fucking crack den I walked into and had to step over children’s toys…all the living pieces of garbage I had to show respect to simply so they wouldn’t go free on some stupid loophole…every single shit human being I have ever met in my duties serving the great state of Georgia is front-and-center as I drive my fist into McCarthy’s eye. I feel bones crunch beneath my knuckles and his head thumps against the wooden step behind him.