Yesterday's Heroes (Consortium of Chaos Book 1) (50 page)

Marian frowned.  There was no way
he should have been able to talk after receiving a wound like that.  Cargo was also
apparently expecting some kind of bigger reaction from Cynic as well, and fear
crossed his face at merely receiving
complaints
from his bullet riddled victim. 
He emptied the gun at Cynic, pumping round after round into him until the gun
clicked empty.

Cynic fell backwards onto the
street and was motionless for a long moment…then his head popped up, and he scowled
down at the new holes in his chest.   He fingered the wound in his forehead
angrily as blood poured from it and he got back up to his feet.  “Why the FUCK are
people always trying to kill me?  Huh?  I’m a nice guy.  I go out of my way to
help people; try to show them the way.  Give them the benefit of my experiences
with the world.  And what’s my reward?  Huh?  How do they show their fucking gratitude
for all my hard work and insightful advice?  Bullets.  Running me down with horses,
trucks and cars.  Dynamite.  Knife wounds.  Throwing me from boats.  I’m
fucking SICK of it.”  His eyes darkened.  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe
even calm and rational people might not LIKE getting shot, Cargo.  That it
might hurt their feelings just a little?  Make them feel unappreciated, and a
wee bit cross with you?”  He stalked forward.  “Hey…do you like Salvadore Dahi,
dickhead?  I think he’s awesome.  In
my
world, that’s what everything
would look like.  Sometimes I look at stuff, and I’m SURE that’s how the world
really
looks.  In fact, I’m POSITIVE of it.”  He glanced back at her, his red eyes
seeming to glow as if they contained a hidden fire.  “You wanna know what I can
do, Sweets?  Take a seat and open your pretty eyes, ‘cause here’s a little
taste.”  He lips spread into a sinister smile.  “
Time to make the doughnuts.”
 
He pointed one finger at the other man, his voice taking on an
utterly
uncharacteristic
cold and authoritative edge as it boomed through the clearing, like the voice
of death itself.  “
Cargo
.”

He made a fist, and the whole world
went crazy.  The road around them seemed to twist and bend like a rubber band.  Straight
lines contorted into curves; curved lines curling into spirals.  Cargo doubled
over in pain and disorientation.  His gun dropped from his hand and fell sideways
for some reason.  His body seemed to be liquefying; like the matter that made
up his very being had taken on the consistency of pudding.  His body stretched
and contracted in nauseating undulations as the world around him shifted and
changed.  He braced himself against the wall and his hand seemed to ooze over
it.  His whole body was melting against the wall, like wax pressed against a
hot surface.  His mouth opened in a silent scream, as his face and body dripped
down the barrier and into a pool on the street.  The puddle grew as more and
more of his body dribbled down the wall and into the gutter.  The colors of what
had previously been his skin and clothes, mixed and pooled into a revolting
liquid mass that was a sickly gray color.  The puddle bubbled once.  Twice. 
Then stopped moving.

Cynic ignored Cargo’s horrible
death and looked down at his clothes as the world returned to normal.  “Dammit! 
I
liked
this shirt!  My sister gave it to me, and they have good taste! 
She’ll never let me hear the end of it if they find out I stained it.”  He
tried to crane his head around.  “How’s the back of it?  Bad?”

Librarian blinked.  How could he
possibly still be alive?  She mentally ran through the options.  He obviously
was not a robot, a zombie, a vampire, or impervious to harm since blood was
pouring from the wounds.  That would indicate that the bullets pierced him and
that his heart was still beating.  The holes also did not appear to be healing,
so it was doubtful he had any sort of rapid healing ability.  So what was the
nature of his power?

She blinked.  Luckily, she was pretty
hard to shock.  “You should be dead, Mr. O’Probrian.  At least four of those
shots are mortal.  I would suggest you get to a hospital, as soon as possible.”

He made a dismissive sound and
waved his hand.  “Pffft.  I don’t
believe
in doctors, Libs.  Doctors are
just like those phony telephone psychics, you know?  They say your pain is
being caused by this invisible evil thing that only THEY have the knowledge to
stop.  And they make you these great promises about how only THEY can solve
your problems…
IF
you pay them a truckload of fucking money first.  Then,
after they’ve drained you of every penny ya got, they declare you ‘cured.’  But
they can’t show you anything concrete that the problem ever existed in the
first fucking place, or that it’s fixed now.  It’s all
bullshit
, Sweets. 
A scam concocted by shysters in order to bilk a few bucks out of the sick and
bereaved.  Anyone in touch with reality in the
SLIGHTEST
knows that doctors
are for suckers. 
Normal
people just walk it off and go about their
fucking business.”

She kept her face expressionless.  “That
is an interesting hypothesis, Mr. O’Probrian.  I would point out however, that
your particular problems are not invisible or imagined, and in fact, consist of
several gunshot wounds to your abdomen and cranium.  I hold an MD, and can
assure you that you have a very serious medical issue on your hands.”

He started fingering the hole in
his upper chest, his breath making a wheezing sound.  “Dammit.  I think it
caught the corner of my lung; it tickles like hell.  Fuck, that’s annoying.” 
He started hacking deeply until he coughed up a small lump of bloody metal into
his hand.  He grinned and held it up between his thumb and index finger.  “Ha! 
That got it!  Medical issue solved, Sweets.  All’s right with the world again.” 
Blood from the gaping hole in his forehead dripped down his face and he wiped
it away from his eyes leaving behind a large smear of gore.  “Now, what’s say
you and me go someplace quiet where we can talk?”

Assuming a medical miracle, and that
every bullet had somehow managed to miss a vital organ or artery, judging from
the blood coming from the wounds, he only had about five more minutes before he
bled out completely.  She decided to take another stab at convincing him to get
it taken care of.  “Emergency rooms can be very quiet, you know.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Oh, would you
STOP
with that!?!  It’s just a couple of fucking scratches, I’ve had
worse.  Nothing to
lose your head
over; I’m sure I’ll be fine.”  He
chuckled.  “Nice of you to worry though.  I didn’t know you cared, Sweets.”

She took a handkerchief from her
pocket and placed it over the most serious of his wounds in an effort to slow
the bleeding.  Not that it would do a lot of good, since his chest was now a
sieve, but she felt like she had to do something.  She did not want to watch
him die again tonight.  Twice was enough.  “I am only worried about the large
life insurance policy my Department would have to pay out to your sister in the
event of your death, Mr. O’Probrian.  I do not want to make such a payment, and
since you continually
refuse
to tell our organization the exact nature and/or
origin of your powers, I am afraid that as the duly appointed representative of
your employer, I am going to have to insist that you go see a licensed medical
practitioner, at once.”

He reached down to where she held
the bloody handkerchief against his chest and placed his hand over hers.  “You
want to play ‘doctor’ with me, Libs?”  His smile spread.  “Okay.  I’ll let you
give me some ‘
attention
’…”

She frowned, and pulled her hand
free.  “I do not approve of the suggestive nature of your comments, Mr. O’Probrian. 
They are inappropriate, and if you
survive
, I will be bringing them up
at your sexual harassment hearing this week.”  She paused.  “Should you
die
,
I will be suing your estate.”

He sighed deeply, causing blood to
bubble from his numerous wounds.  “Have fun with that.  I’m wearing everything
I own, and now it’s probably ruined.”   He continued pressing the bloodied handkerchief
against the wound.  “Ummm…these are actually starting to sting a little, so
maybe I
will
let you pull the slugs outta me. 
DO NOT
cut the
shirt off though; I think I can still save it.  A little club soda will take this
blood right out, I bet.”  He reached a hand out and placed the distorted hunk
of metal he had just gotten from his lung into her hand.  “Little souvenir for
you.  Make yourself a necklace or something pretty, honey.”

Her eyes narrowed.  Yes, she had defiantly
lost some sort of lottery when they were handing out partners.

*********

Holly walked towards the alleyway
that Varmit had run down, and then she stopped and turned around to face her
companion.  “Gabe, you should stay here.  Let me handle this.  I’ll call you if
I want you to write me a theme song, or compose a sonnet heralding my success
in battle or something, because let’s face it, even if you COULD fight worth a
damn, you really won’t be much help in there anyway.  Your music is badass, but
it’s not
THAT
badass.  I got this.”

Troubadour frowned at being told he
was useless, but obediently strolled over to a car at the entrance to the alley
and sat on the hood.  He rested his feet on the front bumper and fished into
his pocket for his smokes.

She walked into the alley looking
for her prey.  She never liked Varmit.  He was creepy.  All reptile-y, but with
hair and claws.  And he was also immune to her magic for some reason; soulless
monster.  And he had a weird smell.  Like a mix of a pet shop and nail polish
remover.

Behind her, she heard the first
chords of
Taking Care of Business
playing, obviously mocking her take no
prisoners approach to this situation.

Gabe really was an asshole.  She
turned to pin him with a deadly glare.  He really needed to concentrate on this,
and not get distracted.  This was life and death stuff, and he was going to
focus on his hurt feelings?  He was always like that.  Always.

Gabe stopped the song suddenly, and
nonchalantly pointed over her head with one finger.  Like you’d do if you
wanted to tell someone who wasn’t paying attention, that the elevator door had
opened and that it was time to enter it.

What the hell?

Her thoughts were interrupted as
Varmit leapt from a darkened fire escape high above her and landed on top of
her, pinning her to the ground.  His claws closed around her neck, his hot
breath in her face.  She reached for her shotgun, but it had fallen too far
away.  Her gloved hand darted out and slammed a candy cane shaped knife deep into
his neck, but he ignored the wound and simply laughed.  She twisted the weapon,
but it still had no effect.  She made a desperate choking gasp, and waived her
free hand to try to get Troubadour’s attention so he’d come to her aide.  He
started singing a quick ditty under his breath as he looked on impassively.   He
put his guitar away and pulled out a bow to a stringed instrument and started
to wax it.

I would normally jump in and help here, but my
partner said that she “had this”

Holl told me I could provide no assistance; in fact
she was kind of a bitch

I can tell the winner of this battle, will be the
fair Missile-Tow

So I am just going to sit here, and casually rosin
my bow.

Asshole.

She gave him the finger.  Then she
jammed her thumb through Varmit’s left eye.  He didn’t seem to notice, and the
pressure around her neck didn’t ease.  Jesus.  This guy just didn’t feel pain
or something.  Fucking reptile.  A globule of drool oozed from his gaping jaws,
and dripped down onto her cheek.  He let out an angry roar, his sharp teeth
glinting in the dim light.  She made a gasping sound as his claws closed
tighter around her windpipe, and stopped her from drawing in any air.  Darkness
crept around the edges of her vision and she began contemplating just cramming
a grenade down his throat and blowing them both to hell.  At least she’d take
him with her.

Troubadour gave a long dramatic
sigh, and took one last puff from his cigarette.  He calmly jumped off the hood
of the car and flicked the butt of the cigarette onto the cement, grinding it
out with his dress shoe in agitation.  He opened the locks on his instrument
case, and pulled out an antique looking golden fiddle.   He inspected it and
carefully wiped a fingerprint off its gleaming surface.

Oh, Holy Night
!

Holly had really only seen him break
out that fiddle once before, and the results were…well…not pretty.  The
Commodore had forbidden him from ever using it again.  This should be…interesting.

He walked closer to them, and
cleared his throat.  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please take your seats,
the concert is about to begin.”  He passed the bow against the instrument a few
times, producing eerie notes commonly known as a ‘tritone’ or the ‘Devil's Chord.’
 The sounds had a dissonant and otherworldly quality, and the only time she had
ever heard them used like that, was to represent death or something very bad
happening.  He cleared his throat, his voice utterly calm and sounding bored.  “I’m
calling this one:
Fuck You ALL, I Want to Go Home!
  In the Key of G.  I’m
sending it out to all the stupid sons-a-bitches who picked the wrong goddamn
day to
PISS ME OFF!  …
Feel free to sing along if you know it, Varmit.  Enjoy,
folks!”

He cracked his neck to loosen it up,
and started playing a rollicking jig, tapping his foot in time with the cheerful
beat as it echoed off the confines of the alleyway.  The quick melody got
faster and faster as the song progressed, repeating the simple tune again and
again in rapid succession.  His voice came out, loud and strong.  Almost…enchanting
in its beauty.  Of course, that could just have been because her brain was
dying from lack of oxygen, and she was hallucinating.  In either case, Varmit’s
hands loosened slightly, as he seemed hypnotized by the music as well, and she
found she could breathe easier.