The Ables (28 page)

The commotion seemed so immense that surely Mr. Charles would have heard or felt it by now, even if he’d somehow missed the sound of Finch’s goons digging an enormous cavern. Or one of the other neighbors. Surely someone was calling for help, right?

We’re dead
, I thought.
This is it. What were we thinking?!

Henry thought the same thing.

“You’re going to regret doubting me,” the head demon snarled.

“No! Don’t hurt us!” Henry screamed, falling forward onto the ground, no longer the least bit defiant.

The demon’s voice rang out again. “Thanks for playing, little heroes.” In my mind, Finch was a distant memory. This current enemy resembled him all of zero percent. All six of the fiery figures started closing in. I covered my head with my arms and collapsed in a ball, wishing I could will myself away from this place to somewhere safe.

Just then, a flash of a memory hit me. And I did what I should have done several minutes prior … what any normal kid probably would have done at the first sign of trouble: I called for my mother.

As with every other time I’d tested the tiny metal disc my father had given me in this very cornfield prior to the start of school, Mom appeared almost instantly.

“Oh God,” she screamed as she took in her surroundings. She was startled, but her adrenaline kicked in quickly. She wrapped her arms around me, placed a hand on Henry, and lowered her head. I lost my signal of Henry’s images and got ready to be teleported to safety.

We were going to be saved. Everything was fine now. Mom was going to whisk us away to some warm, safe place, and this living nightmare would end. I was beyond relieved.

Until I realized we weren’t gone yet. Nothing had happened.

“Do you like that, Mrs. Sallinger?” It was Finch—still in fire-demon form but now using his normal voice once again, his doppelganger fire demons encircling us but holding back. “That’s a localized NPZ, controlled by me. And it’s completely dynamic. I can make it as big or as little as I want, and right now, it’s keeping you and your young heroes there from making use of your God-given abilities. At the same time, it’s small enough that I’m allowed to continue using my powers, as you can plainly see.”

Most NPZs were much larger than what Finch was claiming. Only a handful of heroes in recorded history had such focus to allow for zones smaller than a house or a small building. And that must have been why I lost Henry’s images—because he couldn’t send them to me anymore once the zone was established. It was a terrible time to go blind again.

Mother, for her part, was as brave as anyone I’d ever known. She placed her body between the main fire beast—the one that was speaking—and us kids, and told him off as though her powers were fully operational. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! Do you have any clue what kind of town this is, you idiot? What have you got against a couple of children?!”

“Oh, I haven’t got anything against them, ma’am,” he said, his voice now completely back to its original, seductive state. Henry would tell me later that the fire also melted away, and Finch actually resumed his normal appearance, his duplicate monsters disappearing into a mist. “I was just negotiating their silence.”

“Their silence?!” My mother was incredulous.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not quite ready for all my intentions and efforts to be public knowledge. I need them to keep quiet about what they’ve seen here tonight—going to need the same from you at this point, I’m afraid.” He paused slightly. “And I’ve just realized your unexpected appearance has provided me with the perfect way to guarantee what I want.”

I heard a noise I’d never heard before—a loud sustained buzzing sound that lasted for about two or three seconds. When it was done, my mother’s body fell limp to the ground.

“No!” I shouted, not having any idea what had happened but knowing that Finch had just done something terrible to my mother. I fell to her side and shook her arm. “Mom! Mom!” Her body was lifeless. I screamed at him, “What did you do?!”

“Remember, boys,” Finch said evenly, “Mum’s the word.” He cackled as he said it, like he was delivering the world’s greatest punchline. And with a soft
poof
, he disappeared.

The moment was just too much for me. My mom was lying lifeless on the ground, and that’s about all I could manage to get my head around. I threw myself on top of her and began to cry.

In the distance a brilliant blue light approached rapidly, lighting up the sky around us. But I wasn’t paying any attention to that.

Winter came suddenly, with a week-long chill that went straight to the bone. One day it was fifty degrees and the next, twenty. One day we were playing in the yard outside—or pretending to, at least—the next we were lighting a fire in the fireplace.

Dad had always been good about going out early to warm up the car, and I had always been thankful for it. The vents on the dash blew warm gusts of air over my face as we drove. I wasn’t used to riding in the front seat for family outings. In the back seat, the vents are down on the floor, so the air comes up at you from below. In the front seat, though, there are vents everywhere. On the dashboard, under the seat, in the center console. You’re surrounded by a constant blanket of heat from head to toe.

The comforting heat did little to take away the sting of why I was able to ride in the front seat in the first place. We were going to visit Mom.

It had been several weeks since the incident in the cornfield, and though the three of us had managed to form some measure of a new routine, we were far from ready to live without her.

It was hard on Patrick, I could tell. He didn’t speak much at all anymore, and his hyperactivity had totally vanished. He was on autopilot, and it was obvious that Dad was getting worried about him too. If only Patrick knew what had really happened—his shock would be even worse.

Dad seemed to be driving slowly, but it could have just been the traffic. After making this trip several times now, I had the route down cold, but I could never account for other cars on the road. I wondered if maybe it just seemed slower, you know … because.

I mean, all three of us wanted to go, on some level. But none of us really enjoyed it. It’s not easy seeing your mother in a coma.

There’s no way to say this without looking like a jerk, but I can’t tell you how hard it was to go into that room. Every single time. No matter how many times we visited, it never got any easier. I wanted to visit my mother for certain, but it was just … hard.

Henry had accompanied me on an early visit—so that I’d be able to actually see her—and those images would pop up again in my head again every time we went. I had insisted he come, against my father’s advice, because I wanted to be brave. I wish I’d never done that.

Mom lay on her bed as always, motionless and silent. Machines stood guard all around the head of the bed, beeping and whirring. The breathing machine was the worst one, and the sound it made would appear in my nightmares for years. In … and out. In … and out. It was mechanical, droning, and awful.

Dad sat down on the side of the bed and started to talk to her. He usually just told her about our day and what had been going on at home. The doctors said there was a pretty good chance she could hear it, given the unique nature of her condition.

Mom’s coma wasn’t common because it wasn’t natural. It was caused by the use of a super power.

There are powers that, even in our fantastical world, sound so horrible as to seem fictional. Teachers would speak about them in hushed tones, as though someone wielding that power lay just outside the door. There were many of these kinds of powers, and they almost always belonged to terrible people. One man we learned about in Custodian Studies, named Caleb, had the ability to point with his index finger and stop a person’s heart cold.

Finch had used a similar power—called linking—on my mother. It literally gives the user absolute power over their victim’s mind and is most often used to instantly remove their consciousness, resulting in death. As the name implies, it creates a link between the two minds. For reasons that were unknown to me, the doctors, and everyone else, Finch had chosen to keep his link with my mother open, which left her in a state of “linked coma.”

The doctors said there was technically nothing they could do to fix or even sustain her coma. Someday, they said as kindly as they knew how, the man who did this would just decide to sever the link, and she would either die instantly or regain consciousness completely. It all depended on Finch’s whim and his unique power. The “linking” ability was so rare, medical information about its consequences was scarce.

That helped make more sense of the old man’s parting words in the cornfield: “Mum’s the word.” He was buying our silence with my mother’s life. Or implying it. But he had to know by the time he disappeared that our silence alone wouldn’t keep his actions secret.

For our part, Henry and I had said nothing initially. Unfortunately for Finch, there had been more witnesses than just the two of us.

Donnie hadn’t been hurt or killed by Finch; he’d run off on his own and somehow managed to find my father. They arrived—along with a pair of Dad’s buddies from work—just in time to see Finch zap Mom and disappear. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Donnie would do something selfless and heroic in a crisis, but it still kind of did. What I hadn’t expected, though, was Dad’s report that Donnie had moved with unusual speed that night—he was a speedster, like my brother Patrick. That was the flash of blue light behind us, which Dad had seen firsthand as Donnie literally picked up all three men and raced back to the scene. Dad’s exact words were, “I’ve never seen anyone move that fast, Phillip. Never.”

So, in addition to being faster than other kids while just running normally, Donnie was apparently also gifted with the ability to move at super speeds. That was his power.

Mr. Charles had
not
come outside to inspect the commotion because, apparently, he’d sworn to never use his powers again, no matter what. Which, in my mind, changed him from a simple old man to a coward. But even without him, Dad and his partners had seen enough to turn Finch into a wanted man.

Nothing Henry or I said could stop them from talking about what they’d seen. My father told the authorities—his bosses. Patrols around town were doubled. Special scout teams had been dispatched to try and track down the first man to attack Freepoint in over three decades. The rash of kidnappings in the custodian community around the world already had the adults spooked, and this new threat only ramped up the state of alert.

There was no way to stop the story, and soon the whole town knew what had happened to us out there in the cornfield. The fact that many of them now finally believed our earlier story about the library break-in was of little comfort to me.

If Finch really was serious, he would surely follow through on his threat and kill my mother, severing the link, as soon as he learned the story had leaked. But he hadn’t yet. Maybe he hadn’t killed my mother because he knew there’d been other witnesses—maybe he knew we hadn’t been the ones to say anything. Or maybe he just didn’t know exactly how high-profile he’d become in Freepoint.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. We were powerless. Mom was powerless. And it was the worst feeling in the world.

The routines at home continued: family meals, game night, homework, etc. But despite the forced normalcy, everything changed without Mom around. Dad did his best to try and keep us distracted, but it was an impossible task. His footsteps were heavier and slower, and even his words seemed to come at a labored pace. However terribly I felt about Mom’s condition, I had a feeling Dad was taking it even harder.

Finch didn’t just put my mother in a coma, he put my whole darn family in one, and it felt like it would last forever.

***

“I’m still not sure about this,” I said, standing on the sidewalk, certainly looking like the guiltiest kid in history. My hands were shoved in my pockets, and I tried to look casual.

Bentley, on the other hand, didn’t appear the least bit worried about getting caught. He shimmied up one tree and then down the next—he was a pretty good climber for a kid with untrustworthy legs. I guess he used his arms mostly.

“Look, Phillip, I’m telling you it’s not cheating. It can’t be cheating if there aren’t rules being broken.” It was Henry. Once Henry made up his mind about something, he might as well have been standing in superglue.

“I know it’s not against the rules,” I said, “but that’s only because they don’t think any of us are stupid enough to do this.”

“Correction,” came the word from Bentley, ten feet above our heads in a bushy maple. “They don’t think we’re
smart
enough to do this. And I’m sure they don’t think any twelve-year-old has a hundred micro-cameras lying around either.”

Thud
. Bentley landed out of the tree and I heard his three-pronged gait—foot, cane, foot—as he shuffled down to the next tree on the block.

“I just think we’re on pretty thin ice, don’t you? I’m not sure how many more times we can ask this town to forgive us.” My moral center wasn’t completely gone. But I wasn’t even arguing from a place of morality. I was mostly concerned about my Dad and what he’d think about all this. I knew Henry was right—that there wasn’t any rule against it. But I also knew that the nagging feeling in the back of my throat was a sign that, even though there weren’t any regulations, what we were attempting was still somehow … wrong. Or at least it would be perceived that way. After the near-murder of the kindly old school board lady, the first SuperSim story about Finch, and then the cornfield incident, I’d had my fill of being the talk of the town, and I’d only been living here five months.

“We won’t have to ask for forgiveness,” Bentley singsonged from the branches of the next tree down, “because we’re not going to get caught.” He was certainly chipper, and his voice had a light and playful tone.