Crawling From the Wreckage Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Bailey

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN: 9781795847841

  AISN: B07QFFBTJZ

  Michael Bailey/Innsmouth Look Publishing

  www.innsmouthlook.com

  Cover illustrations Copyright © 2019 by Patricia Lupien

  Cover design by Patricia Lupien

  Print edition production by Amazon Kindle Direct Press

  Edited by Julie Tremblay

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  PART ONE: LONG WAY HOME

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  PART TWO: WITH GREAT VENGEANCE AND FURIOUS ANGER

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also by Michael C. Bailey

  PART ONE: LONG WAY HOME

  My name is Caroline Dakota Hauser. On Earth (yes, this is an important detail), most people know me as Carrie. A few know me by the name Lightstorm, but no one has called me that in a while (for reasons that will become clear in a minute).

  More recently I’ve come to be known by the nickname “Fargirl,” or by my shiny new title of lieutenant, both of which I earned as a member of the Vanguard, an intergalactic peacekeeping force under the command of the Kyros Alliance. Think of the Alliance as a sort of cosmic United Nations representing worlds spread across the other side of what we Terrans call the Milky Way. As a Vanguardian, I’ve experienced incredible things I could never put into words. I’ve seen stars and planets and nebulae and stellar phenomena humans don’t even know exist, much less have names for. I’ve flown through deep space and given physics the finger by warping across the galaxy in the blink of an eye. I’ve met beings from hundreds of distant, alien worlds. And I played a small but pivotal role in bringing down the Black End, a terrorist army hell-bent on destroying those worlds.

  I’ve experienced incredible things.

  The question is, was it all worth losing eight months of my life?

  ONE

  “Carrie, it’s August. You’ve been gone for eight months.”

  Sara’s revelation hits me like a fist to the stomach. I teeter back on my heels, my head spinning. She tightens her grip on my shoulder to steady me.

  “Eight...?” I manage, but that’s as far as I get. What could I possibly say? I know I’ve been gone for a long time, but eight months?

  “Lieutenant? Are you all right?” Commander Dorr asks, a faint note of concern hiding in his flat, emotionless voice.

  “I’m — I need a minute,” I say, pulling free of Sara’s grasp and shuffling away from what was a few minutes ago a battleground. I returned to Earth in time to help my team, the Hero Squad, put down a super-villain gang, and it was like I landed in the middle of the best welcome-home party I could have imagined. How twisted is that? Standing alongside my friends, fighting for our lives against a bunch of superhuman whack-jobs — that’s what my concept of normal has become.

  “Lieutenant,” Dorr says, joining me.

  “Commander, I really need you to back off,” I say.

  Commander Dorr, by human standards, lacks certain social graces. He’s blunt to a fault, stingy with his sympathy, and has no problem stepping on people’s toes in the interest of getting the job done, so I shouldn’t be surprised that his response to my request is a flat-out, “No.”

  “No?”

  “I outrank you, therefore you lack the authority to dismiss me.”

  “Oh my God, seriously? You’re going to pull rank on me now? After I found out I’ve lost eight months of my life?”

  “You did not lose eight months of your life; you chose to dedicate them to the Vanguard. As did I. As did every last one of your comrades. You haven’t made a unique sacrifice, Lieutenant Hauser. Nor have you made the ultimate sacrifice.” He leans in, looming over me. “You got to return home. How many of your friends cannot say the same?”

  A cold fist grabs my heart and squeezes. He’s right, damn him. I’m home. I’m with my friends. I can pick up where I left off. It won’t be easy, but I have the chance to reclaim my life. Zqurrl can’t say that. Pardo-En and Grafton Grun can’t say that.

  Erisia can’t say that.

  “Don’t you ever get sick of being right all the time?” I say.

  “No,” Dorr says. I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a gray, empty sound. “If I am no longer needed?”

  “I think I can handle things from here.” I straighten up and extend a hand. “Commander, it’s been an honor.”

  Dorr grasps my hand briefly, his version of a handshake. “The honor was mine, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  Dorr narrows his eyes at me, and I swear I see a teeny-tiny smirk appear on his scaly lips. He nods a goodbye to me, powers up, and takes off. I watch him until he’s nothing but a pinpoint of light high in the summer sky, and for a few minutes after that.

  Sara appears at my side. “You are back, aren’t you?” she says. “For good?”

  “I’m...I’m back-ish,” I say. “I won’t be making any more unannounced departures, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good enough.” She takes my hand. “I missed you so much. We all did.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Sara takes me in her arms and holds on to me like she’s scared I’m going to vanish again, despite my promise. Guess I can’t blame her.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I insist.

  “You better not,” Sara says, laughing. “You helped us take out the Landsharks, that means you have to help with the cleanup.”

  “The Landsharks?”

  “Hey, we don’t name them; we just kick their tails and ship them off to Byrne. Come on.”

  I rejoin the team — my team, which has a stranger in their midst, someone in a blue-and-white battlesuit that bears a more than passing resemblance to Concorde’s.

  Matt catches me eyeing the new guy. “This is Skyblazer,” Matt says.

  “Hi,” Skyblazer says with a small wave.

  I force a smile. “Hi. So, what?” I say, turning to Matt. “Is he my fill-in or something?”

  “He’s part of a local super-team, the Wardens,” Sara says. “We work together on occasion.”

  “Ah.”

  The wail of sirens heralds the approach of the New Hampshire State Police. Half a dozen black-and-gray cruisers come roaring up the highway and screech to a stop at the edge of the hot zone. Minutes later, a familiar sense of controlled chaos settles on the scene as the Landsharks and their gun-toting associates
(who call themselves, no lie, Remoras) are rounded up, stripped of their weaponry, handcuffed, and, where applicable, fitted with suppression collars that neutralize any natural superhuman abilities. The police sit the prisoners down against the cruisers and stand watch over them, shotguns cradled in their arms to dissuade any thoughts of escape. Matt takes point on filling the police in on the events leading up to the takedown, and as he goes over the events of the day, it hits me that his mask is tilted up to expose his face. He’s not even trying to hide his true identity. And he isn’t wearing his magic gloves, either; leather gauntlets cover his hands and forearms instead. What’s that about?

  And what’s up with the Pelican’s new, sleeker profile? It looks more like the Quantum Quintet’s Raptor now, and I’m pretty sure I see a missile launcher array mounted on its fuselage, right above the cargo bay doors and just below the broad disc that houses the airship’s maglev system. Maybe Concorde decided it was time for an upgrade?

  Speaking of things tangentially Concorde-related...

  “Hey,” Skyblazer says, snapping me out of my mild daze.

  “Hey.”

  “So, uh, you were really in outer space?”

  “I was.”

  “And you met aliens? Honest-to-God extraterrestrials?”

  “You mean like the one who flew off a few minutes ago?”

  “Uh...yeah...”

  “Uh-huh. Thousands of them.”

  “Wow. I’m jealous. That all sounds so cool.”

  “Oh, yeah, it was,” I say, my voice tight. “I mean, once you get past the staggering body count.”

  “The what?”

  “Oh, did the Squad forget to mention that? I was in outer space meeting all kinds of cool aliens because I’d been recruited to fight a war, so I saw lots and lots of death and destruction. That kind of took the fun out of things, you know?”

  “Oh. Um,” Skyblazer mumbles. That’s right, Concorde Lite, slink away.

  “Don’t you think that was a little harsh?” Sara says.

  “He asked,” I say, barely reining in the impulse to snap at her for eavesdropping.

  “Was it really that bad?”

  “Worse.” Sara lays a hand on my shoulder, and that’s when I become aware that my entire body has clenched into a giant, solid knot of rigid muscle. Someone could smash a chair over my back, and I wouldn’t feel it. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Okay. You don’t have to.” Sara smiles. “You know what? I think you should let us take care of the cleanup and go see your mom, let her know you’re back. She’s been worried sick about you.”

  She doesn’t mean it as an admonition, but that’s how it lands — and she’s right. As weirdly therapeutic as fighting bad guys and cleaning up the mess afterwards is, I have to prioritize and take care of what’s really important first, even if it scares the living hell out of me. I’d rather fight the Black End again all by myself than face Mom after what I’ve put her through.

  “What day is it?” I ask. “Is she home? Is she at work? Is she out somewhere with Ben?”

  An expression I can’t quite identify flashes across Sara’s face. “It’s Tuesday. She’s at work.”

  “Call her. Tell her to go to the roof of her building.”

  “I’ll take care of it. See you at home.”

  I fire up my headset, lay in a course for Boston, and blast off to take what’s going to be the first and most difficult step toward getting my life back on track.

  ***

  At Mach one, it takes me a little more than five minutes to fly from the outskirts of Manchester, New Hampshire to Boston, but that’s more than enough time to envision a dozen different mother-daughter reunion scenarios. Some start more happily than others, but all of them end with Mom screaming me stupid for disappearing like I did.

  I’d deserve it. I took off without a word of warning, literally vanishing from the face of the Earth, and left her wondering for the better part of a year whether I was alive or dead and if I’d ever come back — and that’s on top of leaving her to deal with the out-of-left-field shocker that I had a whole secret life as a super-hero. I dumped a butt-ton of misery on her. She’s earned the right to tear me a new one — and if she does, I swear to God I will stand there and take it and be grateful for every last air-scorching profanity she throws at me because it means I’m alive to hear it.

  My onboard GPS guides me to Mom’s office building, a ten-story deal in the heart of the city. I touch down on the roof and wait, passing the time alternately pacing in circles and trying out different poses, as if there’s a certain specific way one is supposed to stand when greeting a loved one following an extended absence. There isn’t, for the record — nor is there a perfect greeting for such an occasion. What could I possibly say to her that will explain my decision or excuse what I did? Everything I try out feels so pathetically —

  “Carrie?”

  The sound of her voice sets my heart racing and causes my stomach to fold in on itself.

  Mom looks very smart and oh so fashionable in her dark blue suit jacket and matching skirt, but any sense of professionalism and dignity falls apart when I reach the slack-jawed, pop-eyed look of pure shock on her face. I fumble my headset off and stick it in a pouch on my belt. I try to speak, but whatever I was going to say, whatever stupid, inadequate greeting I had ready catches in my throat and comes out as a strangled sob. The next thing I know we’re in each other’s arms, both of us bawling. She’s holding me so tightly, tighter than she’s ever held me before. Her fingernails dig into my back, like she’s hooking herself into my flesh in case something tries to take me away from her again.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. It comes out as a thin, hoarse squeak. “Mom, I’m so sorry...”

  “Shh,” Mom says. “It’s okay, baby. I don’t care. I don’t care.”

  I step back — or, more accurately, Mom lets me step back — and take Mom in. In the high summer sun, every last little wrinkle and crease stands out in sharp relief. I see early hints of crow’s feet lurking near her eyes and laugh lines that, at the moment, have absolutely no laughter behind them. For the first time in my life I think, My God, Mom looks old, and my heart breaks all over again.

  “You should care,” I say. “You should care that I left you and I hurt you and I’m a miserable excuse for a daughter —”

  Mom takes my face in her hands and, somehow, musters a smile for me. “I don’t care. You’re back now. That’s all that matters.”

  I drag my sleeve across my face, sponging up a waterfall’s worth of tears. “I’m still sorry.”

  “I know. I know you are.” She looks me up and down. “New uniform.”

  “Vanguard standard issue.”

  “It looks good on you. I like it better than the old outfit, personally.”

  “You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”

  “I’ve had time to acclimate.”

  “Yeah. Eight months.” I start to cry again. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  “Carrie, it’s okay. I know you are.” She takes my hands. “We can worry about apologies and explanations later. Let’s just be happy you’re back, okay?” Her smile flickers. “You are back, aren’t you? You’re never going to go away again?”

  “I’m not,” I say, a fresh lump of guilt settling in my belly. Way to go, Carrie. It took you, what, ten whole minutes to start lying to your mother again? Good hustle, kid.

  “Come on,” Mom says, leading me toward the stairway leading down into the building. “Let’s go tell my boss I’m leaving early so we can go home and get you settled back in.”

  “Uh, Mom? Maybe I should fly ahead and meet you at home.” She gives me a questioning look. “Come on, I can’t follow you around your office dressed like this. I know it’s not my old uniform but I think it’s close enough it might set off a few alarms, don’t you?”

  “Oh. You don’t know,” she says, and an anxious tingle slithers thro
ugh me.

  “I don’t know what? Mom? What don’t I know?”

  “Carrie, I’m so sorry. You don’t have a secret identity anymore,” she says, wincing, and before I can even begin to recover from that news bomb, she detonates another one. “And it’s my fault.”

  TWO

  “I don’t — you — what?” I stammer. “How do I — your fault? What?!”

  “Honey, calm down,” Mom says, patting the air, “it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay? It is not okay, Mom! You just told me I don’t have a secret identity anymore! Do you have an idea how bad this is?”

  “Carrie, no one has a secret identity anymore.”

  I freeze up, the indignant, panicked rant I had locked and loaded now jammed in the chamber of my brain. It was a good rant, too, all about the importance of secrecy and discretion in the super-hero community — which, it seems, is no longer a thing.

  Mom amends her statement. “All right, a few people do still have secret identities, but most super-heroes dropped them not long after you left. The entire Squad went public. So did Edison Bose. In fact, it was his announcement that inspired other super-heroes to go public.”

  “Uh-huh. Now would you like to tell me the part about how this is all your fault?” I say, rebuilding my head of righteously indignant steam.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in on the way home, I promise. Come on.”

  She heads downstairs. It takes me a few seconds to convince my feet to follow her.

  ***

  Mom works for VMA — short for Visionary Marketing and Advertising, which is (duh) a marketing and advertising agency. It’s a nice, upscale firm that occupies two whole floors of the building. We descend to lucky floor number seven, where we step off the elevator and into a big cubicle farm. It’s nice and bright and clean and modern, but it’s still a bunch of stalls for human cattle. The partition walls are low to create a faux open-office environment, which is a nice way of saying no one who isn’t an executive gets any privacy. As we cross the office, a few of Mom’s coworkers look at me with mild curiosity, but most of them don’t give a crap; after a passing glance my way, they go right back to work. I should find that comforting.