Crawling From the Wreckage Page 21

  “Only one thing to do about it,” Matt says. “Hole up for the weekend, just the five of us, break out the board games, and eat junk food until we’re so loaded up on grease and sugar and caffeine we turn the bathroom into a Roman vomitorium.”

  “Dude, I was totally with you until the vomitorium,” Stuart says.

  “Yeah, gross,” Missy says.

  “Okay, we’ll exercise a measure of restraint on the junk food binge. Other than that?” Matt says, spreading his hands. “Who’s in?”

  “Absolutely,” Sara says.

  “Yes, please!” Missy chirps.

  “I’m down,” Stuart says.

  “Do I need to ask?” Matt says to me.

  “No. You don’t,” I say with something that feels like real happiness.

  ***

  Jason peels off the final strip of gauze bandage. It went on white. It comes off shot through with pink and yellow. He drops it in the wastebasket with the rest of the old dressings, then carefully teases free the square of gauze covering his right eye. He blinks, but a haze like a dense fog stubbornly remains. His vision in the other, however, is perfectly clear, so he can see just how little his face has healed. The thing staring back at him from the bathroom mirror is worthy of a horror movie villain.

  When he regained consciousness, the loyal lackeys who pulled him to safety insisted on taking him to a hospital. Such severe burns were beyond their meager first-aid skills. He refused, despite the pain, despite the damage. A hospital meant proper treatment and a chance to heal, but it also meant questions and possible exposure, so he opted for a motel room and sterile dressings and generous amounts of antibiotic ointment, reasoning that if he could avoid dying of sepsis long enough to pull a victory out of the ever-widening jaws of defeat, his employer would reward him with a new face.

  The squeal of rust-stained hinges announces his minions’ return. “Did you find them?” he calls out.

  “Not really,” Skadi says.

  “Not really?” Jason’s sudden appearance in the bathroom doorway causes ThunderStorm to recoil in unison. “What do you mean, not really?”

  “We followed the tracking chips in their suits to Stockbridge, near the New York border,” Skadi reports. “We found the armor but not them. They ditched the suits in a dumpster.”

  “Meaning we have no way to track them anymore,” Thunder says, directing his comment to the less disturbing sight of an old yellow stain on the carpet.

  “They’ve been heading west this whole time. Maybe they’re going back to Jersey,” Storm says.

  “A reasonable assumption,” Jason says, the lack of lips causing a slight lisp, “if you overlook the fact New Jersey is more southerly than westerly.”

  “They could be faking us out,” Skadi says. “They lay down a false trail and make a run for Canada while we’re looking at New Jersey or wherever.”

  “I say we should cut our losses and get back to our original mission,” Thunder says.

  “Oh? Is that what you say?” Jason says.

  “I just think —”

  “Look at me, sir. If you’re going to attempt to usurp my authority, at least have the decency to look me in the eye.”

  Thunder swallows. “Jason,” he croaks. “Mr. X. Our mission was to recover the Skyblazer armor and that’s it. Anzo and Tanith aren’t our concern anymore.”

  “I agree,” Storm says, meeting Jason’s gaze with effort. “Without their armor they’re not a threat to us, so why waste time hunting them down?”

  “Because I want them to see what they did to me!” Jason roars, jabbing a red, fleshless finger at what remains of his face. “I want them to see what I’m going to do to them for betraying us!” He rounds on Skadi. “You’ve been rather quiet. Surely you have an opinion?”

  “Plenty of them,” she says with an easy smile. “On the one hand, Siegfried and Roy have some valid points.”

  “Siegfried and Roy?” Storm says. “Really?”

  “On the other, Typhon and Echidna are a couple of loose ends, and I get the distinct impression your boss isn’t the kind of guy who digs loose ends.”

  “No,” Jason says. “He is not.”

  “So, my opinion, since you asked, is that we sit tight and wait.”

  “That’s your brilliant strategy? Sit tight and wait?”

  Skadi shrugs. “We don’t know where anyone is and we have no way to find them.”

  A frustrating truth, Jason concedes. Until one quarry or the other reveals themselves, the hunt is at a standstill — but that doesn’t mean he can’t prepare.

  “Who’re you calling?” Skadi asks.

  “As the old saying goes: a good friend will help you move; a great friend will help you move a body,” Jason says, pulling up on his phone the first on a considerable list of names. “I am fortunate enough to have many great friends.”

  ***

  The morning passes in a state of low-grade anxiety. We sit around the office speculating about the possible fallout from defying Edison after he shoots down our idea — and we’re positive he will shoot it down. Edison’s taken some morally dubious steps in the past in the interest of maintaining the Protectorate’s reputation (such as covering up the King of Pain’s death at Sara’s hands, to cite a particularly relevant example) and our expectation is that his need to keep the team spotless and squeaky-clean in the public eye will win out over doing the right thing.

  I’m sincerely and pleasantly stunned to say that he proves us wrong. Edison calls us back to say he’ll hold a press conference that afternoon and will release everything we have on Vendetta — everything except for Dennis’s involvement, and that’s one secret I’m comfortable keeping.

  I wish I could say Edison searched his soul and came to realize that a little bad publicity is a worthy tradeoff for catching Vendetta. I wish I could say that, but I don’t believe it for a second. More likely, he knew we’d go around him if he stuck to his guns, which would fracture the Squad and the Protectorate on top of creating an even worse publicity nightmare. We’re facing a war on two fronts, and the last thing we need is a schism within our own ranks.

  Or maybe I should say their ranks. Edison ends his phone call with a firm request that I come over to his office right away, and I get the nasty feeling my temporary suspension from the team might not be temporary for much longer.

  ***

  “Come in,” Edison says.

  I bite down on a smart-ass crack about already being in. No need to make this worse than it’s going to be. I cross the office and stand in front of his desk at attention: head up, eyes forward, shoulders back, hands clasped behind me. I know when I’m about to be dressed down, so I might as well play along.

  Edison settles back in his chair, crosses his arms, and levels an icy gaze at me. “Let’s get something straight here,” he says. “There is a chain of command on this team and that chain ends with me. When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it. I don’t give a damn whether you like it, but I do expect you to do what you’re told — and I promise you, if you ever, ever threaten to disobey me again, there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Oh, abundantly,” I say coolly, “but if you want me to follow orders without question, here’s an idea: maybe you shouldn’t give me crap orders.”

  Edison’s complexion turns a lovely shade of red. “Excuse me?”

  “You were ready to bury the Vendetta mess to preserve the Protectorate’s public image. You wanted to put our needs ahead of taking down the bad guys and saving lives and pulling Dennis out before he completely flushes his life down the toilet, and that is total bull—”

  “There’s more at stake here than saving your boyfriend,” he says. “I told you, there’s a bigger picture we need to consider.”

  “You want to look at the big picture? Fine. Here’s a big picture for you: you created Vendetta.”

  “I did what?” Edison sputters.

  “You created Vendetta, through your secrecy and your li
es. This all started because the King of Pain dropped off the radar after hitting us. Faultline and Mentallica thought he’d slipped away yet again and it pushed them over the edge. If they’d known he was dead, if you’d simply gone public with the information instead of burying the truth, they wouldn’t have launched this sick crusade of theirs, more than a dozen people would still be alive, and we wouldn’t be faced with the very real possibility of a super-hero war — and that’s something I don’t think even you can cover up.”

  Edison stands up. It is so on now.

  “Might I remind you, young lady, you were part of that decision,” he says. “We took a vote on how to handle the matter and you voted to keep everything under wraps.”

  “Yeah, I did,” I admit, “but I was wrong. Sara wanted to take responsibility for what she’d done and I should have respected that.”

  “Even though it could have ended with your best friend getting sent to prison for murder? Even though it almost certainly would have compromised your secret identity?”

  “Even though,” I say with iron conviction. “I acted selfishly. I put myself and what I wanted before doing the right thing. So did you. Now look where we are. I refuse to repeat my mistake. If that pisses you off? So be it. You want to punish me for it? You go right ahead. After the year I’ve had, I’m not afraid of anything you can throw at me.”

  Edison lets out a low hiss and pinches the bridge of his nose as if staving off a migraine. “You are such a pain in the ass,” he says.

  “So are you. This isn’t the first time you’ve asked us — or worse, tried to manipulate us — into doing something morally suspect, and every time, you’ve fed us some line about the big picture or priorities or the greater good. I’m starting to think you just don’t care about right or wrong anymore.”

  For the briefest of moments, his expression falters. The mask of righteous indignation he’s worn so comfortably on so many occasions slips. “Of course I care,” he says.

  “Then maybe the problem here is that you and I have different ideas of right and wrong.”

  “Maybe — but I can’t have you undercutting my authority whenever we don’t see eye-to-eye.”

  “And I can’t blindly follow someone I don’t trust.”

  The mask slips a little more.

  “I have to call the press conference,” he says, almost as an apology. “You should suit up.”

  “Suit up? Why?”

  “Because you’re going to be right there with me.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I peek through the door leading into the big Bose Industries conference room. There are reporters and camerapeople here representing all the major Boston media outlets, along with a few folks from southern New Hampshire and Vermont, plus the usual suspects from the Kingsport press. Super-villains and alien terrorists? No big whoop, but the thought of public speaking makes me break out in an anxious sweat. How stupid is that?

  Edison joins me, dressed in his Concorde suit sans the helmet. “Is that new armor?” I ask. The modules on his forearms and legs that house the suit’s maglev tech look smaller, sleeker.

  “Hm? Oh, yes. I finally swallowed my ego and let Gwendolyn upgrade the suit.”

  “Swallowed your ego?”

  “Gwendolyn built the Raptor based on my specs for the Pelican. Because she is who she is, she took every element of my design and made it better, and I didn’t take it well. It was my tech and it galled me that someone else improved on it. She’s been offering for years to upgrade the Concorde armor but, as a matter of pride, I refused.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “The Foreman’s organization is arming criminals with serious firepower. My gut tells me he’s building toward something.” He hesitates. “There’s a war coming. We need to be ready for it.”

  My stomach seizes up — not so much because he says the W-word but because I think he might be right.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I guess so,” I say.

  I slip on my headset and follow Edison in. The room falls quiet as we skirt around the audience of media types and take our place at the head of the room. Edison steps up to the lectern. I fall into position behind him, off to his right so all the cameras can get a clear shot at me — which is when my gnawing anxiety identifies itself. I’ve been in front of the media before but never like this, never when every last person in the room knew who I really was behind the proverbial mask. I feel so exposed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Edison begins. “I’m going to address a very serious situation that’s come to our attention recently — a situation, I regret to say, that should have come to our attention much sooner.”

  He doesn’t hold back; he spills everything about Vendetta. He details their (alleged) crimes. He names names. He accepts the blame for failing to become aware of Vendetta’s activities sooner. The only details he sits on are Dennis’s involvement and what ultimately happened to the King of Pain. I wholeheartedly support redacting that first bit of damning information, but not so much on the second. I hate the deception, but Edison made a decent point: we need to clean up one mess before we make another.

  Dorian Shelley from the Kingsport Chronicle takes advantage of a pause in Edison’s address to slip in a question. “Concorde, what’s your plan for finding and apprehending Vendetta?” he asks.

  “I’m going to let my colleague Lightstorm answer that,” Edison says, stepping aside for me.

  “Why can’t you answer the question? Why are you letting some girl answer?”

  “Real professional, Dorian,” Walt Rivers from the Kingsport Report says.

  “Shut up, Walt.”

  I step up to the lectern and futz with the mic. Deep breath, Carrie. It’s just a room full of normal people who aren’t trying to kill you. You got this.

  “Good afternoon,” I say. No one responds. Okay, fine, be that way. “We can’t divulge our exact strategy for dealing with Vendetta, but we’re honestly hoping to avoid a conflict with them altogether.”

  I look to Edison. When it comes to dispassionate here-are-the-facts speeches Edison is in his element, but he’s ill-equipped to make an emotional appeal to anyone’s humanity. He is, to a fault, a thinker. I’m more of a feeler. That’s why he brought me here.

  He nods.

  “The people we’re calling Vendetta were once respected and revered as heroes, people who selflessly put themselves before others — and I can tell you from personal experience, that is a heavy burden to bear,” I say. “You might wonder how we endure the strain. We endure because we have people in our lives who love us, ground us, lend us strength when our own fails. We cling to these people fiercely because we’re terrified of what might happen if we were to lose that anchor.

  “Those in Vendetta have all experienced that loss, and it broke them. They’re not monsters; they’re good people who lost their anchors, and now they’re adrift. We don’t want to fight them; we want to help them. That’s why we — that’s why I am asking them to turn themselves in. I want to end this peacefully. I want to make this right. I believe those good people are still there. And I’m not giving up on you.”

  “And what will you do if they don’t turn themselves in?” Shelley asks.

  Edison steps forward to field the question, but I answer instead. “Then we will do what’s necessary to safeguard the public, prevent further loss of life, and bring Vendetta to justice. We will do so with great regret, but we will nevertheless do the job the public has entrusted us to do, and we will not let sentiment or sympathy stand in our way.”

  I find one of the TV cameras and stare straight into the lens. The last thing I say, I say directly to Dennis.

  “You still have a chance to do the right thing. Please don’t throw it away.”

  ***

  “I thought your speech the other day was excellent,” Bart says.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Not that it’s done any good. They haven’t turned themselve
s in, obviously, and no one’s spotted them.”

  “It’s only been two days. This might take a while.”

  “I guess.”

  “As with many things, the key is patience.”

  “Speaking of which, thank you for being patient with me. I know I haven’t been the most accommodating...well, patient.”

  “But you’re ready to talk now?”

  “I am,” I say. I spend the next several minutes standing at the very edge of an emotional cliff as I tell Bart everything, ready to fall into that abyss once again. Somehow, I remain standing.

  When I finish, Bart reaches over and takes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Carrie,” he says. I nod a thank-you. “I hate to ask such a cliché question, but how are you feeling?”

  “Like crap,” I say, smiling reflexively. “Not all the time, but a lot of the time.”

  “When you say you feel like crap —”

  “I feel tired a lot. Not sleepy but tired, like I have no energy to do anything — but if I don’t do something to keep my mind occupied, I get super moody and every little thing makes me sad or angry. And even when something happens that should make me happy, sometimes it feels like...I don’t know. Like I’m lying to myself about feeling good.” I smile that empty, humorless smile again. “You know what the really crazy part is?”

  “What?”

  “I’m grateful when I feel anything at all, even when it’s bad. I have these moments when it’s like I go completely dead inside and I’m nothing but a Carrie Hauser-shaped husk pretending to be a person. At least when I’m sad or angry I’m feeling something. I don’t like feeling nothing.”

  I look to Bart and wait for him to impart to me a single piece of advice that will fix everything wrong with me. It’s a foolish hope, I know, but if anyone could do it, it’s him.

  Instead, he lays down some reality. “This isn’t something we’re going to be able to address in a handful of sessions. Depression is a long-term problem that requires a long-term solution, and you have to dedicate yourself to making that solution work,” he says. “It won’t be easy. There will be times when you’ll want to give up and let the depression win. I have faith that you’ll be strong enough to deal with it, but ultimately it won’t be my faith that sees you through; it’ll be your own.”