My hellraising days

Deep Shag - Luscious Jackson

What's this?! Two blog posts from me in one week? Go ahead, you can reel if you want to.

I just went over 100 pages and 27k words in Blackout, and thought I'd drop a few more teaser sections, this time from Chapter 2. This first scene introduces Lionheart, the leader of Just Cause:

In spite of regulations, the team was able to finagle a few training amenities on-site, and it was in the dojo where Faith found Lionheart doing his morning forms. Richard Lyons looked like he was frozen halfway between a transformation between man and lion. Tawny fur covered his dense, powerful muscles, and a magnificent golden mane framed his leonine features as both hair and beard. His nose and jaw protruded forward slightly to give him an even more bestial appearance. Instead of finger and toenails, he had razor-sharp claws, and his teeth were best-suited for tearing flesh. In an earlier age, he might have been hunted as a demon or worshiped as a god, but now he was the leader of Just Cause.

He’d developed his own style of Kung Fu after studying for years with some of the best Chinese masters. He called it, naturally, Lion Style. It complemented his greater-than-human strength and toughness, and incorporated many of the moves which lions themselves used when taking down prey. Faith watched the play of his muscles under his tawny fur as he leaped and spun through the air, carving furrows in the wooden combat dummies around him which had to be replaced weekly because he wore them out so quickly.

Eventually he wound down his routine. The training room air was heavy with the musky scent of his sweat as he swiped a towel from a hook and hung it over his shoulders. He smiled at Faith with a mouthful of sharp fangs. “Early as always, I see.”

She held up a thermos. “I brought you coffee, Rick.”

“My hero,” he said as he took it and unscrewed the top to inhale deeply of the fragrant steam.

She grinned up at him; he towered over her by a foot. “Always in the right place at the right time. That’s me.”

This next scene is from the team's morning conference. If you get a sense that these superheroes might have other priorities besides keeping the peace, you're right.

“Since we’re all here, I call the meeting to order,” said Bobby formally. Side conversations died down as the Just Cause heroes dutifully turned their attention to the team administrator. Lionheart ran the team in the field, but here behind the walls of headquarters, Bobby ran the show. “For those of you who weren’t paying attention, we have a new member joining us today. Her name is Irlene Washington and goes by the moniker Imp. She can fly and shrink herself, objects, and people.”

“Shrinking? What good would that be?” asked Javier as he wrinkled his nose at the coffee.

“I can think of a half dozen useful applications offhand,” said Lionheart thoughtfully. “Crowd control, reducing collateral damage, insurgence and stealth.”

“She’s in the offices, getting her paperwork all in order. Devereaux will bring her in a little while to meet everyone. Faith is going to show her what we do here in Just Cause.”

“Besides partying, you mean?” asked Faith pointedly.

Bobby’s brow wrinkled in consternation. “Yes, there’s that. Maybe we should tone things down a little. Make a good first impression.”

Javier’s snort carried clearly across the room. “It’s Wednesday,” he said as if that were all that mattered.

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Sundancer. “I’ve got extra tickets to the Mets game tonight. Anybody want to join me?”

“Count me in,” said John Stone. “I love baseball.”

“I’ll join you,” said Tommy.

Sundancer smiled. “That’s handled, then. Count us out for poker tonight.”

“May as well have a party, then,” said Javier. “They introduce eligible young ladies at parties, don’t they? We ought to introduce Imp to our adoring public.”

In this next scene, we learn a little more about 13-year-old Harlan, and just how deep his psychopathy really runs:

The sentry turrets looked innocuous, placed around the junkyard in locations where they could cover significant areas. They were tied into the same systems that detected motion and heat, and if the offending intruder didn’t leave the area after a certain number of seconds, the turrets would go into action.

Harlan called them eggbreakers, because he’d once heard someone say you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.

Every so often, he’d find a dead dog or cat out in the open spaces of the junkyard, the victim of an eggbreaker turret. The cleverly-designed devices fired engine block bolts like deadly projectiles, using a propellant which Harlan mixed himself with a half dozen different ingredients including gasoline and talcum powder. It had never occurred to him that what he was doing was wrong. The animals were wrong for trespassing on his territory, and he didn’t even bat an eye when he had to clean up the bloody remains of a shattered animal. To the contrary, he rather enjoyed the vindication of his design.

As he crawled out of the Buick’s trunk, he found a new victim awaiting him. A man lay face-down amid a large bloodstain with one hand outstretched and snagged in the tarpaulin covering Harlan’s giant robot. Flies flew around the man so thickly they might have been a solid cloud, nearly obscuring the man’s tattered and shabby clothing.

Harlan froze as he took in the grisly scene laid out before him. The man might have been a hobo or vagrant. He might have come in over the fence, or even accidentally found Harlan’s secret entrance. Maybe he was looking for something to steal or sell for a few pennies. He’d ignored the warning sounds and gotten a little too curious for his own good. The buzzing of the flies matched the humming in Harlan’s brain. This wasn’t an accident. This was a purpose. This man was dead because Harlan had intended it. It made him feel powerful.

“Got you,” whispered Harlan. “I got you, you fucker.”

This last section details just how frightened Gretchen is of her powers and how much control she really has over them.

She bent to pick up her bag and another hand closed on the handle beside hers. She gasped as she saw a man with greasy black hair flowing out from under a fedora grinning at her. A toothpick rested in the corner of his mouth and a gold tooth gleamed in the morning sunlight.

“Buenas dias, señorita. New in town?” He had an accent kind of like some of the Mexicans who came to work in the fields in Dyersville, but looked both cleaner and, well, slimier than they did.

“That’s my bag,” said Gretchen. Fear arose in her as if someone had turned a spigot. She tugged meekly at it.

“Easy, chica. I didn’t mean anything by it. You look like a lost little lamb, and I’m just a good Samaritan. Do you need a ride somewhere? Someplace to stay?” He looked her up and down like a prospective buyer taking in the lines of a new car. “Something to eat?”

“I’m fine, really. Will you please let go of my bag?” Gretchen tried to keep the terrified shudder out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed.

“Everything okay here, miss?” asked the bus driver as he lit a new cigarette.

“We’re just talkin’,” said the man in the hat. “Ain’t no law against talkin’.”

The bus driver looked at Gretchen, looked at the man with his hand still on her bag, and apparently decided not to get involved further, for he shrugged and walked away.

“Please,” whispered Gretchen. “Please let go.”

“What you so afraid of, sweetmeat? I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m just tryin’ to be nice. Now why don’t you come with me and we’ll get a sandwich and talk about it.” He lifted the bag.

“Please don’t.” Tears spilled down Gretchen’s face. She hadn’t been in New York a minute and here she was already about to get mugged. This was the kind of thing that her parents had shaken their heads at over the dinner table. Big cities were full of people like this man here, always looking to prey on the helpless. Pimps, muggers, serial killers.

The power leaped out of Gretchen, unbidden. “No!” she yelped as it sought a target and centered on the greasy-haired man. She wouldn’t kill again. She steered it aside at the last moment. Each tire along the side of the bus facing her crumpled and imploded sequentially. The Greyhound bus shuddered and lurched as it lost its support. The power wasn’t finished yet, and Gretchen gasped as a softball-sized sphere of air somewhere inside the bus cabin vanished into nothingness. The resultant blast of thunder shattered every window in the bus. People yelled in surprise and belatedly clapped their hands to their ears.

Hope you enjoyed the sneak peeks!