Heroic Measures (continued)

He was swiftly caught up in the chaos. He was able to fend off all but the most determined of the dark-clad beings by generating a recurring electrical field around his body. Unless they slipped in during the few moments when the barrier was recharging, most were either repelled or stunned by the charge.

A handful of them got through, but Walter was able to dispatch all but one of them with a bolt directed somewhere in the direction of their chests. The one who actually managed to get a hold of him fared far worse than his fellows, for he caught the full force of the charge as it left Walter’s body. From the force in which it was ejected from him, Walter guessed that a protective pulse must have fired at the same instant. He doubted that particular assailant would be rising again any time soon.

Once freed from his immediate attackers, Walter alternated firing his bolts between distracting the figures attacking the heroes and the swopping and aircraft. One of the latter spun almost directly downward, smashing down toward the edge of the crowd. Walter silently prayed that no one had been hurt as a result, but that prayer was the only thing he could spare before the next wave of enemies attacked.

It was clear to him that the heroes were outnumbered. While their dark-clad adversaries did not appear to be particularly shrewd in combat, it became clear that they were neither foolish nor stupid. More than a rudimentary intelligence was present in their skulls—assuming that was, indeed, where their brains were kept. He witnessed little in the way of strategic assaults; most of it appeared to be barely directed aggression. Effective, he noted, but not particularly efficient.

I guess you can do that when you have overwhelming numbers, he mused sourly as he incapacitated another one of the enemy beings.

He was growing tired. His previous exertion and stress, combined with his current adrenaline-fueled activity, were taking their toll. Each new blast required more and more effort. Even with the charged atmosphere around him, he found it increasingly difficult to generate an effective charge. His need rest—and soon—something that his enemies did not appear to require.

Okay, that’s just a bit cliché, he decided, using only the lagging physical strength of his arm to knock aside his next assailant.

A sudden hush fell over the mob. It felt like one of those awkward silences that can occur during a party, when all conversations reach a natural pause at once, but extended to a far greater scale. It was undeniably eerie and Walter felt cold sweat trickle down along his spine. Even the dark-clad figures remained still.

Walter looked up. The swarms of the aircraft, for the first time that evening, appeared to gather in a recognizable formation: all pointed in the direction of the crowd. They hovered there in position, as if staring down the heroes to see how might blink first.

The heroes did—after a fashion.

“Withdraw!” Westin’s voice screamed in Walter’s headset. “Withdraw! Regroup at Grid Del—“

The rest of the orders were drowned out by cries of confusion and frustration from both sides. Heroes attempted to push past the hordes and dark beings, a few of them deciding to dispatch as many of them as possible as they did so. Walter restrained himself in that regard, but did feel a warm tingle of satisfaction when he was forced to immobilize one who persisted in blocking his path.

He followed the crowd, assuming that at least some of them heard Westin’s orders fully. The interference had returned, creating a steady hiss like a deflating playground ball in Walter’s ears. Above him, the craft approached, picking up speed as they came. Even before they passed overheard, Walter felt the white-hot agony begin to return.

Staggering onward, almost completely blinded by the intense illumination in his mind, he had no idea whether he stumbled over fellow heroes and dark-dressed enemies. It was all he could do to keep moving, to not drop to his knees and surrender to the pain.

A flash of bright red pierced through his awareness. He tried to focus on it, but his eyes kept darting away, unable to fix themselves on that single location.

Red?

Unable to see the figure as more than a wavering blur, Walter could not tell.

“Walt?”

The volce, faint but familiar, penetrated the bright haze in his mind. Now, he was certain.

Walter turned in the direction of the sound, convincing his eyes to at least remain on the red-shaded blur rather than on a particular spot on it. It came nearer, until it nearly filled his field of vision. A hand rested on his shoulder, although he could barely feel it.

“Walt,” Red said again. His voice sounded flat.

Walter tried to manage a smile, not at all certain whether or not he had managed to accomplish the feat.

“Here,” Red offered. His voice sounded distant, but clear.

Red reached over and adjusted something on Walter’s headset. The haze began to fade from his mind. It was still present, but it seemed translucent now. He could make out shapes more clearly now, but few details. That it was Red’s face mere inches from his, though, he had no doubt. His friend smiled and Walter instantly felt much better.

“It’s not much,” Red said, frowning unhappily. “But it seemed to help some people some.”

Walter nodded.

Red’s relaxed a bit, but only slightly.

“Where’s Vivian?” Walter asked, surprised at how faint and hoarse his voice sounded.

Red’s head rose and he nodded toward the far end of the retreating crowd.

“Over there,” he said. “She’s fine.”

He looked Walter over for the first time.

“Better than you, I think.” His frown returned. “What happened?”

Walter shook his head, lacking either the energy or desire to recount the tale right then. Red looked as he if might persist, but then nodded and then Walter’s arm.

“Let’s get you out of here too.”