Heroic Measures (continued)

His vision began to blur. Objects that had been unnaturally sharp and vivid lost their definition, becoming hazy clouds of color. The boundaries of his body felt swollen and indistinct. Every one of his senses felt not so much overloaded as oddly muffled, as if layers and layers of something lay between them the sensations that he was experiencing.

“And . . . now.”

Benny’s voice was clear in his head, although even it too seemed faintly muffled.

Walter saw more than felt copper-white radiance erupt from his body. It glowed along the spine of the antenna and then flowed outward, traveling along the paths provided by the lightning-fed energy surges. On the adjacent rooftops, Walter saw bright flashes that he guessed were the other antenna devices being destroyed. The sound of their explosions was lost among the thunder.

He did not know how long he remained that way, his fingers wrapped like talons around the slender antenna post. Slowly, though, normal sensations began to return to him. He ached all over; even his scalp stung as if it had been seared. Weakness and vertigo washed over him. He felt drained, barely able to stand. Staggering, he found that his hands remained frozen in place around the antenna.

At first, he feared that they had been fused there by the energy that had flowed through them. When he tried to flex his fingers, though, they moved freely. He stopped their movement instantly though, for the agony that shot through them transcended any writing cramp he had ever experienced.

Thunder boomed in the distance and Walter began to wonder just how long he had stood there, motionless, while the energy flowed from him to destroy every nearby transmitter.

“The storm . . . has passed.”

Benny’s voice sounded oddly distracted, as if his attention was no longer solely with his father.

“You may remove your hands now.”

“I’m trying,” Walter responded aloud through gritted teeth.

He heard Benny chuckle sympathetically in his mind. The muscles within his fingers relaxed, released their hold on the antenna. If there was pain involved, Walter did not feel it. He silently offered Benny thanks on the chance that he was suppressing it.

His hands were just free of the device when a final arc passed between them and the antenna. For an instant, absolute silence filled Walter’s world. And then the antenna assembly exploded before him.

Walter had no memory of any flash from the explosion. He remembered the feel of gravel as it abraded his back as he was skidded across the rooftop. Things within his body snapped as he was slammed against the concrete barrier at its rim. He was grateful in that moment that it was there, knowing that he would have tumbled over the edge, most likely not surviving the fall to the street below.

The fall, yes . . . he considered wryly. But probably not the impact.

He lay there, broken against the tiny wall. His mind remained alert, but nothing worked. Every effort he made failed to result in the movement of any of his limbs.

“That was unexpected.”

Walter found it difficult to argue with that statement, but could find no strength to summon in order to offer a response.

“Dad . . . ?”

I’m still here . . . I think. Even his thoughts sounded weak to him.

Something like relief flowed across his mind.

“I have sent for help,” Benny said. “They are coming.”

An uncertain tremor echoed through his voice.

Walter realized that he felt nothing: no pain, no sense of anticipation—not even a faint sense of pride and accomplishment that he and his son—his son—had destroyed the brain-tearing devices. Walter tried to imagine the remaining heroes, now freed from the crippling effects of the transmitters, on the streets below ripping through the enemy forces. He tried . . . and failed, unable to find the energy to construct the mental collage.

Where almost unbearable light had been only a few minutes before, darkness now crept in along the edges of Walter’s vision.

“Dad . . .”

The edges of objects were turning fuzzy again. Instead of a haze of color, it was all becoming gray.

“Stay with me, Dad . . .” Benny’s voice held a strong note of pleading.

Walter closed his eyes, although not certain whether he had actually done so or that his world had simply gone dark.

Abby—your mother would be pleased.

“Dad.”

Tired, Benny. Need to rest. It’s been a long day.

“Dad . . . stay . . . here . . .”

I love you, son.