Heroic Measures (continued)

Both men stood silently, traveling along the pathways of their own thoughts.

I’ll do what I can for the boys, Abby, Walter promised her. I wish you were still here.

The overheard speaker crackled, distracting him before he would fall deeper into melancholy.

“This is it,” Westin’s voice called out, sounding hollow and distant. “Everyone head to your posts.”

He had volunteered to remain at the institute, choosing to coordinate the information flow from there, leaving Harrison to lead the forces from the street. Walter could not decide just how brave he was, staying in a location clear of the main fight, yet remaining somewhere that was just as likely to be blasted into piles of rubble at some early point in the conflict.

“You have your assignment?”

Walter turned at the sound of Red’s voice. He nodded.

“Grid Twenty-Three Gamma.”

Red’s head nodded slowly. “Eighteen Beta.”

Walter tried to remember the marking on the tactical map they had all studied during the countless briefings.

About three and half blocks apart.

Red’s position, he also knew, was also far closer to the expected front line of the attack. No one really expected there to be a single front for long, once the assault began, but in all6 likelihood Red would see action before he did.

Red held out his yellow-gloved hand. “Good luck, Walt.”

Walter took it had gripped it firmly, probably clinging to it longer than was necessary. Red probably noticed, but let it last as long as Walter needed it to.

“You too, Red.”

Red flashed him a bright, almost jaunty smile before pulling his hood on tight over his head. He snapped his visor into place, motioned to Walter with a quick two-fingered wave, and then turned away, heading for the south exit.

Walter checked the gauges of each of the two small power packs: both read at full charge. He snapped each into its slot along the inner edge of each boot, just above the ankle. They would power the small jets embedded in the heels of each boot. He would not be soaring across the skies, as some heroes were able to do, but they would allow him to reach and cross rooftops with relative ease.

Pulling his own hood into place, he left his protective goggles tucked into their pouch on his equipment belt. He would put them one once he was in position. For now, he wanted nothing that might obscure his vision.

As the crowd inside the gymnasium cleared out, he could more clearly hear the sound of the helicopters waiting outside to take him, and other less air-mobile heroes, to their assigned positions throughout the city. He hoped for a glimpse of Vivian or Isabel as he crossed the asphalt courts but, although he saw many female heroes sprinting for their respective forms of transportation, spied neither of them.

That actually makes sense for Isabel, he realized. She’s probably been assigned to a medical team. She’ll go where and when she’s needed.

He silently prayed that her presence would not be required much.

The growing wind gusted against him as he ran toward the waiting aircraft. It was augmented by the draft created by the helicopter blades. He hunched down, leaning into it, feeling all the while like an ill-prepared extra on a movie set.

Climbing into the cabin, he took a seat on the padded bench just inside it, adjacent to the door. Except for the instrument lights of the cockpit, the interior was unlit. The other heroes seated with him were shadows; not even the reflected lights from outside was enough to reveal their identities to him. A few of the heads might have turned in his direction, but he was not certain. None of them appeared to say anything to him. He doubted that he could have heard them if they had.

He heard shouts, barely recognizable over the clattering whirr of the rotor blades. The helicopter tilted slightly and then began to rise. Walter swallowed hard against the solid lump in his throat as they moved off into the night

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter pulled on his own gloves, flexing his fingers to better align the thick filaments within them. He snapped the wristbands closed, completing the circuit that run through his entire suit. Around him, the other heroes were in similar stages of completing their preparations.

There was surprisingly little conversation. Small pockets of discussion erupted here and there among grouped sets of heroes, but the ambient hum of banter was missing. Walter took that as a bad sign. It meant that most of the heroes were focused on their own thoughts and concerns, not participating in the humorous and boastful exchanges that helped to build morale . . . or esprit de corps, Walter remembered it being called.

Glancing around the room, Walter wondered where Vivian was and how she was handling it. Despite the purportedly more enlightened standards of gender equality, they had chosen to segregate the men and women into separate spaces. It was, Walter suspected, more a nod to personal modesty than any digression in social standards. Some individuals just felt uncomfortable undressing in the company of the opposite sex, regardless of the necessities of the situation.

Walter could understand that. It was a school-age dread that he had never truly outgrown. He had learned, over the years, to cope with it by forcing himself to focus on other matters during the moments of dressing and undressing, trying to think that other men in the room might be assessing the size and quality of his genital parts. It would have been far worse, he had finally decided, to be subject to the same public consideration by women and found wanting.

Not that any of them had ever complained . . .

The thought of seeing Valerie naked terrified him. She was an imposing enough figure as it was, and had to be in order to support the armor that she wore. From what he had heard, her sexual appetites were not limited to men—or women, if the rumors were to be believed—of a similar stature. In fact, she appeared to prefer partners with somewhat less body mass than herself, leading to a half-formed mental picture that just serve to further Walter’s anxiety in that direction.

Even under these conditions, the prospect of witnessing Vivian, or even Isabel, in even just her underwear would likely provide a mental distraction later that he did not need. Such images tended to crop up at awkward moments, and he did not need any of those during the hours to come.

It might give me something to live for, though, he thought wryly and without humor.

“Who is she?”

Red’s voice cut through his reverie. Walter felt his cheeks prickle with warmth. In answer, he just stared back at Red dumbly.

Red shrugged, although with a bright spark of amusement in his eyes. “It’s not uncommon,” he said. “Men often go off into battle with women on their mind. I think it’s some kind of survival mechanism.”

Walter continued to stare at Red. His friend and fellow hero was completely dressed now, clad in his bright red suit with equally vibrant yellow boots and gloves. His protective visor dangled from one hand.

“Two of them, actually,” Walter admitted sheepishly, his voice quiet as not to be overheard.

Red’s eyebrows rose with approval and he smiled. “Nice,” he said, nodding slightly. His gaze moved across the others in the room. “A little kinky, but nice.”

His eyes returned to Walter.

“I always knew you had it in you,” he added, giving Walter a quick wink.

Walter felt his cheeks growing warm again and looked away. This was not what he wanted remembered about him in what might his final hours.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter pulled on his second boot, surprised at how flexible it was, despite its metal coating. It still felt like a boot when he hefted it, though. That part he found reassuring, knowing that something more substantial than a thin film of metallic alloy protected his legs and feet from danger.

Locking the thick straps into place, he felt it tighten around his calves. It fit snugly, but did not feel overly tight. Walter rose, placing his weight on both of the boots. Wiggling his toes experimentally, he discovered that there appeared to be ample room.

At least I probably won’t be returning with blisters . . .

He pushed aside any thoughts that reminded him that there was a high likelihood that he would not be returning from what was about to come.

Walter looked around the space that had been converted into a makeshift locker room. It normally served as a high school gymnasium, but was now one of the centers of operations for Raynes’ forces. Using this space had been a necessary breach of security, for there had not been an equivalent space large enough outside the institute. The institute had many possible areas large enough, but Raynes had ordered an evacuation of all but absolutely essential personnel, believing it to be one of the first strategic targets that Dark Matter would hit.

He marveled at that profusion of colors around him. Only a few paces away, Red stood sealing the seams of his bright red outfit. The yellow and orange emblem of a blazing sun on the center of his chest shone as if real. Finished with the seams, he pulled on his long yellow gloves. His thoughts seemed elsewhere, as he never looked away toward anyone else.

There were other red outfits scattered through the room, nearly all of them different hues and shades so that no two appeared to be exactly the same. Black seemed to be popular, preferred for its camouflaging abilities at night and in dark environments. Tonight, though, many of the dark-clad heroes appeared to be forgoing stealth in favor of symbolism and camaraderie. Several had adopted bright emblems that in some way represented their hero names. Some Walter could not decipher, at least not in the distance from he stood from them. The guessing game was a good distraction, though, taking his mind away from the fear growing like a malignant force within it.

By comparison, he felt somewhat drab in his midnight blue outfit, even with the steel blue lightning bolts that had been added. One ran down along the length of each arm and the outside of each of his legs. They had seemed too garish to him at first, but now felt subdued next to the flamboyant colors of some of the other outfits.

They had still not seen the forces that they expected Dark Matter to bring to bear upon the city that night. Their presence and movements, if any, had so far escaped detection. Although no one had spied them, Walter had built a mental image of them in his mind. They would all be dressed in black, with dark helmets and weapons, all exactly the same—disposable minions.

That’s how it was in almost all the movies, anyway.

His guess was as good as anyone else’s at this point.

Logic told the heroes that a large number of these forces must exist—however they might be dressed—that the few dozen individual villains known to them would not be sufficient to produce more than an annoyance to the city’s populace—even with the activation of the mind-crippling devices.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It helped. The empty space with his abdomen seemed to shrink. It would not last, he knew, but it comforted him for now.

Just one, he instructed himself. Just one. More than that would not help, he knew, and would probably make it even worse.

He leaned back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the darkly polished table before him. What they saw there, reflected in the amber-yellow light, was another table from another place, at another time.

The candlelight flickered before them in the dim light of the restaurant. He had saved for more than two months for this evening: preparing his own lunches, watching the sales more carefully, clipping an uncounted number of coupons . . . even cutting out the scotch. It had been worth it already, even before they had arrived, by the astonished look in Abigail’s eyes when he had presented her with the theater tickets and a handwritten note with the dinner reservations.

She stared back at him with bright eyes. He smiled, remembering how she had cradled the tickets in her hands, as if they were crafted from a precious metal or the finest crystal. He had never been particularly fond of live theater, preferring motion pictures instead. The difference really was not all that great, he had decided once, but that rationalization had not really helped to increase his appreciation for the stage.

It had not been about he had wanted, though. It was what she wanted—what she deserved. After spending ten years by his side, bearing him two fine sons, she was still the lifelong companion that he could not imagine ever being without. Ten years had not changed that for him.

She had reached across that table then, to softly touch his hands. Her fingertips, smooth and supple, brushed along the fine hairs along the back of his hands, sending a tingle up along his forearms that he felt even in the hairs along the back of his neck.

Walter opened his eyes and he was alone at the table. The chair across from him was empty, as it would be now for forever more.

She never really liked this place anyway . . .

He had brought her here a few times, but she always seemed uncomfortable, as if she was somehow intruding on sacred ground. He had tried to reassure her, but she never quite managed to be easy when they were there together. Eventually, he had stopped trying, even considering no longer coming himself. She had told him, though, that she did not mind if he continued his visits, In fact, she had appeared to be glad for him, pleased that he had this small ritual of his own. He had guessed that, in a way, it was not all that different from her weekly manicures. It was one of the few ways in which she indulged herself. This was, he surmised, her way of giving him the same.

He sipped once again at the scotch, hearing the ice chime against the glass. Diluted now, it burned even less as it went down past his tongue and into his throat. He found the sensations surprisingly reassuring. He had feared that his life might lose its flavor now that Abigail was no longer in it. The flavors of the scotch told him otherwise.

Turning toward the window, Walter watched as man struggled to retain his hat, telling him that the wind had picked up. It did not appear to be raining yet, but the steel-gray cast to the air told him that it was imminent.

He drained the last of the scotch and placed the glass back onto the now-damp napkin. Tucking a twenty-dollar beneath the glass, he rose, tightened his coat around him, and headed for the door. Staring upward, he paused outside, watching for a moment as clouds the color of dark ash churned across the sky. He felt the first light drops touch his face.

His head down, hunched into the heavy collar of his overcoat, Walter headed back to his car. The rain begin to fall more quickly now, leaving a path ahead as if someone had scattered old coins before him on the sidewalk.

It’s not surprising, he thought, that the angels would weep today . . . even if Abigail is now among them.

Heroic Measures (continued)

After a time, the tears stopped. His eyes felt swollen and sore. He blinked to clear his vision, forcing the last of the tears from them. Walter wiped at them lightly, feeling his fingers come away wet. He stared at the shining fluid as it evaporated and was absorbed by his skin.

He reached out and took his son’s hand again, this time holding it loosely in his own. It felt unnaturally smooth and soft against his palm.

“I’m sorry, son,” he whispered, and began to weep again.

#

As Walter walked out of the building, he felt the eyes of the staff upon him. He did not know whether they were aware of his personal pain, his nearly unbearable loss. He was certain that it showed on his face, but no one stopped him to explain it.

He stepped through the sliding doors, hearing them scrape closed in their tracks behind him. Looking up at into the gray sky, crowded with clouds the color of wood smoke, he felt the growing wind against his cheeks.

The rain will be here soon.

He guessed that he might make it home before the storm began—certainly well before its greatest strength arrived. As he walked the wide concrete path back to his car, he thought of somewhere else he ought to be besides home. He knew what he would find there: an empty kitchen, an empty bed, an emptiness greater than he was ready to face again so soon.

He sat behind the steering wheel, struggling with himself. Home was where he was expected to be.

The house, he corrected himself. It would never again ever be a home.

A certain peace passed over him. A decision had been made: his next destination. He could see himself there, clearly. He started the car and began to drive.

He could have walked, he realized. It was less than a handful of blocks away. Coming back to his car in the rain later, however, held little appeal for him, even given the short distance.

Another car was pulling away from a space near the door as he turned into the parking lot. He took that as a sign that he had made the right decision. Although they knew him here, they would do little more than subtly acknowledge his arrival and then leave him alone with his thoughts.

He entered through the front door. The interior appeared as it always did, except for the tasteful adornment of a small bit of tinsel and holly garland here and there along the furnishings. It was not until that moment that Walter remembered that the next day would be Christmas Eve, and the one following would be Christmas Day, and that he would be spending both of them alone—alone for the first time . . . ever.

The server brought his drink, although he had not ordered one yet. The young man said nothing, simply placing the glass on a square paper napkin and then moving on to the next table. Walter looked toward the bar, but was unable to catch the bartender’s eye. He gave up when it seemed as though the man was deliberately trying to avoid his glance.

Walter sipped at his drink, wondering what blend of Scotch it was. It felt almost like thick, warm silk along his tongue. The sensation carried down his throat, providing a soft burn more like brandy. Walter realized then that bartender had served him one of the premium aged single-malts. He glanced up again.

The bartender gave him a slight nod without smiling and then turned his attention to a moderately well-dressed twenty-something couple who had just arrived through the hallway that led to the restaurant.

News travels, I guess.

He sipped at the Scotch again, relishing its smoothness. He felt its warm glow radiate out from his stomach in all directions.

Heroic Measures (continued)

December 23, 2007 . . .

Walter entered the room and removed his coat. It felt cold, but he ignored it. The colors of the room seemed unusually drab, although he doubted that they had changed since the last time he had been here.

Must be the gray clouds outside . . .

He folded his overcoat over the back of the upholstered chair and then approached the bed. The plain metal chair was pushed up against the wall, underneath the window. Walter’s eyes surveyed outside, quickly assessing the movement of the clouds and the faint gray shadows of the buildings, nearly the same hue as the concrete, along the cement pathway.

Walter pulled the chair into place beside the bed. The metallic scrape of its legs against the floor echoed strangely throughout the room. Its echo faded quickly, almost as if shut off by a hidden switch somewhere. Walter sat, the thin metal creaking beneath his weight.

He breathed a deep and heavy sigh, studying the still form of his son. Benny’s chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing. He had been told by the staff that it rarely changed, maintaining the same steady cadence of inhalation and exhalation, slightly more than sleep, more than sustaining his body’s need for oxygen.

Although he had grown, his expression remained that of an innocent child. His face remained free of any lines of age, even those few that someone of his few years might possess. Walter reached over and brushed a loose lock of hair from his son’s forehead. It looked as if it had been cut recently, but not well. Breathing deeply again, Walter reached out and took his son’s hand, gripping it firmly in both of his own.

As he always did, Walter watched his son’s face for any movement, any sign of reaction at his touch. And, as every time before, there was none.

“Son,” Walter said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Benny.”

He swallowed hard, trying to force back the tears that he knew he would never leave behind.

“Your mother . . .” Walter said, forcing the words past the solid lump at the base of his throat. “She’s gone, son. She’s dead.”

His breath shuddered through his chest. He allowed the tears to fall from his face. Some landed as warm drops on the back of his hand; some on Benny’s. He could say nothing more for a long time, staring at the drab vinyl tiles without seeing them.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Raynes stood in front of the workbench, studying the antenna device. Zing had reconnected it to his instruments. Walter would have preferred that he had not, or could have been somewhere else, preferably several blocks distant from it.

Hawaii would be good spot . . .

He could see it in his mind: the pale sand and bright turquoise water of the sheltered bay on Maui he and Abigail had visited for their fifth wedding anniversary. The bittersweet memories aside, it had the advantage of being both far from the antenna transmitter and from the dark storm front that moved inexorably toward the city.

“Have you found a defense?”

The researcher shook his head sadly, looking even older than the years he already carried.

“Not yet,” he said. “But we continue.”

Raynes frowned, his gaze sweeping across the myriad status displays attached to the various pieces of equipment attached in some fashion to the antenna.

“You’ve detected nothing at all?”

Zing lowered his head. Walter wondered if, in another age belonging to the researcher’s long-dead ancestors, if he might not have offered to fall upon his own sword for his failure.

“Very little,” Zing answered, looking up, but looking toward the device rather than Raynes. “We can detect power, but not the energy it produces.”

He tapped a clear cylindrical container filled with a pale ochre liquid. A soft mass of . . . something floated within it. Walter tried not to look too closely. It would be lunchtime soon, and he preferred not to have to explain to Vivian why he was not eating.

Cottage cheese will definitely not be on the menu . . .

“Our experiments so far show that it affects only bioelectrochemical objects.”

So, brains,” Raynes concluded.

“Indeed so,” the elderly researcher agreed. “Meta-humans appear particularly susceptible to its effects,” he went on. “We don’t know why.”

“Will it affect unaltered humans?” Red asked.

Walter turned, for a moment forgetting that his friend stood beside him.

Zing shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know,’ he said. “None of the technicians have so far shown effects, but I cannot say what will happen if many of these are activated at once.”

Raynes expression went grim. Walter knew what he was thinking.

It won’t matter much what happens to them if all of us defending them are knocked flat on our butts.

Raynes turned his head, sweeping the laboratory with his gaze. Walter watched as his jaw grew taut and guessed that, if Raynes were the kind of man given to physical demonstrations, he might have pounded his fist against the workbench surface.

“They must have a defense,” Raynes stated.

“Unless they plan to let the storm pass through and take everyone out with it first,” Red suggested.

Raynes shook his head. “Too risky. They can’t be sure how quickly some of us might recover. They’ll need to mount their attack during the storm.”

“Well, we can’t go around blowing the rooftops off all the buildings, hoping we find them all.”

“No,” Raynes agreed. “We can’t.”

He stared at the antenna assembly in silence for several long moments. Finally, he placed a hand lightly on the old man’s shoulder.

“Keep at it, Doctor,” he said softly. “We’re running out of time.”

Heroic Measures (continued)

“It’s a most reasonable hypothesis,” Zing offered, looking almost painfully thoughtful.

Had he been mechanical, Walter was certain that they would have heard gears turning as the researcher continued to mull over the implications of their theory.

He, Red, and Isabel were gathered in one of the small conference rooms on the penultimate floor of the building. This was the level where Raynes and the other leaders tended to host visitors to whom, for one reason or another, they did not want to provide access to the executive level. Vivian had chosen, giving no clear reason, not to accompany them.

Raynes had joined them, dressed slightly less formally than the last time they had seen him. He seemed a bit less harried as well. Harrison was seated beside Raynes at the table looking, if possible, even more gruff and dour than usual. Westin was conspicuously absent.

The institute leader stared at Zing thoughtfully for several long moments. No one else dared to speak. Walter was sure, though, that, like him, everyone else was bristling with curiosity at what the man would say.

“It explains a great deal,” Raynes agreed with a conviction that told Walter that he believed it completely. He turned his head toward Harrison without facing him. “What’s the forecast show?”

Harrison tapped at the tablet he was holding. The holographic display glowed to life above the center of the table. Its sharp, coruscating spectrum lines merged into what, at first, looked like a topographical map. Walter then realized that the objects on it were moving.

Mountains and hills don’t move, Walter reminded himself.

“How long do we have?” Raynes asked.

Harrison’s gaze swept over the map and then looked toward Zing. The researcher studied the map intently.

“Seventy-two hours,” he announced finally. “No more.”

Raynes’ lips formed a tight line. His eyes took on a dull cast. To took Walter several seconds to find the right word for it.

Not weary . . . haunted. Like a man with terrible memories . . .

Raynes continued staring at the map.

“Recall Westin,” he told Harrison. “Call everyone in.”

His tone, while quiet and restrained, sent chills tingling throughout Walter’s body.

Walter stared at the map, trying to understand what the others saw there. Vague rounded shapes pulsed, shifting in size and position, moving like malignant cells across the holograph’s invisible surface.

“A storm is coming,” Isabel whispered next to him.

Walter turned to find her staring at the moving images that hung before them in mid-air. The look in her eyes was much like the one he had seen in Raynes’.

Walter’s eyes widened as realization came to him. He remembered seeing similar maps before, as early as that morning. Although much less detailed, it had revealed the same thing: a storm was on its way. What he had viewed earlier as a minor inconvenience might now become what could be one of the worst things to strike the city in its history.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“There’s still a lot of them to check,” Walter offered, sounding weary at even the idea.

Red’s mouth tightened into a frown. “I know,” he said. “And we’d have to be pretty close, I think.”

Walter nodded his agreement.

“If only there was some other way to trigger them,” Vivian mused. “From a distance,” she added immediately, quickly noting the expressions of the others.

Isabel looked thoughtful. “We’d need something like . . . like a . . .“ Her eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh my god,” she whispered, turning to look at the sky. “They could be everywhere . . . even at the Institute.”

Three pairs of eyes watched her as if she had gone mad. Although he was reasonably certain that she had not, Walter could not blame if she had.

Isabel turned back toward the others, but her eyes did not focus on them. Walter could see that she was still playing some scenario through in her mind.

“I know why we haven’t been able to figure out their timetable,” she said, looking at Red with an expression of certainty and fixed determination. “Because they don’t have one.”

Red looked doubtful, not only of her declaration, but also of her sanity.

“They’re waiting,” she explained. “For the conditions to be right.”

There was a long moment of silence as Walter and his two other companions tried to get their minds to follow the same path of logic—if logic it was—to the conclusion that Isabel had reached.

“Okay,” Red finally said. “I’ll play along.” His tone carried a mixture of both irritation and curiosity.

“Not political or tactical conditions,” Isabel explained, seeming in awe of the plan she appeared to see in her mind. “Weather.”

This earned confused and puzzled looks from everyone else present.

“Weather,” she repeated, somewhat insistently, as if the force of the word would be enough to spark recognition in their otherwise addled minds.

Walter, Red, and Vivian all exchanged perplexed glances.

“They’re hoping for sunspots?” Red finally offered. His tone signaled his surrender.

“Thunderstorms,” Isabel said simply. “Lightning.”

Judging from the looks on the others’ expressions, Walter guessed that they shared similar mental images to the one his mind had crafted for him: heavy dark clouds against steel gray skies, thunder booming across the heavens, and blinding blue-white arcs of lights that crossed between the land and the sky.

“It might not even need to hit the buildings directly,” Walter realized aloud in hushed tones.

“Right,” Red agreed. “The ionic charges alone might be enough to set them off.”

“They’d have no control over it,” Walter objected.

“Do they need to?” Red countered.

“They’ve probably developed some of kind of defense or countermeasure against it,” Isabel added.

“What make you think that?”

Isabel shot Vivian with a piercing look. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked curtly. “Before you deployed it?”

Chagrin was evident on Vivian’s expression. Her cheeks shaded with bright pink and she looked away. For a moment, Walter thought she might actually cry.

If they had been alone, he would have taken and squeezed Vivian’s hand to comfort her. All he could do was look sympathetically in your direction. She did not see it, for her gaze was aimed somewhere down below them.

“So,” Walter said finally, trying to fill the sudden void in their conversation. “We should be able to figure out a rough timetable from that—from looking over the weather forecast.”

“Exactly,” Isabel agreed.

“We’d better get back and tell them,” Red said, and shifted the vehicle into a smooth curve back in the direction of the institute.

“Maybe four half-witted heads really are better than one genius one,” Red murmured, but loud enough that the others could overhear him.

Walter and Isabel both chuckled, feeling that once again things were perhaps less ominous. Vivian’s expression remained akin to stone, her eyes turning toward none of them.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Red’s expression then changed as well as realization also came to him. Vivian continued to look perplexed until she realized that the others were all staring intently at Walter. Even then, when she first looked at him, she did not make the connection.

Walter shook his head slowly, not only to move his gaze away from the eyes staring at him, but in silent denial.

“But I didn’t do anything . . .” he protested weakly.

“You did something . . .” Isabel countered.

“Maybe you didn’t need to,” Red suggested.

That got him some questioning looks from the others.

“Maybe,” he went on, “they was enough of some kind of residual charge around you to activate it.” He head bobbed thoughtfully. “Heaven knows we were all a little on edge then . . .”

Walter considered this. It was not unusual for him to experience a small build-up of energy, akin to a heavy static charge, when in tense situations. Even Abigail had experienced its effects on certain, well, awkward occasions.

He thought back to that morning in the warehouse, when they had first felt the effects of the device.

We were searching around in the dark inside . . . Had it still been dark then?

He tried to remember their location inside the warehouse.

Were we directly underneath the antenna maybe?

He shook his head, unable to resolve the relative positions.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I’m just not good in three-dimensions.”

This earned him a smirk from Isabel and a steady, unblinking stare from Red.

“That’s why we can always count on you for a straight line,” Isabel snapped out, before dissolving into chortles deep from her abdomen.

Walter stared at her in puzzled disbelief. His eyes then turned toward Red, who appeared to be struggling to maintain control over his own laughter. Feeling his eyebrows rise of their own accord, Walter played back what he had actually said, trying to make sense of their abrupt spout of hilarity.

Vivian seemed to get it at nearly the same moment that he did. Walter tried to bit back the burst of laughter that threatened to surge from his mouth. He was only partially successful. When Vivian began to giggle, what little control he could muster was lost. He nearly doubled over, unable to stop waves of laughter that sent convulsive ripples through his body.

“Okay,” he finally gasped. “I deserved that.” He chuckled again, letting the last of the hilarity drain from him.

Isabel continued to dab at her eyes. Her cheeks were stained with bright trails of tears. Nearly all of the tension had smoothed from Red’s expression. Of them all, Vivian had somehow managed not to release any tears, but her eyes were bright from her laughter. Bright pink spots dotted her cheeks.

“Seriously,” Walter breathed. “I honestly don’t remember if we were near the antenna or not.”

The atmosphere around them became once again somber, but much of the earlier tension had eased.

“We can always go back and check,” Red said. “But let’s assume you were.” He looked at Walter. “Do you think you could have triggered it?”

Walter thought about it for only a moment before answering. “Yes,” he replied, nodding. “It’s possible.” He surveyed the rooftops around them. “But I’d have to get awfully close to them to do it again.” His expression grew tight and his lips formed a tight, tense line. “I don’t really want to,” he admitted. “And I don’t think we’d like the effects.” His eyes moved toward Vivian and then Isabel as made that last statement.

Vivian’s complexion seemed to grow pale and her eyes dulled with fear. Isabel showed less reaction, but Walter saw her mouth and jaw work silently as she considered the idea.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“What if they are here?” he asked. “Hidden?”

Red’s head moved from the side to side as he surveyed the rooftops. “It’d take a long time to take apart every A/C unit on every building across the city.”

“What if we could activate them? So we could locate them?”

Vivian seemed to turn pale at the suggestion. Even Isabel looked uncomfortable.

“How do we do that?” Red asked, sounding tired and irritated. “Good ol’ Doc Zing needed a whole apparatus to activate the one we found.”

“Yes,” conceded Walter, but he was not finished. “But it was somehow activated when we were inside the warehouse. Remember?”

Red frowned thoughtfully, as if he had forgotten that event. “We never did figure out how that happened . . .”

“Something activated it,” Isabel said, interjecting herself into the conversation.

“But what?” Red countered. “We didn’t find any kind of power source.”

“Did we look for one?”

Walter turned and looked at Isabel. He intended to be incredulous. As he considered his answer, though, he realized that her question had not been one steeped in sarcasm. Slowly, his head turned toward Red.

Red’s lips worked, forming odd shapes as he thought about it. Walter dug through his memories of that day at the same time.

Had there been a power source?

He did not remember Red disconnecting or slicing through any wires, but there had been a lot joining on that afternoon, and—he had to admit—he had not been paying particularly close attention.

Finally, Red shook his head slowly, for some reason reminding Walter of a horse shaking away flies.

“I don’t remember,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think so, but I don’t remember there being one.”

“There wasn’t,” Isabel stated firmly.

She had everyone’s attention now as they all turned to look at her. Her expression was almost smug as she began to explain.

“Not in the usual sense, anyway,” she said, glancing toward Red. “There wasn’t one there,” she went on. “Until we brought it.”

This statement earned her a confused look from everyone present. Her smile told Walter that she had not only been expecting that, but was also thoroughly enjoying building the suspense. Red appeared to be mildly irritated that Isabel was dragging this out, but seemed willing to let her have her fun—at least for the moment.

Isabel’s head turned slightly and her eyes fixed on Walter. Her insistent gaze unnerved him and he wanted to look away. There was something in the way that she stared at him, though, that he felt he should understand.

He tried to remember what equipment they had brought with them to the warehouse that day. There had not been much. It had chiefly been what they had carried on each of their belts. As far as he could remember, there had not been any power sources.

The batteries in the flashlights?

No, he decided. There couldn’t have been enough juice in those to power that antenna—certainly not from a distance. Heck, I can generate more energy than that just by sneezing . . .

His eyes locked with Isabel’s. From the small change in her smile, he knew that he was right.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Yes, sir,” he answered sheepishly.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Vivian staring proudly at him. He forced himself not to notice.

“Is it that bad?” Red asked; sounding much concerned than his expression indicated.

Raynes turned and met Red’s gaze. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “But, based on what we’ve seen so far, I am deeply concerned.”

“Why?” Walter asked, without quite meaning to.

On each side of Raynes, Westin and Harrison exchanged a look that Walter knew too well. He had seen it often when doubted the intelligence of someone who had spoken. A slight change in Raynes’ expression told Walter that he had seen it, but was choosing, for the moment, to deliberately let it pass.

Raynes’ lips tightened into a grim line.

“Of the four of you,” he explained, “two of you were deeply affected—let’s be frank: incapacitated—by whatever energy this device is throwing off. One of you,” he nodded toward Isabel, “felt it enough to become mildly disoriented. From what I understand,” Raynes continued, looking at Red, “even you were not entirely unaffected.”

Red’s expression went still. Walter stared at him in surprise.

He never said anything . . .

Raynes and Red locked gazes for a moment before Raynes, almost casually, looked away.

“The reports from the other sections near the lab report similar results.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, looking to Walter like every president in every movie who had to deliver bad news. “Consider the implications.”

Before Walter could do so, he heard Isabel gasp with realization. Red’s jaw tightened and his eyes, normally bright and mischievous, went cold.

“That’s right,” Raynes agreed, confirming some conclusion that Walter had not yet reached. “Imagine if these are widespread across the city—or anywhere—and our enemies decided to launch a full-scale assault. What kind of defense could we offer if half of our forces are incapacitated, and another fourth of them are distracted, operating below their abilities?”

Walter’s mind threatened to seize up at the very notion. If the effectiveness of any group of heroes could be cut to about one-quarter of its true strength through the use of this device, then any attacking force would need only a fraction of the same number of people in order to defeat the defender. Walter had a great deal of pride and confidence in his fellow heroes, but he also understood the mathematical realities of such a conflict.

“I guess we’d better find the rest of those devices . . .” he whispered.

Raynes nodded gravely in agreement.

#

“They could be hidden anywhere,” Vivian complained.

There was just enough of a whine in her voice to get Walter’s teeth on edge. To judge from Isabel’s expression, she was considering options to deal with it. Red remained surprisingly silent; even his expression maintained its stony demeanor.

The four of them were gliding above the rooftops of the city, joining the search, census, and removal of any of the antenna-like devices. So far, like the other teams scouring the city, they had located none.

“It must have been an accident,” Walter suggested. “All of the others ones got removed, but they were in a hurry and forgot that one.”

Red and Isabel both looked doubtful.

“Maybe it was a prototype?” Vivian offered.

Red shook his head. “The manufacturing was too finished, too refined,” he said. “They made others—maybe a lot of them.”

“Then where are they?” Vivian countered, sounding just a bit surly.

“Maybe it’s a message,” Walter suggested, interrupting any possibly snide retorts to Vivian.

“What do you mean?” Isabel asked, clearly interested.

Walter felt a small swell of pride. He had managed to suggest a theory that had not yet occurred to anyone else present.

“It’s a signal,” he explained. “They did make a lot of them, like Red said, but they left this one behind for us to find.”

“Why?” Vivian asked.

“So we would know they had them,” Walter replied. “To throw us off-balance,” he said. “To make us afraid—knowing that, at any time, they could knock half of the heroes of this city out of action.”

“I think it worked,” Isabel mused sourly.

“How many people know?” Walter asked.

Red shrugged. “Right now,” he said, “it’s probably one of the worst-kept secrets of our alliance. There wasn’t any kind of general announcement, but by now, anyone who knows anybody else surely knows—or has at least heard a rumor.”

Walter grimaced.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Dr. Hansen dismissed him from the infirmary, albeit reluctantly, it seemed to Walter.

Isabel’s persistent questions—and undeniable presence—probably played a part in that, he mused.

Now, he, Red, Vivian, and Isabel sat around the table in one of the conference rooms on what they considered the executive level. It was not as though it held any special markings, and the security guards were no more in evidence there, but everyone knew that it was where Raynes had his main office and held internal meetings. (Meetings with most external parties were, as far as Walter knew, always held on the first floor. At least, he had never been part of one that had not taken place there.)

Vivian still looked pale, but her eyes appeared bright when she looked in Walter’s direction. He suspected that she would have preferred the seat next to him, but she had arrived last and Red had already claimed the nearest one. Instead, she was seated the one across and probably furthest from him.

The four of them sat silently, exchanging occasional, tentative glances, each considering their own thoughts. They had been given no other information than a message to report here. As it was only the four of them, Walter guessed that it had something to do with antenna they had brought back, along with the subsequent incident in Zing’s laboratory.

The door opened and Raynes walked in, accompanied by Rachel and a man dressed in a superbly-tailored in a midnight blue business that Walter did not recognize. A few moments later, Westin and Harrison entered, both also dressed in professional business attire. Neither of the two men, it seemed to Walter, looked particularly comfortable in their attire, despite what appeared to be expert tailoring.

Raynes had that harried look of someone called from another important meeting directly into this one. He covered it well, though, Walter thought, giving him and his companions each a sincerely genial smile before seating himself at what now became the head of the table.

“Walter . . . Vivian,” he addressed each of them in turn. “You’re feeling better now?”

Vivian nodded slowly, making Raynes frown.

“I’m fine, sir,” Walter said, forcing himself to meet Raynes’ gaze.

Raynes nodded in return and then his eyes flicked back to Vivian. “We can discuss this later, if prefer.”

Walter had the impression that it would not be Raynes’ preference, but he could find no obvious sign in either Raynes’ expression or tone to support that opinion. He was surely, Walter was certain, a very busy man who could not easily re-schedule meetings. Yet, he seemed willing to do so in deference to their convalescing condition.

Vivian shook her head slowly. “No,” she said softly. Then, more firmly, added, “Let’s get it over with.”

Raynes nodded his approval and then looked down at the tablet in his hand.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the faces of Walter and his three companions. “I’m deeply troubled by what’s in this report.”

Walter felt hollow clench of guilt tighten around his stomach, as if he were somehow responsible for what had happened.

But I didn’t do anything wrong . . .

His silent protest did little to ease the tension in his abdomen.

“The effect of the pulse was experienced by other individuals in the areas directly above and below the laboratory,” Raynes went on, “although to a much, much lesser extent.”

Walter exchanged a surprised look with Red, who appeared to be equally unsettled by the news.

“The shielding layer in the insulation,” Westin announced.

Raynes nodded. “That wasn’t its intent,” he said, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the surface of the tablet. “So we were lucky that it proved effective.”

He turned his attention back directly to Walter and his friends before continuing.

“It appears to affect some of you more than others,” he said. While it was not exactly a revelation to Walter, he felt strangely comforted to hear someone he respected actually confirm what he had experienced. “We don’t know why yet,” he went on. “Or what the factors are that provide immunity to it.”

“Have you found any other ones?” Red asked.

It was Westin who answered him. “I have teams searching the city for more.”

Raynes chuckled, his expression displaying a hint of chagrin. “We didn’t even know to look for them until you stumbled across the one at the warehouse.” He turned toward and smiled. “Although I guess we managed to solve one mystery, eh Walter?”

Walter smiled back, feeling slightly embarrassed, like a star pupil singled out in class for knowing the right answer without effort.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter studied his friend’s face. It did look even more drawn and gray than it had before, but some of the lines that creased it earlier had softened. He did not look on the verge of being ill, exactly, but definitely unsettled and on edge.

It was Walter’s turn to frown and tried to think. Mostly, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. Red was probably right: he should go to the infirmary and be examined. The thought of facing Dr. Hansen, though, made it a far less appealing notion.

He tried to stand. His legs felt stiff, as if they had not been used for several hours. They followed his instructions to move, mostly, and Walter managed to raise himself to his knees, resting one of them against the floor. The room did not waver—much—which reassured him. Shifting into a crouch, and then slowly standing, he breathed a deep sigh of relief when the vertigo did not return.

“Walt . . .”

Walter waved his friend away, hoping Red would not notice his death-like grip on the edge of the workbench as he pulled himself the rest of the way upright. The room remained steady. The objects and colors around him still appeared to be too sharp and vivid, but he guessed that, like last time, that would fade.

Red remained less than a step away, ready to offer his assistance if Walter needed it. Walter was determined, though, to do this on his own. He was, he realized, feeling stronger, but not yet ready to perform any wind sprints. Resting his hand on the workbench for support, that he told himself he needed more for confidence than actual balance, he made his way around to where two medics were lifting Vivian onto a portable stretcher. He tried not to think about the fact that he probably looked like a poorly constructed android with each step he took.

One of the medics stepped out of the way and Walter caught sight of Vivian’s face. Her skin was the color of chalk, but her eyes were open and she appeared to be alert. They turned in Walter’s direction and paused there. Her lips, thin and pink, formed a weak smile. The medic moved again, gripping the handles of the stretcher, and she disappeared from view once more.

Walter heard Isabel calling out instructions. He looked up to see her at the doorway, watching them carry Vivian out into the corridor and away, presumably to the infirmary. She shook her head with undisguised irritation. Her long honey blonde tresses bounced around her head like the tails of dancing sprites. Seeing that Walter was vertical, she stared back at him, studying him intently.

Taking one more glance out into the corridor, she strode over and unceremoniously grabbed his wrist. While she silently counted, she peered at his eyes, examining them. Walter guessed that she was looking for some sign of more serious injury. Other than for a lingering sensation of detachment, he felt all right.

She released his wrist, letting it drop without comment, and then touched the back of her hand to his forehead. He felt its texture, smooth and firm, but no real difference in temperature.

She brought her hand down, still looking unsatisfied. “You’re still going to the infirmary,” she told him.

Walter looked toward Red for support, but his fellow hero just looked away, feigning complete denial that he had heard a thing. Turning his eyes back to Isabel, Walter answered her with a grimace. She stepped aside, allowing him clear access to the doorway. Her meaning was absolutely clear.

Glancing once more at Red, Walter found that his friend had acquired a sudden interest in the geometric layout of the ceiling panels. With a sigh that was more visible than audible, Walter headed for the doorway, following very closely by Isabel.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He’s conscious,” the voice said, moving away as it spoke.

“We need medics,” a different, higher-pitched voice sounded. It seemed clearer, more distinct, but wavered strangely. “She’s going into shock.”

Walter managed to turn his head, albeit slowly. He saw a hazy figure sprawled on the ground. Other shapes shifted like inkblot blurs out around it.

Vivian?

It then occurred to him that he, too, must be laying on the ground. That did not seem right, so he tried to lift himself up, at least into a seated position. His muscles resisted the effort, though. It was as if gravity had increased its pull on him tenfold.

The sounds around him slowly became more distinct, resolving once again into individual voices. Noises close to him, such as the footsteps of those tending to Vivian, still seemed unnaturally loud. More distant ones, though, were now bearable.

A head suddenly filled his field of vision. It took him a moment to focus on it. He then recognized Red’s face. Deep lines of concern crossed his friend’s expression.

Walter tried to smile, but not at all certain whether or not he accomplished the feat. He then tried to nod, meeting with better success than with his previous attempt. The world moved in a long vertical sweep, bringing forth a wash of vertigo. It made him dizzy more than nauseous, but it was still incredibly disconcerting.

He tried again, much more slowly. The world remained steadier, but threatened to blur at the edges of his vision.

Red’s expression relaxed somewhat. His lips formed a tentative smile. He held up his hand above Walter’s face. The fingers formed a single blur at first until he held them still.

“How many fingers do you see?”

“Four . . .” Walter croaked. “. . . tentacles,” he added hoarsely.

Red’s eyes widen slightly for moment, and then he burst out laughing. It took him a long time to regain control, laughing hard enough with relief that he had to wipe at his eyes several times before he could speak coherently again.

“Damn,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Now I have to kill you.”

“Just do it quietly,” Walter suggested, managing a smile of his own. He did not yet feel up to laughing, but the small grin felt good.

Experimentally, he attempted to lift himself to his elbows again.

Gravity seemed to have retreated to its usual force. He still felt weak, and a bit disconnected from his body, but was cheered by his ability to move under his own volition again.

“What happened?” he husked out.

“Same as last time, I think,” Red answered. “Zing activated the antenna.”

Walter started to nod and then stopped as Red’s head jerked upward, his eyes fixed on a spot above and across the room that Walter could not see.

“Don’t touch that!” Red shouted, rising to his feet. “Don’t even go near it!”

Walter tried to imagine the drama unfolding just out of his sight. He guessed that Zing had approached the antenna again. Red’s eyes tracked something.

Probably Dr. Zing moving very slowly away, Walter guessed. A slight smile formed at the mental image his mind gave him.

Red knelt close again.

“Sorry about that.”

Walter gave him a weak, but reassuring smile. He then frowned, remembering the flurry of activity that had taken place somewhere close to him.

“Vivian?”

Red glanced over to the other side of the room and then looked back at Walter.

“She’s conscious now, but weak,” he reported. “They’re taking her to the infirmary now.”

Walter nodded, certain that relief was evident on his face.

“You should go too,” Red said.

“Later,” Walter whispered.

He lay quietly for a moment, waiting for more of his strength to return. It was, he realized, taking much longer than it had at the warehouse.

“Isabel?”

Red’s eyes moved again.

“She’s with Vivian,” Red replied. “It got her too,” he said. “But not as bad.”

His lips tightened into a frown.

“I felt it too,” Red went on. “I think.”

It was Walter’s turn to frown and tried to think. Mostly, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. Red was probably right: he should go to the infirmary and be examined. The thought of facing Dr. Hansen, though, made it a far less appealing notion.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Zing looked up as Red entered, appearing confused at the interruption, much less the invasion of four people escorted in by a security officer. It seemed almost too much for the old researcher to take in and process. Recognition then brightened his expression, smoothing many of the lines that had formed there during his moments of confusion.

“Oh . . . yes. Of course!” he said, shifting once again into motion on the other side of the workbench. “The antenna.” He turned toward one end of the bench and then paused, once again appearing perplexed. “Didn’t I wish to talk to you yesterday?”

“We tried,” Vivian explained, ending the stunned silence that followed.

Zing stared at her, clearly not comprehending her statement. Then, he nodded, and once again began heading for the other end of the long bench. “Yes,” he said in a barely audible mumble, “of course. You didn’t have an appointment.”

Even without Red’s skyward look, Walter felt his confidence in the researcher evaporating.

“Fascinating device,” Zing was saying. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his audience. Without bothering to check whether or not they were following him, he headed toward a separate platform. “It’s more than just an antenna,” he explained. “It also appears to function as an amplifier—of sorts.”

“For what?” Red asked.

“An excellent question,” Zing responded

He led them to where he had the antenna they had retrieved now mounted upright onto a small platform. A collection of different colored wires run down from it, attached to something they would not see underneath the workbench.

“It’s wavelength I’ve never seen specifically monitored or broadcast before.” He reached toward a small control panel. “Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”

He touched a switch. There was a soft hum of power that slowly increased and then . . .

Walter’s world went white.

He thought he heard a scream, but did not think it was his. Pure, blinding light filled his universe. His mind filled with an incredible pressure akin to pain, but was not. His body might be rigid . . . or convulsing—he had no way of knowing. There were no other sensations beyond the light and the not-pain.

The screams continued, wavering as if from a far distance. There were other sounds as well, but none that he could recognize. Then, as before, the voices came. Faint and indistinct, they formed the sounds that might have been words. He tried to listen . . . to draw them into his consciousness, but . . .

The light abruptly began to fade. Like a floodlight suddenly shut off, it left bright afterimages in his mind. They coalesced into a single sphere of white that slowly shrank from his awareness.

The pressure within his mind had all but vanished. The noises from the world around him seemed unnaturally loud and sharp. The screaming he thought he had heard had ceased. It had been replaced by the sound of rapid panting and . . . sobbing?

He turned his head to see. It moved, but felt distant, as if attached to a different body than the one he inhabited. His eyes, while tracking the sights around him, seemed unable to bring clarity and focus to any single one of them. There seemed to be other people around him. Some were still; others appeared as blurs of motion.

“Walt . . .”

It was a voice, hoarse and sharp somewhere near his ear. He tried to turn his head toward it, but the muscles required to fulfill that act failed to follow his instructions.

“Walt . . .,” the voice came again.

Red? What that someone he knew?

“Walt,” the voice said, softer and quieter now. “Nod your head if you can hear me.”

It seemed to take tremendous effort, as if his head were a weight far too great for the muscles of his neck to move. He must have been successful, though, for he heard what sounded like a rush of wind past his ear.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The conversation over their coffee—Vivian had tea—was strained and disjointed. They joked about Dr. Zing and his penchant for disappearing, but the humor behind it felt flat. Aside from Red’s sub-par condition, the cause of which he continued to provide no further clues, an obvious tension hung in the air among them. Walter tried unsuccessfully to ascertain the cause, certain that he was missing some vital hint.

They left after several minutes, having decided on no firm plan on what to do next.

“We can just wait for him to find us,” Isabel had offered.

The suggestion had received acknowledgement, but not real agreement. Each of them wanted to know not whatever secrets the antenna itself might hold, but also how and why it had affected them. There would likely get no closer to those answers without Zing’s help, aside from their own speculation.

It was Isabel who took a practical approach to their search for the researcher, taking an action that Walter was surprised none of them had considered the night before, although it was perfectly obvious.

Pausing at the security desk near the elevator, Isabel addressed one of the two security officers stationed there.

“Hey, Melanie,” Isabel said, flashing a bright, toothy smile.

Something in her expression told Walter that she knew the guard well, possibly even on a personal level.

I really need to stop that, he scolded himself. It might just be a product of his imagination—or not—but, in either case, it really was none of his business.

“Hey, Iz.”

The guard’s customary reserve retreated a bit, lending further support to Walter’s silent assessment.

“Have you seen Zing? He wanted to see us and we’ve tracking been him for days.”

Melanie looked down and checked something on one of the security station displays.

“According to the log, he’s in his lab.”

Walter and his three companions exchanged puzzled, irritated glances.

“Are you sure?” Red insisted.

Melanie shot him a sharp glance and then turned her eyes back down toward the display. “According to this, he is.”

“He wasn’t before,” Vivian explained, trying to sound calm, but it still came out with a high-pitched undertone of whine.

“This says he is now,” Melanie countered flatly. Her expression then softened. “When was that?”

“I don’t know,” Walter answered. He glanced at his companions. “Twenty minutes . . . a half hour ago?”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’d better check it out.”

She turned and conversed quietly with the other guard for a moment, who nodded in response. Melanie typed something into the console and then stepped around the barrier.

“Let’s go,” she said, her face settling into an expression of professional concern.

Walter felt incredibly conspicuous as the five of them made their way through the corridors back toward Zing’s laboratory. Not only were they an unusually large group, but they were also accompanied by an uniformed security guard—both somewhat unusual occurrences.

They did, he noted, receive several curious, and occasionally lingering, glances as they passed. When they received the door to the lab, she paused and silently held up her hand for them to wait. She reached down and rested one hand on the handle of her weapon. With the other one, she pushed the door slowly open.

Walter, and the rest of his companions, waited in the corridor outside the line of sight from the doorway. They watched as Melanie cautiously peered inside, using the door as a shield as she opened it further. She suddenly relaxed, removed her hand from her weapon, and opened the door wide. She then turned back toward Walter and his friends with a look of eye-rolling disbelief.

“Obviously a job for a professional . . .”

Red took a step forward only a moment before Walter did. Still, Walter could see past Red’s shoulder to view Zing placidly working at one of the benches inside the laboratory.

“Thanks, Mel,” Isabel said quickly, covertly gesturing for the others to enter the lab.

Melanie gave a short, soft laugh. “Any time.” She watched sternly as Walter, Red, and Vivian filed past her.

“The next time you think someone is lost,” she suggested with more than just an air of snideness. “Just file a report.”

Walter winced while Red and Vivian appeared to ignore her completely.

“Thanks again,” Isabel repeated, seemingly equally nonplussed. Her voice dropped, just barely audible enough Walter to hear from where he stood inside the lab, “I still have some of that tequila left.”

Melanie’s lips curved upward in reminiscent smile. “Friday night?”

Isabel nodded.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “I even have new boots.”

Walter tried not to imagine what that remark might have implied.

Melanie turned and left, seeming now much less irritated. Walter discovered that he was staring at Isabel. She regarded him in return with a blank stare of feigned innocence. Walter looked away quickly, feeling a warm flush on his cheeks.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He waited with barely masked impatience while Isabel silently counted out his pulse beats. Walter noted that she did not use a watch, but seemed to use some kind of internal measurement instead. After what seemed like an unusually long time for it, she reluctantly released Red’s wrist. He let it fall loosely to his side.

Although he was certain that the look that Red gave her was intended to be smug, but in his friends exhausted state, it came off looking almost ghastly.

Isabel studied Red dubiously, but made no further move to examine him. Walter was grateful for that, for it would have made him even more uncomfortable. Red did not seem in any immediate danger of passing out; he just looked like hell.

“Someone must have an idea where he is,” Isabel grumbled irritably, still casting furtive glances in Red’s direction.

“Feel free to start searching,” Red retorted, although with less heat than Walter expected.

Walter frowned. The main institute building was not a small place. He also knew that there was probably any number of additional labs and spaces in underground levels not accessible to the general public where Zing might be, well, not hiding exactly, but perhaps visiting.

Isabel appeared unfazed by Red’s suggestion. “I recommend coffee,” she suggested.

“I think he drinks tea,” Walter said, remembering the still-warm cup in Zing’s office.

“For us,” she explained, rolling her eyes emphatically. “Maybe then the doctor will see fit to show up.”

Walter could not think of a better suggestion. In fact, it sounded to him like a pretty good idea. Red, on the other hand, looked less enthusiastic. He swallowed hard and then nodded his acceptance.

They did not make it to the corner of the corridor before a familiar face came around it. Vivian paused, blinking in surprise. She looked, Walter thought, quite a lot like a startled bird. She recovered quickly, favoring with Walter a quick smile, followed by the barest nod of acknowledgment to both Red and Isabel.

“Are you finished?” she asked, looking disappointed.

“We never even started,” Red replied, sounding almost sincerely irritated. His voice still sounded weak and faintly raspy, but held more of its usual tenor.

“He isn’t here,” Walter explained. “Or in his office.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the other two heroes. “We were just heading to get coffee.”

Vivian’s expression brightened and she smiled. “I’ll go with you.”

Walter did not turn to look, but he was certain that he would see an expression of disapproval on at least’s Isabel’s face.

Walter started walking again. Vivian fell into step beside him, close enough that she left no room for either Red or Isabel to join him. Walter glanced over at her and was rewarded with a bright smile. He looked away, but not so quickly that she might consider him rude. The four of them continued on in silence. Walter could only imagine what his two friends walking behind him might be thinking.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He heard Isabel follow close behind.

“Nice dinner last night?” she asked, sounding both curious and slightly piqued.

Walter slowed, frowning.

What had they not invited her along? Where had she gone after they had returned to the institute? She had not accompanied them to Zing’s lab, disappearing somewhere along the way. Why had they not noticed?

“Yeah,” he replied, tried to sound noncommittal despite the hollow feeling of guilt in his stomach. “Mediterranean place. It was okay.”

Isabel was silent behind him. Walter could imagine her nodding at his response.

“Do anything interesting afterward?”

Points on the center of Walter’s cheeks burned.

“Not really,” he managed to say, although his voice cracked on the last syllable. “We just went home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes!”

Isabel snickered and Walter stopped, turning around to fix her with an angry glare. She met it almost defiantly.

“Just asking . . .” she said in a tone too sweet to be sincere.

Breathing out an irritated sigh, Walter spun away and continued walking toward the lab. It was not until later that he realized that it was several seconds before Isabel’s footsteps caught up with his own.

#

When they reached the lab, they saw no immediate sign of Dr. Zing. Nor was there any evidence that either Red or Vivian had been there. Of course, unless the one of them had bothered to leave a written note, that would have been difficult to determine in any case.

“Would it hurt him to put up a “Will Return At” sign?” Walter murmured.

This earned him a barely stifled giggle from Isabel. Despite his earlier annoyance, it brightened his disposition toward her.

They turned together to leave the lab, almost literally running into Red as he entered. He did not look as if he had slept well. The dark smudges under his eyes spoke of insomnia rather than an evening spent in late-night revelry.

He gave Walter a weak smile, almost as if he were in pain. “Walt.” Glancing at Isabel, he acknowledged her coolly, “Isabel.”

She seemed unperturbed by his chilly reception, flashing him a bright smile of greeting.

Red paused in the door, surveying the interior of the lab over Walter’s shoulder. “I’m guessing good ol’ Dr. Zing isn’t here?”

Walter shook his head. “He’s not in his office either,” he reported. “Or at least wasn’t when we were there a few minutes ago.”

Red began to roll his eyes and then winced slightly.

“Are you okay?” Walter asked him. His voice hung heavy with concern.

“Yeah,” Red replied, somewhat unconvincingly. “Rough night.”

The complete lack of any smile to accompany the remark told Walter that, whatever it was that afflicted his friend, it was probably not related to night-long fun and games.

Did he go out on patrol after we left the restaurant? Walter wondered. That might explain it.

Isabel reached for Red’s wrist. Red pulled it away.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, but his lack of sharp annoyance toward Isabel told Walter that it was untrue.

“You can either let me check,” Isabel explained calmly. “Or you can let Dr. Hansen do it.”

Red met Isabel’s gaze with a flat, irritated stare. Finally, he thrust out his forearm and she took it, wrapping her fingers around his wrist so that she could measure out his pulse.

Heroic Measures (continued)

His fatigue had been replaced by confusion. Although he knew it would distract him, he decided to make his way home anyway, before his weariness returned. He would simply be very, very careful.

#

Walter returned to the institute in the morning, a bit later than he had planned to. Abigail had suffered a rough bout of morning sickness, so he had decided to remain with her until she had felt somewhat better, having dropped into a light doze from the medication. He felt mildly guilty for leaving her, but there really was little that he could for her, particularly while she slept. She could call him if she needed to.

As a result, he ended up parking on a different level than he usually did. The parking spot was in approximately the same location, and he made a mental note not to exit the elevator on the usual stop. Other than for the number painted on the concrete posts, he saw no difference in the appearance in that level of the parking garage.

All the more reason to remember where I parked.

He could all too easily imagine himself roaming the wrong level searching for a vehicle that was otherwise directly overhead.

As he exited the elevator, Walter found the corridors only slightly more crowded than usual. A few acknowledged his presence with either a brief glance or a quick smile. Walter stood there in the main corridor, realizing that they had not bother to coordinate what time they would meet again at Zing’s office. Between their weariness, and the distraction of the dinner and afterward, the subject had never come up. With a shrug, Walter decided to head for Zing’s office and see whether any of the others were present or had been there.

Arriving at Zing’s office, Walter found it empty. A tepid mug of tea left on one of few bare spots remaining on the desk told Walter that the researcher had been present not that long ago. It was still far from noon, so he guessed that the scientist had not headed for lunch. Where he was, and when he would return, however, remained a mystery.

Walter turned to go and came, quite literally, within a nose of colliding with someone else entering the office. At first he thought it was Zing. Some part of his mind immediately realized that the color and length of the hair, as well as the shape and size of the body, was entirely wrong for it to be Zing. That did not make the encounter any less unnerving.

“Excuse me,” he blurted out, taking two quick stumbling steps backward. “I didn’t see you—“

“Even that close?”

He recognized the person’s laughter instantly.

“Isabel!”

She grinned back at him. “I hope you’re not disappointed.” The gleam in her eyes brightened. “Unless you were prefer the company of Oriental senior citizens?”

“No!” Walter then realized that his protest, while true, did not accurately explain the reason for his presence in Zing’s office. “I mean,” he stammered. “I was supposed to meet Dr. Zing here . . . to answer questions about the antenna.”

Isabel nodded, still chuckling while she studied Walter. She appeared to be enjoying his shaken state.

Peering past him into the office, she looked at Walter and pronounced, “I don’t think he’s here.”

Walter’s embarrassment evaporated. He fixed Isabel with a fierce glare, but was unable to maintain it without breaking into a chuckle.

“No,” Walter agreed with a sigh, “he’s not.” He glanced once more around the office and then stepped into the corridor. “Did you see Red or Vivian on your way here?”

Isabel shook her head, her smile fading.

“Maybe they’re at the lab . . .” Walter mused aloud.

Isabel responded with a shrug driven chiefly by her eyes.

With a thoughtful expression, Walter headed down the corridor in the direction of the lab.