Sunday, 9 September 2012
Sample Sunday September 9th
One of our city’s self-styled superheroes turned up in A&E this Friday, prompting local police officers to request that he and others stop with the costumes and leave the crime fighting to the professionals. Bob?
Monica. The self-proclaimed superhero’s name is Avalanche and earlier this evening he was out fighting crime when an alleged mugger whom he had confronted opened fire.
Well, I guess the bullets didn't bounce off his steely skin, Bob.
No, Monica. Two rounds passed through stab plates built into his costume, wounding him in the thigh and forearm. Two other bullets were stopped by the bulletproof vest he wears. A police spokesperson says that Avalanche is well known to them, as is the mugger who was also arrested, apparently unconscious, at the scene.
Did you speak to the Superhero, Bob?
Avalanche told us that he yet hopes to save the world and warns that, and I quote, if more people stand idly by, civilization itself will come to an end. The spirits of his ancestors have sent warnings to Avalanche, otherwise known as Tony Ohanka Williams. He said that criminals already feel free to walk the city unchallenged and that he himself would not tolerate that. And why, he asked, do you?
Good question, Bob. The crime on our streets seems worse every day, and yet, what are the police and local government doing to stop it? This report coming up, after these messages.
Year 1: Sam
Sam was ill at ease and he wasn't sure why.
The hospital appeared to be functioning normally. The knife-cut to his forearm was clean and stitched and bandaged. The old guy who thought all the police were Soviet spies was secure and was no longer Sam's problem. Sam had gotten the doc to pass him fit for duty and was on his way back to work but something made him move slowly and pay close attention to his surroundings. Maybe he was linking the crazy guy to that stuff in the news. Just paranoia, he knew. Everything was fine. One small town in the middle of nowhere. It was nothing.
A shrill laugh sounded down the length of a corridor, shutting off abruptly as an orderly came through the swinging door. It was nothing.
“That's a nasty burn,” the doctor sounded professionally concerned, but there was an edge to his voice that snagged Sam's attention. He glanced that way as he tried to pin down what was bothering him. He wouldn't go anywhere until he knew what it was. Like a shepherd who had scented a wolf, he was alert to a threat to his people and he wouldn't rest until he had dealt with the problem.
Accident and Emergency was fairly busy, he conceded, but that might not mean anything.
“Had that tattoo forty seven years,” the old guy shook his head sadly as he looked at his arm while the doctor tended the livid burn. “Never knew there was a demon hiding in it.”
Sam and the doctor exchanged a silent glance before the doctor went back to work on the arm. “How did you get the burn?”
“Flat iron,” the old man said without a qualm. “Damn demon screamed and hollered all the way 'til I'd burned out the last of it. Forty seven years my luck’s been rotten and I never knew the cause 'til I heard it whispering and laughing at me.”
Sam frowned in mild concern. Coincidence. Had to be. Two crazy guys in one day was just a coincidence. The doctor could handle it, he decided, but he would hold on a while just in case. He drifted away; heard the doc suggest a psych evaluation and the old guy’s snort of derision at the idea. Across the room a pregnant woman struggled with a man who was trying hard to be gentle with her even as he forced her through the doors. Sam sped up on instinct, already alert, knowing there was a problem even before he got close and heard what she was saying. “Get it out of me,” she was saying, “it's an alien, it's an alien, get it out of me get it out of me get it out of me!”
Three crazy people, Sam thought, three crazy people might not be a coincidence.
He slipped the in-ear monitor back in place and turned on his radio.