Dangerous
Delusions
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.
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