The blade was long and thin, and had been sharpened so often it was little more than a shadow of what it had once been. The needle-sharp point was currently pressed so deep into Russell’s neck that a single drop of blood was trickling down his flesh. He swallowed nervously, wincing as the move brought yet another bead of crimson to the surface. Russell found himself, for the first time in his life, truly contemplating the nature of Death. He thought about what it would mean if this crazy person who stood over his kneeling form actually did kill him; considered the long-term implications of what that would mean for everyone he knew. He thought of the things he had not done in his life and prayed that he would get a chance to do them. He discovered he did not like the feelings the contemplation engendered.

“Look, I—I don’t have any money. What do you want?” Russell asked. The shaded face barely moved as a giggle erupted from within the dark blue hoodie. No words came from the man with the knife, but a bass voice rumbled from behind Russell.

“Didn’t come for your money,” the voice said. “Came for you.”

Their arrival had been unexpected and marked by a level of violence that shocked the accountant. He had heard of home invasions before, but learning of them on the news and experiencing one first hand were two entirely different things. What had been a simple academic understanding of how something could occur had now become a very concrete example of the terror evoked by the act itself. The youth in the sweat jacket on his porch had looked sad enough through the peephole, but once Russell opened the door, the teen had erupted into action with a flurry of hand strikes and kicks that had put Russell onto the floor in seconds. A second man followed the teen into the house, but Russell’s vision had been clouded by tears and he had seen only a dark shape. He guessed it was this one that had taken up residence behind him as the young one placed a knife to his throat.

“For me? Why?” he asked.

“You know why, Russell. Same reason there are people paying a visit to your friends Flora and Stephen. Same reason they are going to be found rather messily dead by the morning.”

The color drained from Russell’s face at the words and he gulped for air, ignoring the way the blade spiked into him. He tried to stand from the kneeling position into which he had been forced by the knife-wielding man. A heavy hand on his shoulder held him in place.

“I—I can—” he began, voice cracking, but a low chuckle from behind him cut his offer short.

“There is nothing you can offer us, Russell. We want nothing from you or from your kind.”

“Except to watch you bleed,” threw in the shadowy figure with the knife as he giggled again. He poked the weapon again at Russell to emphasize his words, driving the point into the tender flesh of his neck once more.

“P-please, I just...I just wanted to—to help them,” Russell stammered. There were now slow streams of blood running down the sides of his neck.

“Nice to know. Maybe if you had kept your nose out of business that did not concern you, this would not have become an issue,” declared the hidden person behind Russell.

“But it did...” Russell protested weakly.

“Did what?

“It concerned me.”

“Yeah? Sucks to be you, pal,” said the teenaged bladesman. He pushed forward and twisted with the knife, slicing a thin line that welled up with blood.

“No!” ordered the bass voice. “Do not cut him yet.”

Russell let out an agonized breath and tried to turn to regard the man who was both his captor and savior. He found a slight glimmer of hope in the words. His head made part of the turn and he tried to smile in a friendly manner, hoping that it would earn him some sort of reprieve. A hissing noise came from the darkness and Russell’s world erupted in fiery pain, his eyes tearing and snapping shut at the same time that his nose swelled and he tried desperately to cry out. The only sound was a sickening gurgling noise and he collapsed to the floor in a fetal curl, hands pawing ineffectually at his face in reaction to the chemical spray.

“A quick taste of the Hell into which you will descend,” intoned the man with the bass voice. He took a half-step backward and then slammed a well-polished shoe into Russell’s abdomen. He laughed aloud at the squeaking groan that escaped Russell’s lips.

“Now you cut him,” the man said. “And Jerry? Make it last.”

As Russell heard the laughing of the two men and felt the first icy kiss of the blade on the side of his face, he realized that his contemplation of death was far from complete.

*****

East of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma—

“Goddamned bouncy-ass road,” muttered Traci. She fought the wheel of the old Econoline van as the wheels dropped into a series of potholes, one after another, sending clouds of reddish dust puffing up to join the tall column that seemed to pursue the Ford down the roadway. She wondered idly if speeding up would make the trip easier as the wheels would have less time to be in the holes, or if slowing down would allow them to more easily rock with the pits into which the tires fell and therefore cushion her ride. In the end she decided it was irrelevant; they would make their destination despite bumping up and down on the back-ass country road that led to and from Marshall’s house.

“Sorry, kid. I always said if I won the lottery I’d pay to have it paved,” replied Marshall. The bright sunlight reflected off the mirrored lenses of his wraparound sunglasses as he turned to regard her from his position in the passengers’ seat. His lips spread in a sheepish smile after the comment.

“Yeah. No worries,” Traci said, dismissing the statement with a casual wave. “Been on worse.”

“Ain’t we all?” Marshall agreed, the smile flowing into an easy grin. “Rolled down some piece of shit outside of Fallujah once—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Traci urged, shaking her head in short, sharp jerks. Her throat worked as she swallowed twice.

“Sorry,” Marshall said before he fell silent, nodding his head. He was used to being around people who swapped war stories as casually as some others might exchange recipes, and he forgot sometimes that there were people who did not want to hear about his experiences. People who might have a reason for not enjoying said stories. People who, instead of a long-awaited homecoming with their husband, got a casket draped with a flag delivered—along with a quiet notice to the funeral home to not open it.

People like Traci Ramirez.

They rode in silence for several miles after reaching a paved road, and Marshall was content to watch the scenery roll by. Usually when he left his home he was driving, and rarely did he take the time to just enjoy the view. His eyes lingered on the flash of a yellow-petalled wildflower for the brief seconds it took to pass.

“Sorry, man,” Traci said, her voice low. “Just not a good day.”

“It’s chill, kid. I get it. I ain’t the most fun to be around sometimes.”

“I’m just on edge right now.”

“Hey, I mean it. It’s nothing.”

“No,” Traci insisted. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. To deal with the bad feeling stuff,” Marshall said, tapping with his foot at the black nylon duffel in the floor.

Traci grinned despite her apprehension. “I know. If we run into any mammoths or anything, you’re ready for them.”

“That’s me, kid. Marshall the Mammoth Mangler.”

“Well, keep it in your pants,” she urged as she guided the van through a left turn onto what passed for a residential street. Houses here were separated by no more than three to four hundred yards. “This guy’s supposed to be pretty big.”

“Hence the van?”

“Hence the van.”

Marshall leaned forward, scanning the house numbers on mailboxes as they passed. “6204 coming up,” he advised. Traci nodded and a moment later drove the van into a driveway attached to a grey one-story with the blinds closed in every window. She started to open her door, but Marshall restrained her with a cautionary hand.

“Look,” he said, gesturing toward the front of the house. The main door hung open at an odd angle, attached to the frame by only one hinge. Marshall reached into his bag, withdrawing a heavy submachinegun. Two long, curved magazines extended from the well of the weapon, each clipped to the other to allow for a rapid reload. A powerful light was clamped to the front of the foregrip. Marshall grabbed a pair of spare magazines from the duffel and tucked them into a back pocket, then pulled his shirt up to expose the matte-black butt of a large bore automatic pistol holstered on his right hip.

“Stay here,” he ordered, drawing the pistol and placing it on the seat beside Traci. “Watch your ass.”

“You might need—”

“No. This is my job. Stay ready to roll out.”

Without waiting to see if Traci would respond or follow his order, Marshall slipped out of his side of the van and sprinted to the door, his body held in a low crouch. He paused for a second at the doorway, listening for any sounds of activity within the home, then darted through the portal and scanned across the room through the holographic sight atop his weapon. He kept the abbreviated butt of the weapon to his shoulder and turned his body from the waist so that where he looked, so too did the muzzle of his submachinegun cover.

That a struggle had taken place within the house would have been apparent to anyone looking, even had they not been in as many battle-ravaged houses as had Marshall Evans. In the living room, the coffee table had been flipped over, allowing two mugs of coffee to stain the carpet. The couch had moved, as evidenced by the angle at which it sat to the wall-mounted television. Marshall could see the rings in the floor where the legs of the couch had resided. Books had been knocked clear of a shelf, and some kind of glass figurines had shattered into glittering fragments. He continued into a hallway, pivoting to his right to clear a room. A chest of drawers lay on its face near one wall, and the bedclothes were splashed with a dark liquid. The scent alone was enough to verify to Marshall that the liquid was blood, and the amount left him wondering where the body had gone. Only one member of the household was of real concern to him, and he kept moving in hopes of finding them. A death’s-head grin split his features as he moved from room to room in a series of motions that—through harsh, bloody experience—had become almost second nature to him.

The bathroom answered his earlier question and all that had come to his mind since. Four bodies were in the floor. Two had been executed in a kneeling position with what appeared to Marshall to have been single gunshots to the base of the skull. One had suffered multiple slashing wounds to the torso, and Marshall’s quick guess was that he had been the man in the bedroom. The fourth—and a glance at the six-foot-plus, three-hundred-pound teen with malformed hands and faintly azure-tinted skin told Marshall that this was his target—had been shot through both eyes. The back of his skull was an open crater.

“Shit,” Marshall muttered. Supporting his weapon in one hand, he used his cell phone camera to snap a dozen pictures of the carnage, carefully framing two closeups on the face and the back of the head of the booster that had been his assignment. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he turned and made his way back out of the home.

“Go go go go go,” he urged as he jumped into the seat, snatching at the door to close it. Traci looked at him with a mixture of horror and confusion apparent in her expression, but obeyed his command, jerking the gearshift lever and moving the van out of the drive in a rush. Marshall scanned their surroundings as they moved, his hands keeping the submachinegun ready to fire.

“Somebody whacked ‘em,” he reported. “The whole family’s dead. Pretty much a pro hit, though it looks like Dad tried to fight ‘em.”

“Gotta ditch the van,” Traci said, accepting his word as gospel. She jerked the wheel hard right, powering them through a turn and onto a main stretch of road. She opened up the engine, biting back another remark as Marshall glanced behind them and finally relaxed a bit. He shoved the submachinegun back into the duffel and retrieved his cell.

“I’ll spread the word,” he said.

*****

Los Angeles, California—

Irene Jacobi had worked in the store for thirty-five years; had been the sole owner for nearly ten. She took pride in the fact that the business had survived a few localized economic depressions along with some national issues. It was a fixture on the block, and even a previous attempt to buy the space by a Boost Coffee franchise had been rebuffed with no hard decision on her part. The store made her feel alive. It was her way of connecting to the community. More than a few of the local kids had received their first employment inside its doors, and that was another source of pride for Irene.

She moved down the length of aisle three, gently rotating the jars and cans to present their labels in an easy-to-read manner. The front door chimed musically, the sound barely covering the quiet music that played over the speakers in the ceiling, and she smiled as she heard Rosa greeting the customers. Irene was reaching for a can of tomato paste that was on its side when she heard the tone of Rosa’s voice change. She could not make out the words, but she recognized the sound of fear when she heard it. In this neighborhood it was a frequent visitor. Leaving the can, she made her way to the end of the aisle as quickly as her arthritic knees would allow.

Four Hispanic teens had entered the store. One of them was leaned across the counter, his right hand tangled in the front of Rosa’s blouse as he tried to drag her closer to him. Two more stood behind him as if guarding him, and the fourth was making a beeline for the beer cooler. One of the guards spotted Irene as she cleared the aisle and came into view.

“There she is,” the youth said, and the one holding Rosa released her to focus his attention on Irene. She recognized his smirking face as Enrique, though she didn’t know his last name. It was enough for her to know that he was from the Lobos. The snarling wolf’s-head design was visible on his left forearm as a black and red tattoo, the eyes a lambent yellow. This was not the first time Enrique and his fellows had made an appearance in the store.

“I told you not to come back in here,” she said, her move now a near-waddle as she put on a burst of speed that left her knees screaming in agony. She shook her finger toward the teen.

“Yeah? And why I’m gonna pay mind to you?” he asked, tucking his thumbs in his belt line and letting his hands hang. The gesture drew attention to the butt of a small revolver in his waistband. “My boys want cerveza.”

“Not from my store,” she snapped, closing now to a point near the youth. The pistol did not seem to cow her in the least, and the ganger took an involuntary half-step backward in the face of her ferocious approach. He was used to having people fear him, and Irene’s reaction was not what he had come to expect. He snatched at te revolver, drawing it with only a little effort expended in getting the cylinder to clear his waistband. Once it was in his hand, his attitude changed and his usual bluster was apparent. He leaned back from the waist, pointing the weapon at her in a grip that held the frame parallel to the floor. She looked into the barrel and paused.

“That’s right, bitch. Not so tough now, are you?” Enrique said.

“She’s just an old lady,” Rosa protested. Enrique did not move, though one of his men—an up-and-comer known simply as Gato—leaped forward, planting his feet on the counter and slapping Rosa across the face. He jumped down into the cashier’s area, forcing the girl out of his way with the presence of his sweating body, and reached for the register.

“I’m thinking this is gonna be some free beer,” he said. He pushed a couple of buttons until the register drawer popped open. A grin split his features and he started ripping the cash from the drawer.

The door chimed again, and the remaining Lobo spun to confront the person who had entered.

Although he was large and broad of build, he appeared to be about fifteen years old, wrapped in a stained and grimy fatigue jacket that once might have been olive drab in color. His hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, looked as though it had not seen soap in a few weeks. Scuffed and worn combat boots made clomping sounds as he stepped fully into the store. Tired eyes the color of dark chocolate looked around and he half-grinned at the scene that was unfolding.

“She’ll make you sweep the floor,” he said in a casual tone. His voice, accented from a Spanish heritage, was rich and deep. “That’s what she did when I tried to boost some bread once.”

“Ain’t nobody asked you, ese,” Pablo, the ganger by the door, declared. He looked askance at the new arrival, snorting in derision as he folded his arms across his chest in a move that made his tattoos flex. “You best get some gone ‘fore we jack your ass up.”

“Yeah. That’s not gonna happen,” the teen said. “I came in to talk to Mrs. Jacobi.”

“Then you gonna die,” Enrique said, swiveling away from menacing Irene to point his weapon at the teen. His eyes went wide as he did so and a muttered curse escaped his lips. The Lobo at the door looked back over his shoulder, unused to hearing the particular tone of voice Enrique seemed to have found.

“Holy shit! It’s the Anvil,” declared the Lobo who had gone for the beer. He dropped the two cases he had been carrying and reached into the rear of his waistband. The ganger inside the cashier’s area was turning to see if he had heard correctly when Enrique let loose with a cracking shot. In the space of seconds, the air inside the store became a deafening howl of gunfire as Enrique and the beer-gathering Lobo opened up. Cordite smoke overlaid every other scent in the building. Pablo, closest to the jacketed teen, threw himself aside hoping to avoid a stray round. He took out a stand of junk food as he rolled away, his arms batting away Twinkies as he tried to see what was occurring. He crossed himself reflexively as he witnessed what he was certain was an impossibility.

The bullets stopped as they touched the teen. There was no ricochet; they did not bounce away at all. They simply stopped moving and then fell to the floor. Pablo was sure he would have heard them rattle were his ears not ringing from the sustained gunshots inside the enclosed area. He had heard tales of this youth, that local street culture had nicknamed the Anvil. The stories said he could walk through gunfire without a scratch; that no one could hurt him. Pablo had always imagined it to be merely the stories that drunken vatos told when they could not explain a missed shot. Until now.

The gunfire ceased as Enrique and the other Lobo fumbled for additional ammunition. Pablo, eager to help and to prove himself better than this freak, jumped to his feet and dropped easily into the boxer’s stance that he had learned from Old Man Escobar. His hands licked out in a rapid ‘one-two’ pattern that had ended more than a couple of fights on the street before they had even really begun. He gasped as his hands touched the cheek of the teen. There was no sensation of impact, and his punches just stopped.

The Anvil winked at him and, in a move as casual as his words had so far been, pushed Pablo with a flat hand in the chest. The entirety of the store seemed to rush past him as he flew backward and slammed into a wall back-first, followed almost immediately by his head slamming against the wood. All the air left his lungs in a rush and spots danced before his eyes for the brief moment before unconsciousness took him.

“I try,” the Anvil said with a shrug. “I really do. I don’t want to mess with you people. I don’t like it.”

He reached out and took Gato by the shirt, lifting him over the counter as easily as the Lobo could have lifted a pack of cigarettes. Placing him gently on the ground, the grip relaxed. Gato stabbed upward with a knife, looking down in shock as it stopped moving when it touched the teen’s abdomen.

“Really?” asked the Anvil, looking down at the sliver of steel in Gato’s now-trembling hand. His tone was incredulous.

Enrique had managed now to slip five more rounds into the scarred .38 snubnose he carried. He started to point it once more, but then seemed to change his mind. Instead of trying to menace the seemingly indestructible youth, he grabbed at the old woman who ran the shop, putting the stubby muzzle of the revolver to her head as he dragged her into a tight embrace.

“Yo, man, you back on up outta here or I’ll blow her head off, man,” he shouted.

The Anvil looked at him for a second, then reached down and took the knife from Gato. He slipped it between his fingers and flexed his hand. The sound of the knife breaking was a sharp metallic noise, and three pieces of steel fell to the floor.

“Every time you shoot me I get stronger,” he declared. As a further demonstration, he gripped a can of the string beans Rosa had been labeling with the square white price tags of the market, squeezing until the metal burst open. Liquids and green bits spurted from his grasp. He grabbed another and repeated the move. “I could do this all day,” he said as his fingers wrapped around a third. His expression took on a predatory edge as his eyes narrowed and a malicious grin spread. As Enrique let his attention lapse, the Anvil snapped the can forward in a blindingly fast throw. It impacted on Enrique’s wrist, snapping the bones there and forcing the revolver away from Irene. Before anyone could react, she darted out of his grasp entirely, shielding herself behind the Anvil. Her shoes squeaked on the wet floor.

“The cops are coming,” the Anvil said, his voice flat. “You’ve got one man out cold back there. You go get him now and maybe you can get away before they show up. If not, well, that’s on you, I guess.”

“I’m gonna find you, maricon,” Enrique hissed, cradling his broken arm. The revolver lay forgotten on the floor. “I’m gonna find you and I’m gonna kill you.”

“I really hope not. Like I said, I don’t like messing with you guys.”

The Lobos made their way to the rear of the store and recovered Pablo, dragging the unconscious ganger out the door with them. A moment later, silence descended upon the store. Rosa looked in awe at the teen who had come to their rescue. Her voice cracked as she thanked him, calling him Anvil. He blushed slightly and his eyes dropped once more toward the floor.

“It’s Roberto, miss. Not Anvil. That is a name for the costumed boosters to use. Here I am just Roberto.”

“And you must not stay here,” Irene told him.

“I know, Mrs. Jacobi. The cops—”

“Not that,” she said. She signalled to Rosa. “Give him the envelope down under the counter.”

Rosa complied, fumbling around until she emerged with a large manila envelope. She stepped from the cashier’s area and presented it to Roberto as Irene gave him a directive..

“You take this and you run, boy. Listen to an old woman who has seen her share of bad things”

“This that school thing you were talking about?” he asked, slipping the seal on the envelope and peering inside. There was a plane ticket in a stiff folder, some folded papers, and the dull green tone of cash. Roberto looked up, shaking his head, only to meet the determined gaze of the woman. She was extending a white plastic bag of food to him as well.

“You take what’s in there, Roberto Sanchez, and you buy yourself some new clothes. Take the ones you have to the laundromat and clean them. There is a room waiting for you at the Motel 6 on Greenbriar, just down the street. Get cleaned up, eat something good and fresh and get some sleep. Tomorrow you get on that plane and you never look back. Someone will come to pick you up at the airport.”

“And what happens when Enrique and the Lobos come calling again?” he asked.

“They won’t,” she told him. “Not for a long time, anyway. They’ll be afraid to face you again, and by the time they realize you’re gone, I’ll be too old to run this place anyway!”

She said the last with a cackling laugh, then put her hand over her mouth. She swallowed and blinked as she looked at him once more.

“Now go, and the next time I hear from you I want it to be Doctor Sanchez.”

Roberto chuckled and turned to leave. Before he could complete the move, Rosa wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close into a warm hug. She breathed another ‘thank you’ into his ear, then held him at arms length for a second as she gazed into his eyes. He could see the gratitude there and nodded. Rosa smiled and patted at his shoulder, giggling at the way her hand just quit moving when she touched him.

“I’ll go,” he told Irene, his eyes sparkling as he looked back from the doorway. “But if you want me to come back, all you have to do is call.”

*****

Hurst Academy, location undisclosed—

Francis Drake looked at the cell phone issued to him by the Department of Justice, his jaw hanging open as he read the internal memo that had been sent to him and every other member of Metahuman Affairs.

“Well, that ain’t good,” he muttered aloud.