The Supernaturalist by Eoin Colfer
The Parasites! Cosmo had almost forgotten about them. Would they be waiting? How would he react when they came face to face again?
He trotted across the second bridge; already the fear had diminished. Cosmo didn’t think he would ever be comfortable scooting around the rooftops, but at least he wasn’t paralyzed by terror.
Mona jogged beside him. “Look,” she said, between breaths. “All around us. Can you see, Cosmo?”
Cosmo did see. Dozens of the blue creatures were scurrying across the rooftops, being drawn to a single point like dirt down a plughole. There are so many. His thoughts seemed as breathless as his lungs. There must be thousands. But he kept going forward, in spite of the instinct to turn and flee.
One block south, two penthouse apartments were skewed off vertical, both still attempting to occupy the same slot of the Stromberg Building. Gigantic gears groaned, and electrical fires licked the side of the building. The Parasites leaped effortlessly across the divide, crawling into the residential units.
“We’re going over there?” said Cosmo incredulously.
Stefan nodded brusquely. “Yes. And quickly. The TV birds are closing in, and I hear sirens.”
Cosmo heard the sirens too. The steady woo-woo of the police, and the strident bips of the legal firms. The bips were louder. They had a couple of minutes at the most.
Mona laid down a bridge, stepping to one side.
Stefan drew his lightning rod, priming it. “Okay, everybody, we go in through the roof box. We take one apartment only. Thirty seconds and we’re out of there. I want us all miles away by the time the Stromberg Privates get on this roof. Clear?”
“Clear!” shouted Cosmo, having seen it on TV. Mona and Ditto simply nodded, priming their own weapons.
Stefan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, Cosmo. Remember, don’t worry about the Parasites, they don’t fight back, so long as you’re not injured. Worry about the lawyers and private police. They fight dirty.”
“Okay.”
Mona punched him on the shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Cosmo. I’ll look out for you.”
They crossed the final bridge. Cosmo could feel his ribcage shudder as his heart beat against it. The only thing that kept him going was a feeling that none of this was actually happening. In reality he was probably lying in a hospital somewhere, heavily sedated, with Marshal Redwood looming over him. Might as well enjoy this dreamworld while it lasted. Think of it as a video game. Go in, blast a few aliens, and compare scores later.
The rooftop’s surface was irregular, buckled by mammoth gear cogs. Steam and hot-oil geysers spouted from rents in the concrete. The stairwell was blocked by mangled steps. Stefan wrapped a length of burn tape around the metal struts. Burn tape had been developed for logging companies in South America before it became illegal to use wood as a building material. “Cover your eyes.”
Cosmo obeyed, a split second too late. Stefan snapped the fuse, igniting a magnesium strip that glowed brilliant white and fuelled an oxyacetylene balloon. The tape cut through the metal struts like a wire through cheese, and Cosmo would have the image burnt into his retinas for several minutes. A section of stairs dropped into the shaft, blocking the lower levels.
“Bridges,” said Stefan.
The team members hooked the instruments over sections of banister, and expertly steered them down to the chaos below. One by one they descended into the unstable penthouse. Cosmo climbed down last on Mona’s ladder, blinking stars from his eyes.
He stepped into pandemonium. People fled in panicked droves to the fire escape, oblivious to the blue creatures clinging curiously to the walls. Not everybody was oblivious. Stefan drew his lightning rod and started blasting. Parasites exploded in azure bubbles, bouncing around the confined space like pinballs. They made no sound and showed no surprise, simply swelled and popped.
Mona began firing with deadly accuracy, also with a stream of Spanish words that Cosmo suspected were not taught in kindergarten. She quickly cleared one wall of any remaining creatures, then shouldered her way through the melee to the displaced apartments.
Cosmo drew his own rod, primed it, aimed, and hesitated. The Parasites regarded him through round eyes, heads cocked. Alive. He couldn’t do it. Not even the memory of the blue creature crouched on his chest, sucking his very life force, could make him push the button.
At the corridor’s end, the apartment hadn’t managed to lock into place. A six-foot gap yawned between it and the main structure. Stefan cast a bridge across, using it to winch in the wayward apartment. Parasites flowed around him, eager to reach the wounded.
The youth looked back.
“Thirty seconds, remember?” he said. His eyes were wide, possessed. Only one thing was important to him now.
He ran across the bridge, blasting as he went. His team followed into the lion’s den. The apartment had obviously been struck with considerable force. Every stick of furniture was piled up against one wall. TVs, chairs, and domestic robots were reduced to little more than wires and sticks.
The people hadn’t fared much better. At least a dozen assorted men, women, and children were heaped in one corner of the room, limbs entangled. The Parasites were all over them like flies on meat, hungrily devouring their life force.
Cosmo’s doubt disappeared. He pointed his lightning rod at the nearest blue creature and pressed the red button. There was surprisingly little kick from the rod—it was almost like a toy. But the effect was anything but playful. The charge scorched the air as it passed, sinking into the Parasite’s midsection. The creature absorbed every volt, conducting not a spark to its victim. Its greed for energy was its undoing. The blast pumped it up beyond its limit, shattering the creature into a dozen spark-filled orbs.
Ditto was not shooting. He was the medic, doing what he could for the injured. He pulled gashes together with staples, doused open wounds with antiseptic disinfectant, and poured liquid painkiller down the throats of the conscious. For some it was too late.
Ditto placed his hand over the heart of an elderly man. “Shock,” he said sadly. “Just shock.”
Mona was half ninja, half gunslinger, popping off charge after charge into the blue creatures. She never missed. In moments the swaying room was filled with blue bubbles, like party balloons. They rose to the ceiling and melted through with an electric fizz.
Cosmo fired again, and again. The Supernaturalists were right. The creatures were sucking the life from these unfortunate people. And he had never known. Never seen. How could they beat adversaries like these?
Mona appeared at his shoulder, her chin sunburned by muzzle flash. “Chin up, Cosmo. You just saved a life.”
That was the way to keep going. Save one life at a time. Cosmo took aim at a creature glowing silver from absorbed life force. He fired. The creature dissolved into bubbles.
The floor beneath their feet suddenly began heating up. Cosmo’s rubber-soled boots left melting strings where he stepped. “The floor is burning!” he yelled.
Stefan laid a palm on the carpet. “Lawyers,” he pronounced. “They’re coming through the floor. We blocked the stairwell. Time to go.”
“But the Parasites! There are more.”
Stefan grabbed Cosmo by the lapel. “We’ve done what we can. If you get arrested, you can’t help anybody.”
An orange cutter beam erupted through the flooring, an inch from Cosmo’s foot, carving out a small circle in the surface. The beam withdrew, to be replaced by a fiber-optic camera.
Mona grabbed the cable, yanking it repeatedly until the cable separated from its box. “Wrap it up. It’s time to leave!”
The cutter beam reappeared, this time glowing blue for a quick burn. The harsh clicks of several guns being loaded emanated from the hole.
Stefan lead the retreat, shooting as he went. To the residents the Supernaturalists must have seemed crazed. Shooting at nothing, into the air, when there were people to be helped.
They traversed the retractable bridge into the ma
“You there!” he shouted. “Do not flee the scene of an accident. There are waivers to be signed.”
“Keep going,” urged Ditto. “These guys have better equipment than we do.”
The lawyer ripped a Velcro patch from his combat vest, revealing a rappelling spike and coil.
“It is illegal to flee the scene of an accident!” he called. “Freeze! Or the Stromberg Corporation will not be responsible for your injuries.”
The lawyer ducked under the platform’s safety rail and fired the spike through a gap in the twisted stairwell bars. Cosmo ducked, and the spike buried itself in the ceiling overhead. The lawyer smacked a button in the rig, and the spike’s cable reeled him up at high speed. He crashed through two layers of plasterboard, landing in the corridor behind Ditto.
“Freeze, defendant,” he said, leveling a lightning rod. “You have the right to get seriously messed up if you attempt to flee.”
Ditto’s eyes were wide. A perfect imitation of an innocent six-year-old. “Seriously messed up? But, sir, I’m a minor.”
The lawyer snickered. “Not by the time your case gets to court.”
“I object,” said Ditto, head-butting his adversary in the stomach. The stunned lawyer tumbled through the hole in the floor; only his rappelling cord prevented him from plummeting to earth.
Stefan and Mona were already on the roof. “Move it, you two. We’ve got choppers coming in.”
It was a kaleidoscope of chaos. Different crises swirled into Cosmo’s vision and out again before he could deal with any of them. Lethal lawyers and a belligerent Bartoli baby. Life-sucking Parasites and now helicopters. All because they were trying to help people. Wasn’t there someone they could tell?
Cosmo scrambled up the bridge onto the rooftop. The night sky was alive with converging choppers. Dozens of searchlights strobed the building. Most were TV birds. Disasters were big news. Even small ones like this would be sure to headline every bulletin.
Mona and Stefan were crouched by the lip of the Stromberg Building. Stefan took a shockproof walkie-talkie from his belt, switching the volume setting to high. He threw the radio onto an adjacent building. “We need a bridge,” said Stefan. “Mona?”
“Not me. I already put down three. I’m almost out of gas.”
“Ditto?”
“Same here.”
Stefan kneaded his forehead. “Cosmo. Bridge. Now.”
“Me?”
“No time like the present. No one else has enough juice for a big gap. And there isn’t time to switch cannisters.”
The rookie Supernaturalist lifted his bridge from its rack on his back. It seemed simple enough: stand on the bar, shoot the nose out and guide it with the cable. Not as easy as falling off a building, but easier than threading a needle with spaghetti.
He stood on the bar.
“Put your heel behind it,” advised Mona. “Use your weight as an anchor.”
He shifted his foot.
“Keep the nose up, better to overshoot.”
Nose up. Okay.
Noises from below. Shouted commands and the thud of boots running.
“They’re coming.”
Cosmo wrapped his fingers around the reel, and fired. The bridge recoiled against his foot, sending tremors through his new kneecap. He ignored the pain, concentrating on steering the nose. It was heavier than it looked, and wilder. Twisting in the high-altitude wind. Cosmo leaned back on the cord, hauling the nose up. Then it was over, two feet clear of the next building. Cosmo relaxed, and the bridge touched down with a clang, two hooked grippers sprouting from the far end.
The team did not waste time on congratulations, bolting across to the safety of the next rooftop. Cosmo followed, stowing the bridge with the touch of a button.
Mona’s smile shone from the shadows. “Not too bad for your first time, Cosmo.”
Ditto smiled too. “Not too bad? The first time Mona laid down a bridge, we had to cut the cord, or it would have dragged her over the edge.”
Mona frowned. “Yes, well at least I’m tall enough to steer a ladder across a big gap.”
“Quiet!” ordered Stefan. “Company.”
The legal team was rappelling onto the adjacent roof, sliding through the wrecked roof box. Shoulder-mounted lights poked through the hole like wartime searchlights. Several lawyers were switching their shrink-wrap cartridges for illegal lethal ammunition belts.
The squadron assembled in a loose circle, searching for signs of their quarry.
Stefan whispered into a second walkie-talkie.
“Everybody down: lawyers on the roof.” The sentence was picked up by the first radio, two roofs away, and amplified so that it was clearly audible.
“This way,” barked the legal leader. “Don’t interrogate anyone until they’ve signed a waiver.”
The lawyers rappelled after the sound of Stefan’s voice. They were gung-ho now, but would shortly feel very stupid.
Ditto chuckled. “The oldest trick in the book. We have a crate of those walkie-talkies in the warehouse. I remember when lawyers were smarter.”
Mona peeped over the rim. “Some of them still are.”
Two of the lawyers were coming their way, lightning-rod rifles drawn tight against their shoulders.
“Beautiful equipment,” said Ditto. “Those rappelling rigs are hands-free. And the rods can shoot forever. Nothing short of an electro magnetic pulse will stop those weapons firing.”
Cosmo was too busy being scared to admire their equipment. “They’re coming. What are we going to do?”
Stefan unhooked his backpack, placing his lightning rod on the roof. “We surrender.”
Mona grinned. “Watch this, Cosmo. A thing of beauty.”
Cosmo noticed that both Mona and Ditto were switching cartridges in their weapons.
Stefan rose slowly to his feet, hands raised high above his head. “Don’t shoot!” he cried. “I’m unarmed.”
The lawyers split apart, becoming two targets. Both guns were pointed at Stefan’s head. “You fled the scene!” one shouted across the divide. “We’re legally entitled to wrap you.”
“I know, but come on, guys. I just wanted to see the show. I didn’t touch anything. Anyway, my Dad’s an ambassador. We have diplomatic immunity.”
The lawyers started. Diplomatic immunity had become more or less redundant since the One World treaty, but there was still the odd remote republic that held on to its rights. If you wrapped a genuine diplomat, you’d spend the next five years in court and the twenty after that in prison.
“If you have diplomatic immunity, why are you wearing that fuzz plate?” Fuzz plate was the slang for the night-vision masks Stefan and his team were wearing. The low-level radiation in the plastic meant that they could not only repel X-rays but also wipe video. Even if the Supernaturalists were caught on camera, their heads would show up as static fuzz.
“Ultraviolet protection, that’s all. I swear. I don’t want to get my brain fried.”
One of the lawyers cocked his weapon. “UV? At night? Okay, Mister Diplomatic Immunity. Let’s see some diplomatic identification. And it had better not be fake, or you won’t see a vat until morning.”
Stefan reached inside his overcoat and, using two fingers only, withdrew an ID card. “I’m going to throw it across. Ready? Don’t get trigger-happy. My Dad knows Mayor Shine.”
“One hand. Put the other one on top of your head.”
Stefan did as he was told, flicking the ID card high into to air. The wind caught it, spinning the plastic rectangle another twenty yards up.
“Moron,” said lawyer number one, his eyes tracking the card.
“I got it,” said number two.
At that moment, while both lawyers were watching the card, Ditto an
Two green slugs sped across to the Stromberg Building, viscous trails in their wake. They splatted onto the lawyers’ visors, spreading green goo across the lawyers’ heads and shoulders. The two rapid-response lawyers keeled over, clawing at the blinding gunk on their visors.
“Gumballs,” explained Mona, smiling her dazzling smile. “The most disgusting substance on the planet. Those helmets are history. I got clipped with a gumball one time, ruined my favorite flak jacket. Those guys are out of the game until their squad shows up.”
Stefan watched the blank plastic card spiral toward the streets of Satellite City. Then his phone pulsed gently in his pocket. He pulled it out, consulting the small screen.
“A message from the computer. A citizen has pressed her panic button down on Journey and Eighth. Let’s go. We’ll take the street.”
“One second,” said Ditto. He laid down a bridge and quickly relieved the struggling lawyers of their rapelling rigs and weapons. The Supernaturalists were on a budget, and this equipment was too good to pass up. In seconds, the Bartoli baby was back with the rest.
“I thought you were out of gas,” Cosmo said accusingly.
Ditto shrugged. “Out of gas? Me? I did say that, didn’t I? Well, you learned, didn’t you? And nobody got killed.”
The Supernaturalists packed up, stowing bridges and holstering their lightning rods. Cosmo followed suit, his heart somewhere between his stomach and throat. The others seemed completely calm, oblivious to the insanity of their nighttime pursuits. Maybe they had been hunting the Parasites for so long that this was a normal night for them. Or maybe, and much more likely, they were all crazy.
Cosmo tightened the belt on his backpack, following Ditto through the roof-box door.
That meant he was crazy, too.
CHAPTER 4
The Big Pig
The Supernaturalists stumbled back to the warehouse at five A.M. The panic button on Journey Avenue had been a false alarm. Some old guy had stuck his hand in the microwave while it was still on, setting off his personal alarm. Many citizens carried personal alarms that could be activated in the event of danger or illness, summoning a protection or medical team. It was expensive, but private teams arrived on average two minutes ahead of the city police. And that two minutes could mean the difference between life and death.