Strike 3: The Returning Sunrise (3 page)

On a rainy, sunless August day, Chad Fernandes sat with his friend Jennifer Robins and watched the evening news in the living room of
Chad
’s family’s house. As had been the case pretty much every day for the past two months, the news was not good, and nobody spoke while it was on.

“It has been over two months,” the reporter on TV said, as she stood a safe distance from the purple-and-black, swirling dome of gas that had surrounded
Boston
since the beginning of June, “and yet still there has been no progress made in either figuring out what the dome is or how to get through it.” Behind the reporter,
Chad
and Jennifer could see the streets lined with tourists, with their cameras and cell phones, trying to get a closer look at the dome. Policemen were trying to keep the crowd in check, and they were especially making sure that nobody went past the barricade that marked the area that the
U.S.
government and
Boston
police had decided was a safe distance for them to stand. Past the barricade, endless vehicles of the
United States
military could be seen—armored vans and green trucks and tanks—along with hundreds of soldiers, policemen, and construction workers, who were building the elevated, steel working stations set up around the dome. Most importantly, scientists from NASA and other space research agencies from around the world could be seen testing the walls of the dome, taking readings and trying—desperately trying—to find a way to cut through the poisonous gas and smog that seemed to be miles thick and in some places as hard as diamond.

The reporter continued her story. “The only good news, the president said today, is that it’s estimated that 99% of the people inside of the dome have now been released. By whom and for what purpose, we do not know, as it seems those inside the dome during its initial appearance were kept in windowless, artificial structures during the invasion, before ultimately being set free outside the perimeters of the dome.

“Unfortunately, endless questions remain: we have no idea what is going on inside of the dome, there is apparently still no way to get into the dome from the outside, and there is still no explanation about how the otherworldly dome was created or where it came from. We can now only wait to see if these mysteries are ever solved.”

Chad
sat back on the couch with an exhausted sigh. He glanced to his right at Jennifer next to him. She was sitting quietly, with her eyes toward the TV but her thoughts clearly on something—and someone—else. Out of all of
Chad
’s family and friends, Jennifer talked about the dome the least. Only
Chad
knew the reason why, because only him and Jennifer knew the truth.

From the kitchen behind
Chad
and
Jennifer
,
Chad
’s father stepped into the living room, with his bowl of ice cream in one hand and the sports section of the Bridgton Herald in the other.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps saying we don’t know where the dome came from,”
Chad
’s father said, shaking his head. “We know damn well where it came from.”

“Well, Dad, we don’t know for sure,”
Chad
replied.

Chad
’s father sat down in his recliner. “Sure we do!  That cabeza de nob Strike put it there!”

Jennifer knew
Chad
’s father only used Portuguese insults when he was really angry, but she couldn’t help but speak up. “I really don’t think it was Strike, Mr. Fernandes. There’s no proof, and I just don’t think he would do that.”

“You don’t?”
Chad
’s father said. “I saw it with my own eyes—millions of other people, from all around the world, saw it, too! Strike stood in the middle of
Boston
and the next thing we knew, it was the end of the damn world.”

“But why would he do that after helping the people of
Boston
and fighting crime all this time?”
Chad
asked, growing frustrated.

His father shrugged. “I never liked that guy anyway. Running around in that outfit, being a vigilante, going outside of the law. Clearly this was his plan all along.”

Chad
closed his eyes. “Dad, I really don’t want to get into this again. I’m not gonna fight with you about this every day for the rest of our lives. All I’m gonna say is, I know—for a fact—that the person who did this wasn’t Strike.”

Chad
’s father laughed. “Oh, yeah? Really? Okay, then, if it wasn’t Strike, if he’s not in that dome, then where is he?”

Jennifer looked to
Chad
. Each of the two friends knew the answer, but both of them knew they could never tell a soul.

***

A world away, across the universe, Tobin Lloyd sped down a cracked, deserted highway, with his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel in front of him and his eyes fixed on the dark road. The eighteen-year-old boy was dressed in his Strike costume—with his black cape on his back, white lightning bolt on his chest, and blue mask over the lower part of his face—while his vehicle—the transforming, aqua, 2002 Ford Escort station wagon known as the Bolt Racer—was currently in its “Ion Speeder” form: it was a sleek, midnight blue, ultra-fast sports car, which could reach speeds of up to 200 miles per hour while still handling like a BMW. This feature of the transforming vehicle was perfect at the moment, because Tobin knew where he was headed, he was going to have to get in and out as fast as he could.  

Traveling on the empty stretch of highway that apparently hadn’t been paved in over a century, Tobin was in a virtually unknown area of Capricious, surrounded by foreboding dark mountains, endless canyons, and a roaring ocean. After traveling for over two hours, the boy finally saw the faint light of a settlement in the distance up ahead. Reaching forward, he pushed a blue button on the Bolt Racer control panel in front of him.

“Scatterbolt, am I coming up on my destination?”

The face of Tobin’s robotic friend Scatterbolt appeared on a rectangular screen near the steering wheel. The little boy made out of purple and green, shimmering metal was very worried.

“Yes, Tobin, you are, but I need to remind you to please be very careful. You’re heading into a part of Capricious that is barely on any kind of map. It’s incredibly dangerous to ever go there, never mind alone.”

Tobin laughed. You could always count on Scatterbolt to worry. Although this time, Tobin knew the robot actually had a reason to be concerned.

“I’ll be fine, Scatterbolt. Don’t worry about me, just remember one thing.”

“I know, I know: don’t tell Orion where you are.”

“That’s right. I’ll see you soon, buddy.”

“Yeah, great,” Scatterbolt said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll just be sitting here with my terrible secret, worrying myself into an ulcer. I don’t know if it’s possible for a robot to get an ulcer, but if it is, I’ll definitely be getting one.”

Tobin chuckled and turned off the communicator. Looking out his windshield, he saw a line of wooden buildings ahead, resting in the middle of one of the canyons, before looking down to the map screen on his dashboard.  “Yup, there it is,” he said to himself. “Daxtonville. A hellhole at the end of Capricious.”

To be truthful, to call Daxtonville a “hellhole” would be an insult to both the word “hell” and “hole.” It was a horrendous little town—a long, grimy street with dingy, wooden tenement buildings on either side of it, with both the street and the structures untouched for decades. Most of the buildings were abandoned—or appeared that way, anyway, with broken windows and doors hanging off their hinges. There wasn’t a tree, or a blade of grass, in sight.

It was a place you went to if you never wanted to be seen again, because you had done things you didn’t want people to ever know about. The people of the town—and when speaking about Daxtonville, that term was used very loosely—milled about the dirty street, in various stages of drunkenness, illness, and death. To live in this dark corner of the world, it was pretty much a prerequisite to have either murdered or maimed someone, possess less than half of your teeth, and bathe less than once a month, and it was exactly these type of people that Tobin saw as he drove the Bolt Racer closer to the city limits.

It was a group of a dozen men gathered around a burning trash barrel in the middle of the road, entertaining themselves by tossing grimy glass bottles and firing their pistols at an unconscious elderly man lying in the gutter. Tobin knew these were the men he was looking for; once known as the Bronk Gang, decades ago they had been a group of world-famous bank robbers—even folk heroes in some parts of the world—but now they were simply a sad squadron of has-beens and low-lives, devolved into a state of putrid filth thanks to a lifetime of drugs, booze, and increasingly violent and desperate criminal activity.

As Strike stopped the engine of the Bolt Racer and stepped onto the dirt road, the leader of the gang—a dark-haired, grimy-faced man named Sal—turned away from the old man they were tormenting and faced the hero. Laughing loudly, he pointed his gloved finger at Strike.

“Hey, look who it is, fellas!” he shouted. “It’s the hero boy from Earth! Or, wait—maybe that’s his evil twin?”

The rest of the drunks turned and laughed at Strike, swinging their bottles of booze in the air and offering him a toast. Strike had no reaction. He simply stood a few feet away from the drunks and stared them down.

“What are you doing here, buddy?” Sal asked, taking a drunken step toward Strike. “Come to hang out with a few like-minded murderers like yourself?”

“No,” Strike replied. “I’m here to tell you two things. One— bathing. It’s refreshing, it’s easy, and it can even be a lot of fun. Two—and most importantly—one of you is going to tell me where I can find Charlotte Vendorsworth. And, as a bonus, whoever steps forward, I’ll even let them in on the secret world of teeth brushing.”

One of the gang members behind Sal—a skinny guy named Evan—piped up.

“Who you lookin’ for?” he asked with a confused snarl. “Man, we don’t know no Charlotte Vendorsworth. I got a couple other girls you can have some fun with, though, if you’re interested.”

The drunks all laughed, falling over each other and gulping from their bottles of whiskey.

“You know Charlotte Vendorsworth,” Strike replied. “She calls herself the Time Queen.” He grew angry, raising his voice. “Where can I find her?”

Sal laughed. “Man, you ain’t been paying attention, Strikey. None of us are scared of you anymore. We know what’s going on on your other world. Word gets around fast in our community. We know what the Daybreaker’s doing, we know what you’re capable of: taking over entire cities, enslaving people, shooting helicopters full of cops out of the sky—you’re practically one of us. We ain’t afraid of you—we wanna have a drink with you.”

The gang members laughed louder than ever, toasting their bottles and high-fiving one another. Evan and another gang member, Rusty, walked up behind Sal and patted him on the back, congratulating him for standing up to Strike.

Strike watched the gang for a moment, in silence, before rearing back and swinging his electrified bo-staff across Evan’s mouth. Evan bellowed in pain and grabbed his face, falling to the ground on his knees, with blood running down his hands and the few remaining teeth in his mouth dropping from his lips. The other drunks cringed, suddenly no longer laughing.

Infuriated, Rusty reached for his pistol on his waist, but Strike immediately extended his fingers and threw a sphere of ball-lightning at the thug; the snapping ball of energy hit the pistol and exploded in a blue flash, sending Rusty to the dirt, screaming, with his pistol destroyed and his hand smoking and covered in soot.

Taking advantage of Strike’s distraction, another drunk gang member approached him from behind with a broken bottle, but Strike swiftly spun around and kicked him across the jaw. Knowing his back was now to his enemy, Strike turned around, only to see another thug—a tall, muscular man in a torn motorcycle jacket—coming at him with a knife. Strike dodged the slash of the knife, grabbed the man by his jacket collar, spun him around, and, just at the height of his momentum, let go, tossing the thug like an Olympian throwing a discus. As the thug screamed, his body spun through the air in a blue flash, before crashing to the earth fifty feet away, tumbling over itself in the dirt of the canyon.

Completely unfazed by any of the attacks, Strike pushed forward through the remaining drunks, who were now standing away from him, with their jaws dropped open. Finally, Strike reached the leader of the gang—the no longer smug-and-smiling Sal.

“No, no,” Sal stammered. “C’mon, man...don’t…”

Reaching forward with both hands, Strike grabbed Sal by the lapels of his jacket and walked with him toward the end of the street. Reaching the edge of a cliff, Strike stepped forward and lifted Sal up, holding him out in the open air over the canyon. As Sal struggled to free himself, with his legs waving wildly, he looked down: the bottom of the cliff was hundreds of feet down, surrounded by jagged rocks and a raging river.