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Saturnday No. 15

Death on the Docks by Scott Story - Part VII - Copyright 2008 Story Studios LLC.  All rights reserved.

 

From their vantage on a shadowed warehouse roof two stories above the docks, Decorum and Shadowcowl watched the police secure the scene.  The Charlie Blockers were cuffed and loaded into a paddy wagon, except for two of them whom were loaded into ambulances.  More people arrived, CSI apparently, and the wharf was taped off as men and women in yellow jackets milled about, took photos, made measurements, and dictated into handheld recorders.  Decorum and Shadowcowl could see Detective Buchanan biding his time, his dark glasses failing to hide his impatience.  No matter where the detective was, he appeared to want to be somewhere else.

 

“He looks sad,” commented Decorum on Detective Buchanan.

 

“I hear he’s got issues,” said Shadowcowl.

 

“Hmmn,” purred Decorum.  She was sure Buchanan just needed the right woman to fix his issues.  Perhaps she should volunteer?

 

Johnny Saturn had left an hour ago.  The crabby old vigilante had retrieved his motorcycle, an old Harley Davidson Tour Glide, and he had ridden off.  Maybe he had headed off the truck and its driver, maybe not. Decorum did not know, and now she did not care.

 

“Why are we waiting here?” Decorum asked for the third time.  “Nothing is happening!  I want to go!”

 

“Something is going to happen, and soon,” replied Shadowcowl.  “Don’t ask me how I know—maybe it’s because of my magic cowl.  But something is going to happen here, and it won’t be long now.”

 

Decorum did not like it when Shadowcowl got all creepy, but she bit back her comments and waited.  The two meta-heroes sat exposed to the cold wind and shivered in relative quiet.  Sure, there was sound, the lapping of the waters beneath the docks, an occasional car horn from nearby streets, the growl of a big truck gearing down… But, these were just part of the local soundscape, or what passed for “quiet” in a major metropolitan area at night.  Somewhere, a car’s bass turned too loud thumped an urgent rhythm.

 

“Why are we …?” began Decorum again, but she trailed off.

 

That big truck gearing down in the distance?  It was here.  A long-nosed eighteen wheeler raced onto the dock.  The police, seeing its lights, saw the big vehicle appear well down the wharf in the distance.  The officers stood frozen in tense expectation for a moment until they heard the big diesel’s engine rev up—the truck was accelerating! 

 

Even the old or portly cops discovered new speed.  They jumped this way and that as the 119’ long tractor trailer crushed four police cars before it skidded to a stop that left burned rubber in its wake.  The police fell back without being commanded, taking up positions behind the two remaining police cruisers, or behind the crates they had come here to confiscate.  Crime scene investigators ran and kept running: they were unarmed and untrained for this type of emergency!  The remaining police fired a few warning shots, and they shouted futile commands for the intruders to “Get out of the truck and lie down!” but to no effect.  The police, usually so good at keeping situations under control, were not running this operation.

 

Eight men leaped from the semi trailer.  These soldiers were armored from head to foot in heavy, beige armor cast from some synthetic material.  Wissenschaft’s mercenaries were trained killers culled from assorted hotspots around the world, and they each carried M16 A4 assault rifles.  The cops immediately recognized that their small arms were all but useless here, and their standard police issue bulletproof vests were badly outclassed.

 

High caliber bullets ripped through the night, chopping the last two police cars to shreds.  SCPD men died or lay dying, and the survivors were pinned down behind the crates.  The mercenaries took care not to shoot the containers, so the police hunkered behind them fared better.  Detective Buchanan, trapped behind the crates as well, screamed into his walkie-talkie for backup, a swat team, the national guard, the Navy Seals—he would take whatever help he could get!

 

“This is it,” cried Shadowcowl—“Let’s go!” 

 

Shadowcowl wrapped an arm around Decorum and dove from their secluded roof.  Wind roared past them as they shot straight for the melee, taking the mercenaries by storm.

 

Shadowcowl laid into the soldiers ferociously—wrapped in his mystic cloak, he was immune to all the bullets, knives, and fists that came his way.  The mercenaries could not touch him, but he could definitely touch them!  With a mix of karate, savatte, and krav maga, he punched, kicked, held, twisted, and took down everyone in his path.

 

Decorum was just as effective.  Her power was garment control—if someone wore it, she could control it!  To call her power telekinesis was like calling a blue whale “sort of big.”  She blew the armor off a mercenary; she pistol whipped a fighter with his own rifle; and she turned a merc’s helmet backwards, blinding him.  Chaos followed in her wake, leaving bound and near naked men in her path!


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