Zosma Read online

  “I lost my powers,” she said.

  “Sis,” he started, gripping her ankle and shaking, “y’ave gotta learn to let go of the self-hate and embrace who ya are. Stop fighting it, it’s part of ya.”

  Easier said. Her throat dried up.

  “Ya been out here on your own long enough.” He returned his hand to the wheel. “We gotta to stick together.”

  “Mr. Sparks,” his Cynque said through the car’s speaker, “Dr. Belladonna’s flight path has new destin—”

  “Pull it up,” he interrupted.

  “Fort Miami executive airport is the final destination,” it said. “Shall I update the navigation?”

  “Don’t ask dumb shit, Cynque. Take us to Dr. B.”

  “Navigation updated.”

  “I had three tasks given to me by my boss on his deathbed.” He lowered his voice. “Number one: rewrite the Belladonna will to include his oldest daughter; number two: find her.”

  “In two miles,” it interjected, “take exit 8A for Better Boulevard, then keep right.”

  “And three?” Bridget asked.

  Bazzo switched lanes and turned to her. “Make sure Rabia Giro doesn’t—”

  Forty tons of falling metal crashed onto the street.

  Succeed, Bazzo had said. Muted by her sharp cry as she reached over and whipped his arm to dodge the fiery aftermath of an exploded Mack truck. They careened toward the vacant highway’s shoulder. Loud and harsh, the Bentley’s tires squealed to a stop.

  “Christ,” she said and let go. “Pay attention.”

  “I asked ya to strap in.”

  She buckled the seatbelt and covered her mouth. No matter how unnatural the occurrence, neither was keen to ask the other where the eighteen-wheeler had come from. Bazzo straightened the wheels to drive forward. Bizarre quiet inside and outside, magnified the sound of them kicking up gravel as he picked up speed along the shoulder. He tapped his knee, looking up every so often.

  “Somethin’ ain’t right,” he said. “Keep ‘em open.”

  They merged onto the main road and resumed their getaway. The stone overpass ahead appeared innocent. Its rusted steel railings protected a row of dirty cars parked parallel and single file. She raised an eyebrow at the sporty Honda civic from the early 2020’s. Guessed the make and model of the previous years’ BMW i15. Their family had purchased a caravan model Prius, which came next, but never got around to affording the third generation flying Tesla, the last car in the row. Her gaze drifted higher.

  Frantically, she beat her hand on the glove box. “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, Baz, what is that!”

  Backlit by Florida sun, a cloaked figure hovered above them in the sky. Cracks traveled through the bridge’s crumbling foundation and the railing snapped, as if squeezed by the hand of God. Laws of Gravity no longer applied to the unoccupied cars lifting into the air.

  “Look out!” Bridget screamed and crouched in the seat, expecting any of the abandoned vehicles hurtling toward them to wreck their reunion. Holding herself tighter at each street splitting crash, she mumbled promises to heaven of all the good things she’d do if her powers returned to save them. Boom! The Bentley skidded left. Boom! The Bentley swerved right.

  She opened her eyes to the red Honda’s hood crunching against the road in front of them. Kaboom! It blew up. The Bentley jerked left. Flames bum rushed the passenger side. Bridget twisted away and their car’s equilibrium failed.

  Bazzo leaned his full weight to the center, shouted, “Sit still, will ya!” and pushed her, so as to lend the extra weight to his effort. Abrasive maneuvers to keep the Bentley, which rocked back into place, on four wheels. Bridget gripped the door handle in one hand and her brother’s arm in the other.

  The creature landed on the interstate, surrounded itself with energy, and spread its arms to each side. Unavoidable in every sense of the word, the unleashed energy wave barreling toward them covered eight lanes of highway.

  Bazzo took his hand off the accelerator. “Hold tight,” he insisted and pulled them lower.

  The blue inferno’s deafening rumble warned of scattered automobiles and uprooted asphalt, of its nigh fatal impact. She cringed, bracing herself for—

  Her involuntary screams. Her weightless body. Her lungs contracting with such speed the air had no chance for escape. They tumbled backward mid-air, until the roof touched her head too hard, smashed in on brief but violent contact with the road. Gravity returned, using her body’s one hundred and thirty pounds as justification to throw her around the interior.

  Bridget strained to keep her grip on the door, on her life, and on Bazzo’s sleeve, as the Bentley rolled over itself, propelled by the reversed force of the speed it’d been driving.

  Bazzo Sparks

  Demolished metal car frames had further demolished their metal car frame. Sweltering air from the engine’s recent combustion rushed through the windowless rectangle.

  Throbbing above Bazzo’s chest, beside his neck stalled any immediate movement. Shooting pain arched shoulder blade to clavicle. The nerves screamed at the slightest pressure, even when intended to assist their escape.

  If the neurons would stop bloody firing, he thought.

  Placing his right hand near his left shoulder, his lips formed an “O” as he exhaled. The bone pushed back from light coercion and he counted down in silence from 10, and got to 4, 3, 2—in a gut-wrenching snap, the bone returned to its socket. His murderous scream dwindled to, “Ahhhh, mother fu—” as he clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and rocked. “Stop bloody firing,” he pleaded. His brain listened to him, as anything run on electricity would, and his pain’s intensity level subsided to moderate.

  Bridget’s head dangled upside down, parallel to his. The roof so close that her tangled, short hair spread across the felt fabric ceiling. His capable arm unbuckled his seatbelt. His spine scraped millions of tiny glass fragments as he slid onto his back. He unbuckled Bridget, straining the less battered half of his body to cradle her on the shallow drop down. Bazzo grasped her torso and hoisted her through the driver’s window. They spilled next to the car.

  He situated her on the pavement to search for physical injuries. Above her now fattened, black eye, the sewn-up wound had been busted open. “Wake up,” he urged, “c’mon, wake up.” He moved her bangs from the bleeding mess.

  Whoom. The car flipped over them and squashed to obsolescence against concrete. He cowered, pressed to his sister’s motionless body. It missed his head by an inch. Rotating his neck, he analyzed the assailant. Whoever or whatever the creature was had feminine curves and an irregular heartbeat, scratch that, heartbeats, plural.

  If scared or startled, the woman might’ve slowed her pace and spoken, to diffuse the hostility churning between them. She advanced, patient and predatory, face concealed. An emblem flickered in the sunlight.

  The reflective patch on the cloak’s collar read C, and a smaller patch next to it read, 20. Together they spelled C20.

  “I always end up working on the weekends,” Bazzo said. He concentrated on the powerlines, and they answered his invocation, as anything run on electricity would. Crackling with immense voltage, his palm outstretched. Jagged electric lines surrounded his legs, trotted up his torso, and morphed him into hissing white currents.

  Concentrated bolts slammed into the woman, flashing up and out like lightning forking through clouds. She slid away from them.

  Bazzo grunted. “Need more juice.”

  Planting her feet on the asphalt, she pushed her hands out and, halting backward motion, walked against his electric force.

  His weakened veins constricted, parched of their power. The electricity sizzled to steam. He frowned and squatted next to Bridget, who stirred.

  “Baz, what’s happening?”

  “Remember how I said they’re here for me?”

  She nodded, wearily accepting his hand and rising with him to her feet.

  “Good, now get outta here.”

  “I can’t leave you
, we just—”

  “Bridget... Sparks?” the woman asked, disregarding their skirmish to approach her. “The electric goddess. I am not supposed to remember you. How is this possible?”

  “Hold on a tick. Now whatever problems are between us stay between us.” He moved his sister behind him and glimpsed the purple complexion under the hood. “Zosma?”

  Helicopter blades beat the air. Again, the woman exercised indifference towards him, swiveled, and zoomed to challenge the newfound interference.

  “Go home, Bridg,” he said, turning to her. “It’s time.”

  Bridget wrapped him in a hug, whispered, “I’ll see you there,” and took off running on a slight hobble.

  An earful of monstrous, earth shattering booms divided his attention. Boeing AH-72 helicopter’s 30mm revolver cannons unloaded their rounds. Airborne, Zosma somersaulted over herself, alien armor glistening like a blessing from Apollo, C20 cloak blown to rags. She slowed her rearward flight, and when the cannon fired again, a telekinetic bubble thwarted its intention.

  C20 had outdone themselves. White uniformed agents descended concrete sound barriers in pairs. They configured themselves as a defensive line and scurried across the freeway, shooting forearm-affixed plasma weapons skyward. The AH-72’s disbanded and circled out of firing range.

  “Baz!” Bridget yelled.

  A trio of agents carried her, heels kicking, to a hovering stealth grey aircraft whose four underside thrusters gushed heat and fire. He thought she’d made it to the brush. He thought she’d made it to safety.

  “Your nomen knowledge yields no mercy. I have been ordered to end your life,” Zosma said. Her voice was flat and heartless to a degree he felt certain she had no personal feelings about him whatsoever.

  “That’s a kicker, ‘cause I was ordered to save yours,” he said.

  Projectile shrapnel sped at him. One-handed, he flipped. It missed.

  Zosma’s attack remained incessant, resolute. Employing molecular manipulation, she sculpted sharpened swords, knives, and spears out of dislodged bumpers and stray engine parts within eyesight, and telekinetically hurled them at Bazzo. Flipping the same direction to avoid becoming impaled, Bazzo’s legs touched the air, and a concerned peek toward Bridget made his twist too shallow. A jagged metal hubcap sliced him at the ribs as he rounded the turn. He landed on his feet, sagged to his knees, then spat on the pavement.

  He scanned the battlefield. They loaded his sister up the aircraft ramp. The hatch closed. Thrusters ignited.

  And he wasn’t out of the woods, yet. Warm blood stained his white shirt. His fingers slipped through the clean rip in the cotton and checked the wound for tenderness. Skin-deep, thanks to electromagnetic reflex. He flinched when skin touched skin and abandoned the activity to watch the triangular shape shrink into high altitude. Mum would never forgive him if his sister died in his custody.

  Electricity sparked around his trembling fist. “Bring her back,” he said angrily, teetering upright. “Make them bring her back.”

  “I do not know her fate,” Zosma said. “I do, however, know yours.”

  He didn’t think his throat could get any tighter, already constricted by his lack of responsibility, but her rough, three-fingered hands compressed, denying circulation in a telekinetic chokehold.

  His hand went limp. His power fizzled out. He moved on to option two.

  Blessed by their proximity, knowing his voice wouldn’t carry, he sputtered, “Rabia’s using you.” Asphyxiation won, and the returning helicopter fleet disappeared behind his falling eyelids.

  Allister Adams

  Ft. Miami, Florida

  Florence mulled over Allister’s question before she’d said, “I don’t dig too deep into my father’s motivations.”

  Because why would Giovanni Belladonna need a bullet-proof jet furnished with military-grade weapons? Allister shrugged. It was apparent the knack for acquiring fancy, dangerous toys ran in her family, and wasn’t on her mother’s side. The closest listed aircraft on the old, inactive Cynque, had collected dust in a Washington, D.C. Air Force hangar. One of ten planes at her beck and call, waiting for action. Wish granted.

  Hands flattened on the ceiling, he darted window to window in the cramped cabin. Skyscrapers waded in the dark grey smoke dashing past them.

  “Hear that?” he asked.

  “P.Hydra 80s, the military’s new pride and joy,” she said.

  P for plasma. Spot on. He’d forgotten that her Harvard University PhD in psychiatry, her blush warmed cheeks, and soft tones were ploys to mask her true love, combat. Martial arts, weapon mastery, and warfare strategy were courses she’d aced through life experiences to earn a PhD in survival.

  Where’s the fight? he thought.

  “They’re close,” Florence answered, then added, “Sorry. Habit.”

  “Cut it out, Florence!” The conflict ringing in his ears was replaced by one nerve-racking, bone-rattling zoom, then another. Two fighter jets approached on either side. He made his way to the cockpit and sandwiched himself in the archway.

  “Incoming transmission from unknown aircraft. Retrieving,” Giovanni announced, and read the message aloud: “This is Second Lieutenant Edward Brooks, U.S. Army. You’re flying in restricted airspace. Raise altitude now.”

  “Military clearance level: Top secret, Dr. Florence Belladonna!” she shouted at the CPU. “Send.”

  A swoosh confirmed its transit, and a response came an instant later.

  “It seems your clearance level is, in the Lieutenant’s words, not valid for this rodeo,” Giovanni said. “He has offered you one minute to comply.”

  “This rodeo? Giovanni, scan for logos, power signatures, and facial recognition.” Panels on the wings squeaked, waking from slumber and stood at a slant, increasing the drag. The plane’s acceleration slowed. “Hold on,” she said to him. “I’ve never done this before.”

  Nothing to hold on to, he gulped, fastened his hand to the wall, and rooted his feet in a wide stance.

  Panels creaked back to flatten the wings and the aircraft pitched down. The engines roared as she banked left, dove lower, then straightened out to accelerate between a set of high rises. She banked right, looped around the buildings they’d passed, and fired off a string of obscenities. The plane rolled on its axis as she whipped them into an evasive turn to dodge rapid fire. They flew at a vertical angle through two buildings married by a mezzanine floor. A space narrower than he’d estimated. The jet’s reinforced titanium armor tore at the buildings’ concrete exteriors and shattered their glass windows as it soared to the crux of battle.

  If Second Lieutenant what’s his face had followed them, their thunderous journey would’ve masked the pursuing aircraft’s demise.

  Stomach turned inside out, Allister rested on the first plush seat he came into contact with.

  “Scanning. Logo identified: C20. Logo identified: U.S. Army,” Giovanni said. “Power signature identified: Bazzo Stephen Sparks. Power signature identified: Zosma Caster.”

  “Zosma...” He staggered to the plane’s rear exit. Heeled boots thumped after him.

  Florence touched his shoulder. “Allister, opening the escape hatch will destabilize the cabin pressure.”

  “Then close it the second I’m out,” he snapped and bent over to look for her. His mind one place, his feelings a separate place than that, neither vying for reason nor patience. “I-I have to get to her. It’s my only chance.”

  Not too high above an eight-lane freeway, Zosma levitated, engaged in aerial confrontation with five circling helicopters. The U.S. army emptied their M265 launchers. Plasma-core-infused warheads whistled through the air. Queasiness in his stomach bubbled to fury as they detonated. An energy ring backlashed, demolishing the surrounding surface with concussive force and a rising ash cloud swelled where Zosma had been floating.

  Their altitude fell. The jet rattled. He snagged Florence by the arm to avert her fall, gave her a firm look and said, “You remember the Middle Ea
st? If they keep this up, she’s gonna go nuclear.”

  “Fine.” Florence turned and said to the computer, “Giovanni, find somewhere to put us down.”

  His fist pounded the hatch release. It cranked down. Wind stormed the cabin amongst earsplitting sirens and Giovanni’s nagging alerts. On his back, he slid to the platform’s end, steadied his feet on the sharp edge and catapulted into the atmosphere like a skydiver.

  Burned vegetation and petroleum engulfed him in a whoosh, and the helicopter’s rotating blades sliced louder and louder and louder as they got closer and closer and closer.

  The two pilots inside evacuated the instant his body crushed the snout. Thin air in the troposphere and the impact left him winded. The helicopter spun out and nosedived. He dug his fingers into cast iron and aluminum to keep from slipping, and rode the spiraling contraption downward. It’d looked so much easier when superheroes did it.

  Less than a minute from impact, he leaped off, curled into himself, and hit the street sideways. Nervous about his equilibrium, Allister situated his feet on the highway, staying crouched to yell, “Zosma!” Tumbling induced nausea called for a breather. When it passed, he finished, “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Three elements able to withstand the exorbitant heat of nuclear fusion; iron, nickel, and silicon had been mined from a blue giant star’s core, forged into Zosma’s Uragonian battle armor, and doused in a 24k gold coat.

  She glided to him wearing a hardened scowl, cast in the muted Z-energy’s blue. “Why have you been looking for me?”

  “I... because...” His heart squeezed life from his vocal chords. “I was worried.”

  “Did you have some idol fantasy imagined about our union?” The sweetness in her voice and its melodious inflections were treasures lost in manufactured words spewing from a robot. “I am saving this planet. I am saving your people. Dr. Giro has told me my power can stop what promises to be the end of the human race.”