Chapter 3: The Saintly Sirens

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Luke:  

My life flashed before my eyes. Yeah, I’m a cliché like that.   What else was I going to do, pee myself?  Well, it wasn’t exactly my life that flashed before my eyes.  But I did see an image in my mind, the image of my mother.  She was watching jeopardy and yelling at the television like she always did.  A nurse entered the room with her pills.  My mom said something about the bunnies and the nurse just smiled like she always did.  Mom had been seeing things for years.

“OH GOD!”  Larry screamed.  Glass flew everywhere; my spine hardly survived the impact.  I couldn’t see; a cloud of smoke, dust, and steam was everywhere.  I don’t know what happened, but I had to get out of the car.  I fumbled for my belt and reached up front. It should have been Larry, the first one I reached for, but it wasn’t.  I struggled to free Cartouche first. Larry was in a car after all, Larry was in his element.

I made my way out of the car, dragging Cartouche.  She wasn’t moving. Larry’s door opened and he spilled out, coughing for air. My eyes and lungs burned.  Larry’s head bled profusely, but in his hand he held a flare gun.  He looked up to the sky and fired.  We could only see the shadows of the assailants as they made their way to us.  Cartouche opened her eyes.

“Run …” she whispered.  I prepared to move when Larry darted a glance in my direction.

“I’ll work on the car; you protect our friend.”

“Let’s just leave her here!  They probably want her, not us!”

“Luke,” Larry growled, “Stop being a spine-less bastard!”

“Take cover you idiots!” Cartouche howled. Larry pushed me out of the way.  Cartouche sprung to her feet; she had great reflexes.  Chunks of rock smacked into my legs and arms; Cartouche smashed a boulder that was flying toward us.  Larry, though bleeding from the head, scampered over to his car.  The wind picked up, dust clouding our vision.

“I need to breathe,” I thought, but if I opened my mouth I’d be asphyxiated from the dust storm around us.  Cartouche grabbed me, picked me up and thrust me into the car.  Larry, covered in dirt, pressed his hand on the dashboard.

“COME ON!”  He screamed.  Larry didn’t lose his cool often.  We were doomed.  The wind around the car howled, but something faint grew in volume.  The engine revved.  “Now how the hell do we get out of this sink hole?”

“Elementals,” Cartouche muttered, “they’re just sentinels, but the rest of the Elite will be here in a matter of minutes.  We have to get out of this hole and evacuate before it’s too late.”

“WHO IS THE ELITE?” I screamed in exasperation.  Cartouche just stared at me.

“You’re Luke Marconi right?”

“Why the hell does that matter?”

“Has your mother ever mentioned the ‘bunnies’?”  Cartouche looked at me.  I swallowed hard and tried to control my breathing.  It wasn’t every day a stranger tells you about the thing your mother has been raving about for over a decade.  Larry was trying to pull the car out of the rubble.  Cartouche sat in silence for a moment then looked at me with her piercing blue eyes.  I shifted in my seat; damn she was unsettling.  My discomfort was cut short by a sound piercing through the howl of the wind.

“Elevator music…” Larry said, closing his eyes.

“It’s not them … it’s …” I breathed.

“BOOM BOX BETTY!”  Larry slammed his hand down onto the horn.  Suddenly the dust cleared.  The ground shook.  Cartouche jumped out of the car and motioned for us to follow suit.  The dust had settled outside and at last we could see what was happening. Loud elevator music emanated from nowhere, and in front of us were two women who squared off against a man and a woman.  We knew our allies immediately; Boom Box Betty was a forty-something year old woman clad in out-of-date punk clothing.

The ground trembled beneath our feet, forming crevices.  The man pairing against Boom Box fell to his knees, holding his head and screaming from the pain. The companion, the woman, was still willing the Earth to shake and shift.  Boom Box’s partner, a woman who was dressed casually, rushed forward and punched our mutual enemy in the face. Boom Box turned to Larry and called out; we knew her voice would carry perfectly.

“Yo! Mind lending us a hand?”  Betty grinned broadly.  I gestured to myself in confusion.  Betty groaned. Cartouche, however, was already scrambling out of the sink hole.  She was back on the surface and delivering the final blow to our assailants.  There I was, totally useless, as the others finished up the battle.  Rope was tossed down and Larry and I made our way out of the sink hole.  We stood eye to eye with our rescuers.

“Saw your flare, thought you could use a hand,” Betty laughed.  “However, our car is now clogged with all that dust; it looks like we’re all stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

“On it,” Larry replied, strolling over to the car. Cartouche eyed Betty’s companion with unease.  Yup, they were on our side alright.  Betty walked over to me and slapped me on the back.

“Well kid, tell me, what does a skinny thing like you bring to the cause?”

“Well that um … that’s kind of personal …” I muttered.  I looked over to Betty’s companion.  Where Betty was talkative and outgoing, her friend was quiet and shy.  The woman had big, beautiful brown eyes, and long, raven-black hair.  She looked to Cartouche and spoke for the first time.

“Do I know you?”  Her voice was strong, but soft spoken.  Cartouche was about to say something when Larry pulled up with the car and handed the keys to Betty.

“Boom Box Betty I presume; my name is Larry, this is my cousin Luke, and I believe that err … delicate flower over there is Cartouche.”

“I know her, I’ve got a coupla’ scars from her alright.” Betty took the keys and motioned everyone into the car.  It was a tight fit.  I was crammed in the back between Cartouche and the woman without a name.  We drove away as fast as we could.

“She’ll run about twenty miles per hour faster now; I made some modifications when I was tinkering around,” Larry said.  My stomach churned, the burgers from earlier were still making me queasy.  Betty nodded as she sped through the desert.

“I’ll take the complicated way home.  I have no desire to run into the Elite again.  Killed my crew and damn near killed me back in 2008.”

“Who are the Elite?” I asked.  There was silence in the car and the raven-haired woman sitting next to me seemed to be the only other person who didn’t know.  Betty broke the silence.

“People with abilities, that’s all we really are.  It ain’t like the comics.  We’re not simply villains or heroes.  There were differences in opinion about when we could use our strengths for personal gains or not.  Factions formed, as you know.  Even though we claim to be two sides, most of us have dabbled in self-gain at some point.  There are times when using your powers to your advantage isn’t a bad thing.”

“Not at all, got me a garage of classic cars back home.” Larry grinned.

“Exactly, Larry can fix any car he wants, so with his powers he can restore a hot rod which would have never run again, but he doesn’t hurt anyone using that power.”  Betty snapped her fingers and an infectiously upbeat song began to play.  “Myself, I control sound; I adjust the frequencies of pitch allowing people with tonal hearing loss to hear.  I also use my power to have the best tunes to groove to whenever I want, which I guess some would consider the ultimate act of music piracy.”

“You’re Lars Ulrich’s worst nightmare?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t play that crap,” she smirked, “The point is you can dabble in a little self-gain without causing any harm.  Knowing when to quit is the problem.”  Her tone changed slightly, “The Elite didn’t believe in boundaries, in any boundaries.  They think of our kind as gods to rule over the mere mortals of this Earth.  Ordinary people don’t know they exist; their minds and memories are altered.  The head circle of the Elite is mostly composed of Psychics.  They’re very rich and very dangerous.”  Betty glanced to the back seat.

“I found Sonali wandering in the desert a few years back.  She didn’t know a damn thing, just like a baby.  I took her in and helped her rehabilitate.  I am certain they did something to her.  She’s been indispensable to me ever since.”

I turned and looked to Sonali.  She was gazing out of the window silently.  I barely tapped her shoulder to get her attention.  She flinched then looked to me.

“Are you alright?”  I asked softly, she was definitely beautiful.

“I’m fine. Betty just likes to hear her own voice.”  Sonali let out a hint of a smile.

“Don’t let her fool you boy, Sonali there is a real firecracker.  She acts demure an’ dainty, but damn, this girl has the worst temper I’ve ever seen.  It’s all beneath the surface.  She’s a multi, very useful.”

“A multi?”

“Most of us have one general skill.  Sonali here manifests almost every skill there is.  Unfortunately, her amnesia makes her a bit on the slow side at times.  We’re always discovering something new she can do, just takes time.”  Betty swerved off of the road and continued along a rickety trail.  The car bounced up and down as we drove.  “Sonali and I, we’re the Saintly Sirens, protectors of these parts.  So, what is your group?”

Larry went on to explain how we came to work for Linus and wound up patrolling most of the Midwest.  He then described how we expanded our patrol region until we were gone for days at a time.  The sun was getting lower in the sky.  After driving around in the dark for about an hour, we pulled up to a small trailer.  It was freezing cold now that night had fallen.  Sonali handed me a jacket without saying anything.  We ushered into the trailer.  Seated at the kitchen table was a lean man with thick glasses.  His brown hair came down to his eyes.  His chin sported light stubble, uncharacteristic of him.  His feet were propped up on the table.

“Well, well, well, Boom Box Betty.”  He chortled.

“Linus, get yer feet off of my table you stupid son of a bitch.”  Betty growled. 

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Chapter 2: Enemies

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Larry:

It was the infamous Cartouche, that or Vegas was regurgitating cocktail waitresses out in no man’s land.  I could tell Luke was just as apprehensive as I was.  I washed away the look of fear and concern from my face and replaced it with bravado.  She was breathing, thank god.  The last thing I needed was the corpse of a known enemy strewn out next to my Pontiac Grand Am.  We didn’t kill people; they did.

The woman began to move.  Her clothing was covered in dirt and her body in bruises.  Something had happened, something bad.  Her blue eyes opened and gazed at us in confusion.  Then she made the face.  We had never met Cartouche personally, but we knew Cartouche would know our faces.  Cartouche possessed what was referred to as a “photographic memory”.  The moment someone on the other side had shown her pictures of us, she would know us barring a massive overhaul of our physical appearance.  Slowly she sat up.  She looked weak.  I offered her a bottle of water from the car.  There was one other important fact; Cartouche was unfathomably strong.  Who the hell was capable of beating up Cartouche?

“Where am I?” It was faint, but there was a trace of a long-forgotten eastern European accent.

“Nevada,” Luke replied.

“Not exactly specific, are we cuz?” I replied with a hint of a glare.

“Do you remember what town we’re by?”  Luke retorted.

“Somewhere five miles past your Lady Goo Goo CD, but enough about that.  Are you alright Miss?”  I extended a hand.  If I had any doubts they were gone.  She wasn’t trying to, but jeeze, that woman was going to rip my arm off.  We stood up.  She looked around and, as coy as she was, she couldn’t conceal the look of sorrow in her eyes.  It was a hunch, but something told me Cartouche was no longer with the enemy.

“What happened?” I asked, shooting Luke a death glare.  Luke’s posture said it all; he was ready to run.  I knew he would have preferred we ditch her in the desert, but that wasn’t my style.

“Please, can we not talk about this?”  She leaned against my car.  I tensed for a moment; I had always been protective of my baby.  Cars were my gift, my calling.  My particular power was referred to as techno-kinesis; well, that was the bullshit name we gave it anyway.  Techno-kinetics imprinted on one type of technology.  Mine was cars.  My uncle was a mechanic and when I was fourteen we restored a 1969 Chevy Camaro.  Rebuilding the engine was a labor of love.  We had ordered a replacement crankshaft, and when the part came in it was clear it wouldn’t align right.  I had been so excited about our restoration project, and there we were delayed by something as stupid as a crankshaft.  Somehow, with the power of my mind, the metal morphed in my hand, shifting into the perfectly fitting piece.   

“So…” Luke chimed in awkwardly.  Luke was one of those “uncomfortable in his own skin” types of guys.  Luke suffered from what could best be called “late-manifestation”.  He was well into his twenties when he discovered he possessed an ability.  Unfortunately, he still couldn’t control it with ease.  Luke was a Thermodynamic.  Thermodynamics can control heat, pressure, and energy; it is a bitchin’ power.  Yet, of all the people to be blessed with such a bitchin’ power, Luke had it, and Luke seldom kept his focus well enough to channel it properly.  Linus guessed, however, that eventually Luke would grow into it.

Cartouche was clearly in a bad state.  I finally braved to break the stillness and move forward.  I opened the door and gestured to her.  She looked at me with hesitation.  I didn’t blame her; it was like a mongoose opening a door for a cobra.  We took our places in the car, because it was too hot to argue otherwise.  I turned on the engine and looked to Cartouche.   

“Direction?”

“Just keep headed as you were,” she replied, gazing out of the window.  Luke kicked my seat from the back.  I ignored him and began to drive.  We sat without music or conversation for about ten minutes.  One way to sift out phonies from genuine super heroes; the real ones are hesitant to talk about it.  I reached for a mix CD I kept for such occasions and popped it into the player.  Elevator music began to emanate from the speakers.

“Thank god.” Cartouche said, slumping in her seat.  It started a few years back.  A nasty confrontation between the sides had erupted.  A chick called Boom Box Betty, a lovely punk with a morbid sense of humor, decided to play some elevator music during the fight.  Elevator music, oddly enough, was the code word to describe the antagonism between the sides.

“Now that we’ve cleared the air,” I grinned, “Do you like Billy Joel?”

“That’s it! I’m throwing myself out of the car.” Luke groaned.

“Why did you help me?”  Cartouche glanced over to me, ignoring Luke.

“Because somebody else in this car needs to appreciate the work of a master musician.”  I winked.  She was a serious one, not a grin or even a chuckle.  I sighed and admitted, “’Cause, dangerous as it is, we’re not the kind of folks who leave a gal stranded in the desert.”

“How do you know I’m not going to lead the others straight to you?”

“Your eyes, you can’t fake the look you’re trying to hide.” We listened to the sound of the music a few moments as we prowled down the highway.  “Sweetie, you were left for dead out there, it’s all over your face.”  As I said this Luke turned his head to Cartouche, the light bulb had just turned on.

“Just drive, ok?  I’ll get off at the next town.”

“This is Nevada, you have to drive about 70 miles to get to a gas station, let alone a town,” Luke chimed in.  I resisted the urge to hit him.

“She’s fine, just shut up.” The elevator music continued to fill the car.  My phone rang; it was Linus.  Cartouche looked to me and gave me a nod of understanding.  I answered the call.  Linus wasn’t short of reprimands.  This I had expected, but there was an added gravity to the situation I hadn’t anticipated.

“Larry…” Linus wasn’t the type to get sentimental or emotional.  Suddenly, there was fear in his voice.

“Yeah Boss?”

“Cartouche isn’t just one of their kind… she’s one of the Elite.  Listen very carefully.  If she was still alive when you found her and not dead from dehydration, they are still in the area.  They are close to…”

“HOLY” Luke screamed.  Cartouche dug her nails deep into the dash board.  There was no anticipating the fifteen foot sink hole that appeared before us.  The Pontiac was airborne, heading hood-first into the impromptu crater.

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Chapter 1: The Lost Cartouche

2011

Luke:

“You know what I could go for?” Larry mused with a broad grin.  Oh god, I thought.  I already knew.

“Black Rook Burgers.”  Yup, it was as I feared.

“Really man?  They’re nasty,” I replied in a vain attempt to avoid a four hour vigil at the porcelain shrine.

“Nah, they’re classic.” Larry ushered me into his Grand Am.  We had been on the road for hours; our most recent stop had been unsuccessful.  Unlike the Midwest, Nevada had hundred-mile stretches without good gas stations.  There was gas, but that was it, no food, no frills, none of the luxuries many associate with road trips.  As such, I was skeptical I’d find the proper facilities to handle Black Rook aftermath, but you couldn’t argue with Larry.  Larry was one of those people; he was a force of nature.  Murphy’s truth, he managed to find the one and only Black Rook Burgers in a 300 mile radius.

Sure enough, four hours later I was crawling out of a gas station restroom. It was the sort of bathroom that is a crime against humanity.  Given my composure, slumped and sweaty on the ground, you’d never know my real identity.

“Mm, so good, I can still taste it.”  Larry patted his belly.

“Unfortunately…” I muttered, alluding to the rancid taste in my mouth.  Larry picked me off the ground by my left arm.  He shoved me into my seat and walked to the other side of the car.  So right about now you’ve figured out the obvious, right?  Yup.  Larry and I are superheroes.  Like I said, obvious.

It was our turn to patrol, and our stretch was further and more tedious than previous assignments.  Linus, aka Boss, usually sends Larry out for the long-haul trips.  You may be wondering why we’re cruising along in a Pontiac instead of soaring through the air with our capes flapping behind us.  First off, neither of us can fly, so that’s out.  Secondly, even if we could fly, there is something conspicuous about two thirty year old men zooming through the sky without a plane or hang-glider.  Third, any self-respecting man would wear not wear a cape; you’ll never score a date in your life if you’re that painfully flamboyant.

Our territory had expanded.  There were no marked boundaries in the lifestyle of a super hero, so you had to decide for yourself how far you would patrol.  There were small bands of us, or at least the ones we knew were legit.  Looking up other super heroes online is often fruitless. There are plenty of crackpots who believe they have powers.    Solo acts happened, but they were often the ones who leaked to the media.  You see, you have to tell someone when you have an amazing ability.  It’s a basic human need.  The issue is you need someone who will keep your secret. People are simultaneously in a state of belief and disbelief of our existence.  Several people believe in psychics, the supernatural and the unknown, but most believers won’t accept it’s real even when it’s staring them in the face.

Larry began serenading me, if you count howling in deafening decibels as serenading, with the music of Billy Joel.  Thankfully I had thrown the mix with “Up-Town Girl” out the window on our last patrol.  Larry couldn’t carry a tune, but that didn’t stop him from singing along.  I felt the churning of my intestines.  Black Rook burgers created a colony of bacteria in my bowels; that was the only explanation.

“Uh Larry…” I ventured, leaning against the hot vinyl of the interior.

“OOoooh She can do what she wa... What is it?”

“Can I pick a new CD?” I looked up, hopeful.

“Uh… sure… but if it’s Nickleback I will push you out the door, cousin or no Luke, got it?”

 “Understood,” I muttered curtly before unzipping my CD collection.  Larry’s car didn’t have an MP3 player, and Larry refused to concede that adapters existed to allow MP3 player hook ups.  I slid in the CD as we cruised at 90 MPH through the endless stretch of barren wasteland.  I leaned back and let the music do all the healing.  For thirty glorious seconds I felt the rush of freedom.  I rolled down the window, let the hot wind beat at my hair and then…

“What the hell is this?” Larry muttered.

“Lady Gaga,” I replied, “You know, someone a little more…recent?”

“Cyndi Lauper can take her any day.” Larry ejected the CD, rolled down the window and unceremoniously tossed the disc out.

“WHAT THE HELL!” I screamed.

“Revenge for uptown girl,” Larry snickered.  A minute later, his smile faded, he blurted out an obscenity and slammed on his breaks with all of his might.  Before I knew it, my seatbelt was the only thing preventing me from jettisoning out of the windshield.  I slammed back against my seat.  There was nothing but dirt in the air outside the windows.  Larry fumbled with his seatbelt.

“Holy shit!  Did I stop in time?”  He had already thrown open the door.  I awkwardly made my way out of the car.  Dust was everywhere but as the cloud thinned away I saw Larry kneeling by the front of the car.  There was a silhouette of a woman laying just a foot from the bumper.

Without hesitation, Larry picked her up as though she was nothing and carried her out of the cloud of dust filling the air.  I followed suit, covered in dirt from head to toe.  Larry laid her back on the ground and both of us took a step back.

“Luke…”

“Yeah Larry…” I didn’t know what to say.  Larry did the talking for both of us.

“Call Linus…” his eyes looked down to the woman. She was a pale white woman dressed in Egyptian clothing.  To an outsider she was just some lost cocktail waitress from Las Vegas.  We knew better; we were hundreds of miles from Las Vegas.  “Tell him…” Larry paused. “We’ve found Cartouche.”

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A Heroic Return

Hello old friends.

It's been a long time, but Accidentally Heroic is going to print.

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A Kindle version is still a work in progress, but there will be one.  I will be posting some of the early chapters here on the blog that started it all.  The sample will allow prospective readers to get a taste of the writing and characters.  If you love what you read, I encourage you to link your friends and family to the sample chapters.  Loan your paperback copies to coworkers and spouses.  As an emerging author, building a base of readers and fans is my main priority.   

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Dear readers, let's make history.

Fondest regards,

Amanda

The Next Chapter

I began writing Accidentally Heroic in a White Castle in 2010. I was killing time while my car was in the shop.  I had posted a raw draft sample of the story at this site- and in just under three years, this site has had over 8,500 page views.  My friend and creative co-conspirator, Jo, has brought life into the site and the story with her amazing fan art.  Friends and family have provided support instrumental in writing the first book. 

Two weeks ago I finished the rough draft of Accidentally Heroic: Manifestations. For days afterward I felt restless, discontent.  The story had ended where I wanted it, but something was missing.  In my life I have written four complete novels which were left, neglected on my hard drives, flash drives, and (for the first book) floppy disks.  I've been so afraid of rejection from publishers that I have never submitted a full length novel.

Today I put book one in the mail, in hopes the submission will lead to publication and a chance to reach a larger audience.  I have pulled the free sample of the book from the website, marking the end of one stage and the beginning of new things. 

I hope that in about six months time I will have exciting news to share with all of you.

Until then, Adieu,
-Amanda Kozik-

p.s. If you are in dire need to read my work in the meantime keep an eye out for the latest collection of scenes and monologs by editor Gerald Ratliff and Meriwether publishing- "My Conversation with Madison" is a scene written by yours truly and will be included in the volume.