Blood Surfer: A Thunder City Novel: Thunder City "Blood" Series, #1

1

A re you ready to die? one of the Left Fists yelled over the whoop-whoop of the helicopter's blades.

Officer Scott Grey took aim as best he could and spat his broken tooth square into the gang member's face. Not a bad shot, considering he was on his knees with a chunk of his hair gripped in the meaty hand of the asshole standing over him. The overpowering stench of half-chewed food and liquor battled with the blood already pouring down Scott's throat to force his gag reflex.

Just shove 'im out, the Fist's partner said. No 'chute. Watch 'im go splat on a sidewalk.

Bastards, Scott thought. I shouldn't complain. I've been living on borrowed time for the past decade anyway. If I'm going to die, I might as well go out in a blaze of glory. At least it's me and not a bunch of kids caught up in tonight's wilding. Scott glanced at the third Fist, who ignored the threats in favor of examining Scott's Glock. No help from the peanut gallery. Number three appeared much older than the other two Fists with a vicious scar across his cheek. He didn't have a blitz-head's full-body twitch.

Open it, number two yelled.

Small relief as the nearest Fist let go of Scott's hair and yanked open the helicopter's door.

Wind whipped through the cabin, pulling in funnels of black smoke from burning garbage. Even through his swollen eyes, Scott could see flames snaking their way from the mouth of the Fairfax River to the flooded streets surrounding the civic center. The copter followed Star Haven's cross-city expressway. Outbound traffic from the Swamp — the Southern Point district — was at a standstill, with desperate residents trying to outrun the fires and the Left Fists. Emergency vehicles raced in the opposite direction, lights flashing, back-up from the other districts called to assist the already overwhelmed police and fire departments.

Up ahead, aircraft warning lights on the hospital roof pulsed red. Just a few more seconds and maybe he'd have a chance. Scott scooted back onto his feet, his sore knees grateful for the shift in weight.

And there ain't any goody two-shoe Alts left in this city to rescue you neither. Number two slammed Scott's face with his elbow, rocking Scott back. Scott rolled with the punch, but kept his balance. So don't be expecting one of them costumed fucktards to swoop out the skies and catch you at the last second. Captain Spectacular ain't your bitch today.

Scott tried to laugh through his split lips, but choked again on his own blood. Figures, even at the end of his life he couldn't escape his past. Would you believe I hate Alts even more than I hate you?

The Fist staggered, either at the idea that Scott could hate alternative humans more than his self-appointed murderers, or from the blitz in his system. Whatever the reason, the Fist lost his footing. Scott took advantage of the distraction and launched from his squat to slam his head into the underside of the Fist's chin. With Fist number one howling curses, Scott swung at Fist number two with all his pent-up fury.

As badly as they had beaten him, Scott still had a fighting chance against three Norms, normal humans like himself, though the third Fist still sat there looking bored. The pilot, paying more attention to the fight than his flying, lost altitude and Scott's stomach plunged with the copter, but he didn't stop fighting.

Shake him out! Shake him out! one of the Fists — Scott had lost track of which was which — hollered. The pilot tilted the copter at a crazy angle, squishing Scott between the Fists and the closed side of the cabin.

The other way! More shouting from the Fists.

Scott shoved against the wall of muscle, ducked the next blow, and tried an uppercut in the cramped space. The copter tilted again and this time he fell toward the open door. In a desperate move, he grabbed for anything and caught the edge of a denim vest. The larger man stumbled into Scott as they fell out the door. At the last second, the other Fist grabbed his partner's legs to keep him inside while Scott dangled below the door with a death grip on the larger man's vest.

Shoot him! the vest's owner yelled as he pounded on Scott's arm, twisted his wrist, but Scott held on. The third gang member with Scott's gun still didn't join the fight. The helicopter spun three-sixty. Scott slammed back and forth between the door frame.

Cut it! Cut the vest! the Fist who held him shouted into the wind.

The vest ripped, lowered an inch. Scott could see the hospital's warning lights reflected in the knife's blade as it sliced through the denim. He made one last grab before the vest tore free.

Hannah Quinn scrambled away from her hidden rooftop shelter seconds before the falling body obliterated it. Just her luck, the Left Fists had decided to drop their latest kill right onto her hideout. Now she was going to have to run for it before the police showed up.

She managed three steps towards the stairs before she looked back, her heart in her throat. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. There was no reason to assume the victim had survived the fall, but she couldn’t leave without checking. She just couldn't. What kind of person abandoned a mortally wounded person to die alone?

Your mother would. You know she would. You should listen to your mother. Like you always do.

Hannah groaned at her own stupidity, but her desire to not emulate her mother turned her away from her escape route. She picked her way through the collapsed lean-to that she had constructed out of filched hospital sheets and plywood.

The man's body lay splayed in an unnatural angle. The sun hadn't quite set, so she could see the blood pooling around his head where his skull had cracked. The armor he wore looked like the kind police wore, dark blue with thick fabric, but the badge and nameplate had been sliced away. Had the equipment been enough to protect him? Maybe.

She examined the swollen, bloody face before she reached over to brush away black hair from his right temple. No ear lobe. It could only be Scott Grey. An Alt-killer. Hero to the Norms of Star Haven.

I might be an idiot, and if I heal Grey I'll be a traitor to the Alts, but I'm not a murderer. I can fix this. I know I can.

First things first. Search for a pulse. There. Faint, but it tapped against her fingers. Now for the hard part. Inside. Yikes! She'd entered through the carotid artery, which sent her surfing in the wrong direction, up instead of down. Her panic rose, but not enough to keep her from locating the jugular so she could surf down to the heart. Damn, damn, damn. The aorta had split and blood was spurting into Grey's chest cavity.

She sped faster around his heart, sealing the ragged edge of the hole until it stopped leaking. She waited three beats to make sure he wouldn't arrest in the middle of her operation. Three of his ribs had shattered and two had punctured his lungs. What a mess. She could make a circuit of the major arteries and veins without difficulty, but the millions of tiny capillaries seemed endless. She finished with his lungs and surfed down to the liver, fractured but still functional. Time distorted when she healed. A minute felt like an hour. An hour felt like a day. A day like a week.

Okay, liver fixed. Next she needed to look inside his head, so she hopped into the inferior vena cava and rode up to his heart before transferring back to the carotid artery. From there she jumped into the vertebral artery.

No good. His brain had swollen too fast, keeping her out of his skull. She shoved harder, but the swelling pushed her back. She'd never tried to travel outside the blood vessels before, but she didn't have a choice. If she ended the operation and let Grey die like he deserved, an autopsy would show his half-healed body. Whether she healed him or not, the police would know an Alt still roamed their city, but if they thought she'd killed him, they'd redouble their efforts to find her.

She could feel his heartbeat slow and his blood pressure increase despite her repairs. She'd never lost a patient yet and Grey was not going to be her first. She pushed out of the artery. With no blood to guide her, she free floated. Where the hell am I? She grabbed onto the nearest bone and looked around. Everything looks different in 3D. I'll have to guess which way is up.

Luck stayed with her and she squeezed inside Grey's skull. A few jokes about Grey's swelled head crossed her mind. Instead of laughing, she skimmed along the brain's surface, maximizing oxygen flow while reducing water intake until the swelling receded. His heart rate increased as she surfed, so she kept at it until his blood pressure returned to normal. She'd make one last dash through the brain to repair any internal damage. If only she could change his thought patterns so he wouldn't hate Alts like everyone else in Star Haven. Unfortunately, her power to heal couldn't fix a hateful personality.

She stopped when she spotted the black thread. The odd, atrophied-looking tangle protruded from the interthalamic adhesion. How strange. A quick search showed a corresponding strand across the midline. She brought the two ends together. The ends fused into one and a spark of energy kicked her backwards. Whatever the thread was, it worked again. She had no more time to waste. She surfed down to take care of his broken legs, followed by his arms, then his shoulders.

One last repair, though he didn't deserve it. She pushed herself back into the bloodstream and surfed up to Grey's right ear. She'd never done something like this before, not with such an old wound. Too much stimulation to the cells could result in too much skin. She wouldn't do Grey any favors if she gave him mismatched ears. That would only make him hate Alts more than he already did.

Done, and not a minute too soon. Her own body was failing fast. She floated over to Grey's neck and drifted back into herself.

Her stomach roiled and every muscle seized at the same time as the migraine hit. She flattened her palms against the craggy cement on either side of Grey's head. RUN! RUN! RUN! her mind screamed, but her body refused to obey.

Grey's smoky eyes opened wide.

Hannah Quinn?

She managed a soft sigh before her body gave out and she fainted on top of him.

2

Scott rolled out from under Hannah. He was alive, which meant someone had rescued him. He glanced around the roof, looking for Left Fists, but saw only torn sheets fluttering in the cool breeze, a first aid kit, and a garbage bag filled with dirty paper plates. So this was where Mayor Dane's daughter had hidden herself all these months. Smart thinking, to hide on the roof of a hospital. He ran his hands along the light blue scrubs she wore to check her for injuries. The ID hanging around her neck read Karen Smith, but even with her red hair dyed mouse-brown he knew this was Hannah. Her face had stared at him from a dozen runaway posters distributed throughout Star Haven's police precincts.

Finding no broken bones or bleeding wounds, he scooped her limp body into his arms, stood up...and almost fell flat on his back. On top of the beating he'd taken, he hadn't eaten anything since before he reported for duty yesterday — no, the day before, judging by the sunrise. He'd figure out the details once he got Hannah to the emergency department.

As he raced across the helipad to the elevators, he considered the broader implication of his current situation. A mid-air rescue meant there was an illegal Alt in the city. The Alt-ban should have forced every Star Haven Alt out of the city six months ago. If the Alt who caught him had knocked them both out, he or she had only made a bad situation worse — first by assaulting a police officer, then by assaulting Mayor Dane's daughter. Defying the Alt-ban would only have resulted in the Alt's transfer across Mystic Bay to Thunder City. Assaulting a police officer guaranteed jail-time, and hurting the mayor's daughter was like begging for the death sentence. He pulled Hannah closer to his chest.

The elevator descended too slowly but with his energy sapped he couldn't risk the stairs. He leaned against the back wall, thankful that Hannah remained unconscious. She'd lived alone on a rooftop for months. What had happened to her? Why had she chosen such a desperate, lonely existence?

When the elevator doors opened onto the emergency department, he stepped into a tsunami of humanity — doctors, nurses, and orderlies raced about, their arms filled with equipment, charts, or worse yet, small children. He stepped into the path of the nearest empty-handed nurse. I found her knocked out on the hospital roof.

The nurse shook off her confusion at Scott's sudden appearance and laid her fingers on Hannah's neck. Pulse taken, she jerked her head toward the nearest empty gurney and Scott followed. He laid Hannah down and the nurse repeated his check for injuries while shouting orders for blood tests.

An orderly shoved past him with a needle already in hand.

Get out of here, the nurse said to Scott, not taking her eyes off Hannah. We'll handle this.

Scott backed up and let the pros do their job. Star Haven Memorial was no one's first choice for health care, but beggars couldn't be choosers. The hospital was already overfilled with wounded created by the Left Fists's shooting spree, so Scott backed away. He'd check on Hannah in a few minutes.

At least something useful had come out of this fiasco. Miranda Dane was desperate to get her daughter back. There'd been no ransom demand after she'd disappeared, so the police had no choice but to classify her as a runaway. The mayor had offered a reward to anyone who found her daughter. Scott had already earned the mayor's favor and he intended to keep it.

Behind him another set of doors led to a hallway for the first floor ward. Maybe he'd find another first aid kit somewhere to bandage his own bruises. Oddly, he didn't feel sore, but he was also bursting with adrenaline. He'd feel the beating tomorrow for sure.

Thanks to the Fists, he also had no phone, no radio, and no weapons. What he wouldn't give to at least have his phone back. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and his left hand curled around something solid and rectangular. Confused, he pulled out his phone. He was sure the Left Fists had snagged it when they disarmed him. Everything had happened so fast though, maybe they'd missed it?

He'd solve the mystery later, after he speed dialed his partner.

Juan, it's Scott.

Fucking hell, man. We've been looking for you all night. Are you okay?

He heard the underlying question. Are you still a hostage? Who's listening to this call? I'm fine. I escaped. I'm at Star Haven Memorial right now.

Hang on one sec.

Scott wandered over to a vending machine while Juan shouted across the din of the precinct that Scott was alive. The return cheer made Scott smile.

Hey, do you want me to come get you? Juan asked.

He was tempted to say yes and ask his partner to bring him something to eat. The vending machine only offered two bags of chips and a packet of peanuts. Not that he had any money to pay for it. No, not right now. You're needed there and I need to get patched up. Any leads on how the Left Fists managed to get their hands on a helicopter?

Juan's sigh spoke of long hours and volumes of unanswered questions. Nothing, but the detectives are working that angle. I'm just trying to find my partner while the higher ups keep the riot under control.

Scott couldn't have asked for a better friend. Thanks, man. I'll catch you later.

Sure thing, Juan said. Watch yourself, though. Left Fist activity has calmed down, but there have been reports of Alts in the area.

Scott's stomach tightened around nothing. Of course he'd guessed right. Which ones?

We don't have confirmation on anything, but a guy called nine-one-one claiming he saw Captain Spec fly over the marina. Another woman swears she saw Ghost walk right through her front door without opening it, Juan said.

Alts knew better than to operate this side of the Bay, especially those two. I'll keep an eye out.

I know you will. If anyone can bag themselves an Alt, it's you.

Scott winced. Not even a month out of the Police Academy, when he was only nineteen, he'd shot and killed an Alt, earning himself a reputation as an Alt-killer. In Star Haven, he'd received a commendation and the public's adulation. Mayor Dane had used him as a poster child, proof that her decision to lower the Police Academy's minimum age to eighteen had been the right call.

If he showed his face in Thunder City, he'd get a very different, far more ugly reception. It'd been four years since he'd crossed the Bay. He had no reason to go back now.

Instead of dwelling on what he couldn't change, he disconnected from Juan and started to punch in the Mayor's number. Then he stopped. He'd been unconscious all night. That would make today Wednesday. Hannah's eighteenth birthday had been Monday. He'd kept track of that sort of information in case...well, you never knew when it would come in handy. Legally, she was an adult now, not a runaway. If she didn't want to go home, if she didn't want her mother to find her, Hannah had the right to make that decision. Even Mayor Dane couldn't force her daughter to return, no matter how much Dane wanted the reunion.

Against his better judgment, he put the phone back into his pocket. Hannah wasn't going anywhere for a while, and even starved as he was, he first needed to satisfy a different urge. Waiting a few minutes wouldn't hurt anything.

Inside the nearest men's room, the fluorescent light flickered in an unsteady rhythm, but at least he was alone. Blood covered his uniform and face, which wasn't as swollen as he'd expected. He opened his mouth to check which tooth he'd lost, but all his teeth appeared to be intact. Maybe he'd only chipped one? A quick swirl of his tongue over his molars didn't reveal any rough spots. He'd call his dentist anyway.

Scott lathered up his hands to wash away as much of the blood as he could. He had to have been rescued by an Alt, but which one? It would be easier to get an arrest warrant if he could identify the Alt first. God help him if it was Captain Spec or Ghost. He didn't need those two complicating things.

Hannah might have seen a face or a uniform before the Alt knocked her out.

Scott grabbed a handful of paper towels to blot away the water. As he did, his fingers brushed past his right ear. What the hell? He dropped the wad of towels and yanked his hair back. He'd been so focused on the blood and his tooth, he never noticed his ear, now complete with a lobe. A hallucination, it had to be. He'd had no food, no water in over twenty-four hours. A solid dose of protein would force him to see sense again. He'd beg a couple of dollars off someone and grab the bag of peanuts from the vending machine.

Exasperated, he rubbed his eyes, but the sharp scratch of plastic jabbed at his left eyelid. He pulled his hand away and found a packet of peanuts clutched in his palm. It was the same brand he'd seen in the vending machine.

Cold horror replaced his exhaustion. What the hell had happened to him?

Well? Miranda Dane snapped into her cell phone, while simultaneously checking her location on its GPS. Traffic leaving the Southern Point district still clogged the cross-city expressway, but she was scheduled for a press conference in front of the burned out civic center. Her driver would have no difficulties getting her there early.

We have a possible sighting of your daughter.

Six goddamned months and all Police Commissioner Becksom could offer her was a possible sighting. She should have fired him after the first three weeks of failure. He was lucky to still be alive after six months. Where?

Star Haven Memorial.

"Which one of your men thinks he saw her?" She'd be sure to have the badge of the son-of-a-bitch who didn't have enough sense to get confirmation before making the call.

One of my undercover detectives attached to the Left Fists, Becksom said. He broke a leg during the operation last night. They were stabilizing him in the ER when he saw a patrol officer come in carrying a girl who could have been Hannah.

Identify that officer. Have him cuff my daughter and lock her up somewhere. If she disappears again, it's your head on the chopping block. Miranda disconnected the call and pinged her driver. Head for Star Haven Memorial. Jump the lights if necessary.

The driver signaled his understanding.

Miranda dropped the phone back into its dock, then pressed her forefinger on the biometric lock to the hidden safe. The door popped open and she pulled out a padded envelope. She slid a manicured fingernail along the edge and let the contents spill onto her lap, careful to protect her custom tweed suit: three pre-filled syringes and their corresponding needles. Two syringes went back into the envelope.

Her nursing days at Memorial were long behind her, but she still remembered how to administer injections, both to save her patients and to kill them as ordered. She couldn’t kill Hannah, but the girl was becoming more of a problem than she’d anticipated. Without her stepfather to protect her, Hannah was alone. This time Miranda would employ stronger methods to see that the girl stayed where Miranda had put her.

The security video showed the cracked plaster of SHM as her driver slowed to swing the vehicle through the crowded parking lot, forcing other, smaller cars out of the way. With no place to park, her driver cut off an ambulance and maneuvered the limo into the last space in front of the emergency department's main entrance. A minute later, he opened the door and Miranda stepped out onto the pockmarked pavement amidst a cacophony of sirens and shouting, all of which she ignored.

Wait here. This shouldn't take long.

He bowed, but didn't respond.

3

Asiren blared as Hannah woke. Months of paranoia kept her eyes closed to the barest slit. Cool air scented with antiseptic could only mean she was inside the hospital. That buzzing noise...no, not the helicopter...voices. Loud...angry...desperate.... Oh, God, Grey? Was he in pain?

Her eyes snapped open as a gurney sped past her surrounded by colorful scrubs. She tried to sit up, but her pounding headache knocked her right back onto the flat pillow. Wait, think...Grey fell, she healed him and...crap, she must have fainted after. Maybe right on top of him, because the last thing she remembered was his eyes, wide and confused. He'd seen her, identified her. She couldn’t stay here.

He must have checked her into the emergency department, which would explain the honking and shouting and the IV needle pinching her elbow. Someone had parked her gurney at the end of the corridor instead of inside an exam room. So far, so good, though — no guards stood nearby. The lanyard from her fake ID still scratched her neck. Why hadn't Grey alerted hospital security?

Don't jinx your luck. Be glad he dumped you without a second thought. You can get away.

Still, he had dumped her, just like so many others before him. It stung, even though it shouldn't have. He hated Alts, had even killed one. He'd kill her too if he knew the truth.

The pain behind her eyes spiked as she turned her head. Making a run for it was out of the question, but all she needed was a head start and enough time to put distance between herself and the hospital. She had to assume Grey, dutiful Alt-killing cop that he was, had called her mother as soon as he dropped her here.

Keeping her movements slow so as not to attract attention, she slid her free arm out from under the scratchy blanket. With a pinch and a squeeze, she pulled the IV needle out of her vein and pressed her thumb to her elbow to stanch the blood. She curled onto her side so she could see the rest of the hallway and breathed past the headache. No one paid any attention to Karen Smith, hospital volunteer.

The crisis outside built to a crescendo. Someone shouted, Get the hell out of the way; someone else shouted back. Mayhem erupted. The crowd surged as a fight broke out.

Time to leave.

The second her bare toes touched the cold floor, her legs buckled. Arms flailing, she caught hold of a nearby water fountain, her fingers white as they slipped on the shiny surface. Bile burned her stomach, then her throat, while she retched. Her weak hands pushed the button to release lukewarm water into her mouth.

Relax, breathe deep, count to three, get control of yourself, your body. You're stronger than this.

Three breaths later, she lurched toward the double doors leading to the first ward outside the emergency room. The racket behind her increased. A fight at the entrance gained traction and the noise rolled closer as she threw herself against the latch bar. Her feet slid across the polished linoleum. C'mon, this shouldn't be so hard.

The door inched open. Behind her, a voice rose above all the others. Mayor Dane, if you would please wait and let us find...

Fear shoved her through the doors. Please-don't-let-her find-me, please-don't-let-her-find-me, please-don't-let-her-find-me.

You stay with the girl. Becksom's voice rattled Scott's already raw nerves. Cuff her to the bed and don’t let her out of your sight.

Scott tossed the last bite of his soggy sandwich into the trash, heading for the cafeteria's exit. Isn't that a little extreme, sir? She's eighteen now. If she doesn't want to return home, we can't legally force her.

Becksom ignored his question. The mayor is coming to pick her up. Whatever you do, don't interfere.

Don't interfere.