PLEASE NOTE!
This is Part II of "The Rise of VENOM." If you haven't read my earlier story, "The Rise of VENOM, part I," I encourage you to go back and read it before this one.
BOULDER, CO – One Year Earlier
A mere hours before Matt had to act as a pallbearer to bring the casket to its final resting place, he ad been visited by a very nice lady detective from the Boulder Police Department. She delivered the news that he most feared: No new leads in the murder investigation; so, we're very sorry, but we have to move on to hotter cases. Someone will follow up as new leads become available, she assured Matt.
After hearing that, Matt wasn't up to dealing with the funeral. He felt alone in the crowd. No less than 75 mourners – family, colleagues, friends, the obscure relatives who only show up for life's milestones – graced the cemetery and surrounding areas.
Everyone who walked by Matt was especially sympathetic. Most knew how close he and Andy were, and how much Matt admired his big brother. Matt lost track of how many times he heard "Hang in there, buddy" or "It will get better."
After the last mourner had left, before the greasy strangers would begin shoveling dirt upon that casket, Matt Trakker walked to the lip of his brother's grave. He opened a penknife, and sliced his palm. He grunted at the sudden pain, but didn't cry out.
He squeezed his fist tightly, allowing the blood to dribble out and onto his brother's casket.
"I swear," Matt said through gritted teeth, "by my blood, that I will find out who did this and punish them."
WASHINGTON, D.C. – Present Day
It was a joke among the staffers that General Ray Dryden calls for ten different studies and four focus groups to decide which Subway sandwich he would eat for lunch, but it didn't seem far from the truth. Though a capable officer, Dryden made a career out of not making important decisions. His favorite delay tactic: putting the issue up for further study.
And the current crisis in San Francisco was no different. Dryden called for several batteries of tests – let's see what the vehicles are made out of, let's draw out their capabilities, we need reconnaissance, we need more information, more information, more information!
"Frankly, I think you're making half of those tests up," said General Baker. "My vote is still A-Bomb!"
"We are not using an atomic bomb on American soil, period," said President Heyward. "I already covered this once and I will not go over it again. Forcing me to do so will result in a new chief of staff sitting where you are."
There was a long, contemplative silence.
"Maybe I can split the difference, Mr. President," Admiral Bruckman, the mediator, said. "With respect to General Dryden, study may benefit us but I agree with General Baker. Action is warranted. We should launch a coordinated military strike."
"That's good," said General Barnes. "No atomic weaponry, but we're still acting more and studying less."
"I still think we should study the matter more in-depth..."
"Give it a rest, Dryden," Secretary of Defense Byrne said. "We can't sit on this one. We owe that to the American people."
"Agreed," said Heyward.
"I can live with a coordinated military strike," said Baker. "It's not the atomic bomb, but at least it's action." He slammed his fist into his open palm as he said the words.
"Give the orders to the western U.S. Commands, Madame Secretary," the President said. "We move in as soon as we can."
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
Without the mask, Bruno Sheppard was an ugly son of a bitch, thought Cliff Dagger.
Not that Cliff was a male model, mind you. He knew that. He was hulking, muscular, and sported an eye patch. He hid his bald head under a hat, usually a red beret. But Sheppard? Sheppard had both of his eyes, but sported an unnaturally red mohawk. Like Dagger, Sheppard was muscular but it was the steroid-muscular that showed lots of veins. And the spiderweb patterns on his skin disrupted Sheppard's many tattoos: a heart with a knife over his right breast, a chain down the same arm.
Yet Sheppard was brutally efficient and he got the job done, Dagger had to admit. The boss was right to put this guy in the mix, and Dagger was happy to have this brute to back him up.
And this partnership was about to be tested, as the two drove the now-ordinary Ford Bronco around a corner and smack into three tanks.
Dagger slammed the brakes and jerked the wheel, hand-over-hand, to the left. This forced Jackhammer into a skid and the vehicle's tires screamed in protest. Dagger righted the car and faced the tanks with half a football field of empty road between them.
"This is the United States Army," an amplified voice declared. "Power your vehicle down and surrender or we will use deadly force."
Dagger shrugged, and put Torch over his head. "Ready?"
Magna-Beam looked like two brown trapezoidal mouths pushed together, and marked a tremendous improvement over Sheppard's normal face, even if it did cast an eerie alien look. "Whenever you are," Sheppard said, donning his alien visage.
In a whirr of gears, a flash of sun glinting off metallic panels, and a flurry of tiny, precise mechanized motions too quick for the naked eye, Jackhammer was again in its tank form. Sheppard climbed into the turret, bringing the twin guns to bear on the three tanks in front of him.
"Fire," the amplified voice ordered the tanks. In obedience, each tank blasted a shell at Jackhammer. With a glare from Sheppard's mask, two of the shells parted like curtains, penetrating highrises on opposite sides of the street and forcing them to implode. Tons of concrete and steel rained to the ground like a house of cards.
Sheppard caused the third shell to sail straight up, then around in a loop-the-loop. It landed nose down on the center tank, blowing the sides out. The outer two tanks sailed in opposite directions at a 45 degree angle, as if they were drapes parted by an unseen hand.
Each flying tank collided with highrises of their own, obliterating those buildings and leaving twisted husks of steel with patches of stubborn concrete clinging to the frame.
Dagger hit the gas pedal, and Jackhammer sped forward, quickly closing the half-football field no-man's land. As he expected, dozens of infantrymen armed in riot gear waited behind the tanks. They marched forward, laying machine gun fire down.
Each bullet harmlessly ricocheted off Jackhammer's armor, creating hollow metallic pings that didn't even scratch the paint.
Jackhammer bounded over the wreckage of the middle tank easily. Sheppard opened fire, spraying bullets in a crescent across the infantry. Their armor kept most men safe, but some bullets managed to find voids in the joints.
Blood and screams erupted from all around as some soldiers went down.
Jackhammer ran over many others, and then broke free on the other side. Dagger continued for his destination: City Hall, to force the ultimate surrender of the city.
That's when a Harrier jet blocked his path.
These jets had a vertical take-off and landing ("VTOL") capability, which enables them to hover mid-flight. This hovering jet blocked Jackhammer's path.
So Dagger slammed his foot on the brake once again, pulling the wheel left, hand-over-hand, so he could use the skid to augment his braking.
He didn't give Sheppard as much room as planned, but it should suffice. Jets were made out of metal, and that means the Harrier, though looking impressive hovering over a city street, posed little threat.
Sheppard concentrated on the jet, forcing it upward. The pilot engaged more thrusters, trying to pull free of the invisible magnetic force. But it was mere token resistance. Sheppard was able to lift the jet high into the atmosphere and tear the helpless thing to pieces, then shove the pieces into a ball and bring the former craft down hard onto a street some miles away as a child might do to a toy he's mad at.
Dagger and Sheppard erupted into fits of laughter. Damn, this was fun!
BOULDER, CO
Scott Trakker's gut sunk into his feet as he looked at the doorbell. He was like his dad, always striving for control. When he couldn't do something himself, he hated that helpless feeling of having to rely on someone else.
Pushing that doorbell represented a loss of control.
The door was a simple wooden one, with no decorations. Fitting for a Native American man of the land, one who tried unsuccessfully to eschew the Big City Life and remain in the wilderness.
Scott swallowed his pride and delayed no more. He pushed the doorbell.
Scott waited.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened to reveal a tall man, slender and sinewy, with long, jet-black hair tied in a ponytail. The hair was held with homemade leather straps and adorned with a single feather. Nevada was a year older than Matt, and his brown face was sun-beaten. Nevada liked the outdoors and wanted to make his life there, like his forefathers. That didn't work out, so he returned to Boulder.
He was Scott's age then, and had met Matt Trakker when the two attended the same school. They had been fast friends ever since, and business partners later. Nevada had helped with the Native American history elements appearing in the video game Matt designed.
Nevada was quite surprised to see Scott. Matt hadn't called or written since Andy's funeral.
"Mr. Rushmore," Scott said meekly, "I need your help, sir."
One of the elite criminals gathered by the mysterious boss, Vanessa sat at a conference table and surveyed the others. She didn't know the identity of the boss, sitting at the head of the massive table. Of course the boot-licking Nash Gorey, with his big, thick glasses and insufferable bow tie sat next to the boss. Revenge of the Nerds come to life.
The annoying Lester Sludge, with his flaming red hair and ever-present horned-rimed sunglasses, sat next to Gorey. Vanessa wasn't sure who was worse, Gorey with all his nerd puns and unabashed ass-kissing, or Sludge who fancied himself a ladies man but understood women as well as a grunting ape.
Then there was the blond arsonist, Floyd Malloy. What kind of clueless parents name a kid "Floyd Malloy?" Did they not understand the concept of "bullying?" They may as well have painted a target on the kid's back. It would have been more merciful than giving him a rhyming name. Of course, maybe the bullying he undoubtedly endured turned him into the master criminal he was today.
Next to Vanessa, on the other side of the table, sat tBoris Bushkin. Something was off about the Russian brute, but Vanessa could never quite put her finger on it. He just didn't seem like most criminals; he had no "story," no cause to be bad. He was probably useful to the boss, sure, but she didn't see him staying with VENOM for very long.
Sly Rax, greasy brown shoulder-length hair with an unkempt goatee on his chin, sat with arms clasped together, as if hanging on every word that the boss was about to say. Right. Vanessa knew better: this guy wanted to be the boss. But he wasn't even the Number Two Guy; that was Vanessa's spot.
Tall and slender, but with rounded hourglass hips and long, athletic legs, Vanessa Warfield knew exactly what she brought to the table and it wasn't just sex appeal. The rest of these guys were small potatoes – she was an expert tactician. The boss may have noticed her smoldering brown eyes and natural red hair, but he kept her for her brains.
Now the boss, arrayed in a blue military dress uniform complete with the ropes around his shoulder and a five-star shoulder stripe, spoke to the assembled group.
"We have successfully taken San Francisco," he said, holding his fist in the air in classic supervillain overacting. "Now," slamming his fist into the table for emphasis, "it is time for the next phase of the plan."
"Sir," Vanessa said, "shouldn't we hold San Francisco for longer before we move to Phase II?"
"Now is the time to act, Vanessa," the boss growled. He was a positive bulldog sometimes.
"But sir," Vanessa protested, "I've seen the plan. It's brilliant, but it requires absolute control of four cities. We don't have absolute control of San Francisco yet. It could still be taken from us, and then we'd be dead in the water by the time we got to Washington."
The boss ignored her, turning to his left. "Nash, Lester," he said, "fire up Outlaw. Use it to conquer Phoenix."
"This is a mistake, sir," Vanessa said again. "I think we should assure absolute control of -"
"Enough," the boss said. "Proceed."
"Yes, sir," Nash said.
"Yes, sir," Lester echoed.
Vanessa sulked. Damn. He's risking everything! But, Vanessa supposed, no plan is without risks.
He doesn't call, he doesn't write, he doesn't return any of my messages!" Nevada Rushmore turned on his heel and entered his modest dwelling. Though he seemed quite angry, he left the door open. Scott presumed that was an invitation to enter, so he followed his father's oldest friend inside.
Nevada plopped into a well-worn leather chair opposite a TV. He muted the latest reports from San Francisco and motioned for Scott to be seated on a couch against the left wall.
"He's... not well," Scott said.
Nevada grunted. A man of few words, always.
"He's... depressed. He didn't take Uncle Andy's death very well. He's... been pushing all of us away."
"Does he talk to anyone?" Nevada's deep voice tried to stay gruff, but concern was creeping in.
"No, sir," Scott said, his eyes glued to his sneakers.
"I see," Nevada grunted. "Why didn't you reach out sooner?"
"Well, I don't like to ask for help."
"Neither does Matt," Nevada said with a little laugh. He looked at the TV, watching more reports of devastation in San Francisco. He returned his gaze to Scott. "Why now?"
Scott looked at the silent images for a moment. More footage of the hulking brute using the fire from his mask to incinerate buildings.
"I know why," Nevada said, his voice far away. "Your uncle's designs, right?"
Scott nodded. "Uncle Andy left other designs. I've seen them in the workshop that I'm not supposed to be in. Dad could build them..."
"And what?" Nevada asked, incredulous. "Go fight this terror himself? That's absurd, Scott."
Scott was on his feet. "We can't do nothing!" he exclaimed. "People are dying and we have the means to fight these... these..." he motioned at the TV, indicating one of the masked villains, "bastards!" Scott took a breath, and then continued. "And he's just sitting on it. He won't even tell the government about it."
Scott choked up.
Nevada was on his feet, too, and he walked to Scott, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll talk to him," Nevada promised.
It was the first ray of hope in a long time.
PHOENIX, AZ – May 28, 2012, 1:00 P.M.
As the sun beat down on the desert city of Phoenix, a black tanker truck pulled up to a downtown intersection. It set the brake, and blocked traffic. Horns erupted, and profanity floated on a sea of anger toward the offending vehicle.
No matter how nice a person is on the outside, no matter how sweet in everyday life, you need only to interrupt the flow of traffic and watch Mr. Hyde come right out of Dr. Jekyll.
When Nash Gorey felt that the Jekylls of ordinary citizens were sufficiently buried in their Hydes, he nodded to Lester Sludge.
The profanity ceased as the tanker's cab peeled open, the seats within rising on a hydraulic hiss. The Hydes of Phoenix lost their anger at being delayed; it melted into terror when they beheld that the two men in the cab wore futuristic masks and a large gun had pride of place between them.
The tank in the back rose to a 90-degree angle as two radar dishes swung into place atop the newly-formed tower. In the place that the trailer used to occupy was a huge missile launcher. It was armed.
The gun in the truck's cab opened fire, spraying large caliber bullets into the stopped traffic. Silence gave way to screams as the panicked citizens of Phoenix scrambled for their lives.
Lester laughed his hideous laugh. "Let's get ready for the grand finale, shall we?"
Nash nodded.
Lester climbed over the cab and headed to the tower section. Nash, meanwhile, dismounted and headed to a computer bank that had sprung up where the tanker's gas tank used to be. A cable connected the computer to a large generator sitting on the ground nearby.
A bruiser of a man, ex-football lineman by the look of him, had managed to escape unharmed from the initial volley of gunfire. His scalp was completely clean of hair, and he had a goatee with mustache. The look of all ex-jocks, complete with a vacant stare lacking all intelligence.
Nash's usual mode of dress – a pale yellow shirt tied tightly with a loud bow tie – was visible beneath his mask. Completing the ensemble was an argyle sweater vest that screamed NERD.
"Hey, nerd!" the ex-jock shouted. Nash looked at the jock. "Yeah, you!" he said. "We're the citizens of the United States of America, and you can't just come in here with your fancy weaponry and think you're gonna take it over!"
Other survivors, some severely wounded, started cheering this man.
Nash ignored his detractors. He could understand why the guy did it. He had been a jock target his whole life. This ex-jock sees Nash as an easy target.
The ex-jock walked right up to Nash, and got in the small nerd's face. He puffed his chest up, and he yelled. "What are you gonna do, nerd?" The jock chest-bumped Nash, knocking Nash off balance. He had to struggle to stay upright.
"Stop it," Nash said. He tried reach the bank of computers.
The jock leaned over Nash, face-to-mask. "Not so tough without your missiles, eh? You're too yellow to fight me man-to-man." The jock chest-bumped Nash again, to more cheers from the crowd.
"Stop that," Nash said again.
The jock laughed. "What are you gonna do, Princess?"
"This," Nash said. His mask sent electrical bolts over his body, and Nash easily lifted the bully into the air. He threw his tormentor into a knot of cars.
The crowd quickly silenced itself.
Nash walked toward the quivering man. His limbs weren't configured quite right anymore, and he had a nasty gash on his forehead. More electricity surged from the mask over Nash as he lifted a car from the pile-up over his head, and brought it down hard on the helpless jock.
"That's for all the mouth-breathing, football-playing jocks who think they're better than everyone else. Nerds rule, asshole."
Nash walked back to the bank of computers. He sat, and cracked his knuckles.
"What's taking so long?" Lester Sludge shouted from the communication tower.
"Just living the dream," Nash said.
"Well, hurry it up, Gorey."
"Yeah, yeah," Nash said silently. In response to his typing, the missile launcher swung to aim north-by-northwest, and the warhead locked into position. "We're on target," Nash called to Lester.
"Well? Fire it, already!"
"Patience isn't your virtue, Lester," Nash said. He depressed a single key with a flourish.
The missile sped into the air, and sailed along gracefully. It bore down, down, and then struck the State Capitol. Tons of concrete and steel erupted like a fountain. Civilians and government officials scurried around, trying to escape the conflagration that would follow.
It was mass panic in Phoenix.
WASHINGTON, DC
With new images of devastation flooding the airwaves in the wake of a second attack on Phoenix, Arizona, President Heyward sat grim-faced and silent in his chair in the Oval Office.
Erica Byrne, his Secretary of Defense, watched the reporter on TV flash images from San Francisco, then Phoenix. Then more from San Francisco. Then back to Phoenix. In a statement released only 15 minutes ago, officials in both cities planned to surrender unconditionally to VENOM.
"It's their only option," Byrne said.
The President contemplated that in silence. Not since the War of 1812 had the shores of the United States been invaded by an opposing sovereignty. Not since 9/11 had such a successful terrorist attack been launched on US soil.
James Madison kept the fledgling nation alive through the first conflict, George W. Bush had kept the nation afloat during the second. Was this great nation really going to fall on Heyward's watch?
The Secretary turned in her chair to face her boss. "Sir, we don't have the means to fight this threat. I think you should consider surrender."
The President watched another montage of violence. He slammed his open palm onto his desk.