The Next Chronicle (Book 1): Next

  Next

  The Next Chronicle: Book One

  Joshua Guess

  ©2014 Joshua Guess

  This book is dedicated to

  Patrick Rooney

  For being the sort of friend

  who is more like a brother

  and for making me feel

  like a hero.

  And to Mike Myers

  A fan who left this earth

  before this book was finished

  Wherever you now are

  I believe it is a place where

  men can fly.

  Visit JoshuaGuess.com for the latest updates

  You can like Joshua Guess, Author on Facebook

  You can follow me on Twitter

  November 22, 2000

  Ricky Williams walked hand in hand with his boyfriend, oblivious to the world around him. The day was crisp, but not cold, as many mornings on the outskirts of Louisville so often were. It was refreshing, the invigorating sort of chill that makes you put on a light jacket but eventually swing it over your shoulder and smile as the day brightens.

  The hand in question belonged to Ricky's partner of three years and change, Ray Elliot. Ray was Ricky's opposite in many ways—while Ray was raven-haired and pale, with startling blue eyes, Ricky was a blond bleached almost white by working outdoors, with brown eyes the color of almonds and deeply tan skin. And while Ray walked along without a care in the world, Ricky couldn't help but feel like everyone was staring.

  He shook his head, trying to ward off dark thoughts. The small group of teenage boys snickering at them over by the entrance to a coffee shop could be ignored. Today was a day for them, and screw what anyone else thought. He wouldn't let his one day off with Ray be ruined by the idle condemnation of people too cowardly to say out loud what they were thinking.

  “Rick,” Ray said. “Stop it. I can feel you brooding.”

  Ricky glanced sideways and gave his man a small, reluctant smile. “You aren't as dumb as you look, are you?”

  “I try not to impress. Lowers expectations, which lets me snag unsuspecting older men.”

  Ricky laughed and made an effort to shrug off the weight he always carried with him when they were in public together. Looking around at the other people sampling goods from local vendors, watching the street performers—including a man, his brother, and his wife who were doing an impressive sword-swallowing/juggling/comedy show—and generally enjoying the pleasant day around, Ricky couldn't stay angry.

  As he let his vision dance around the old buildings that made up downtown Fairmont, with their aged brick and faded advertisements from a bygone era, Ricky let himself relax. Though people around him occasionally looked sideways at his fingers intertwined with Ray's, he chose to notice only the ones who smiled at him, gave greeting, or were generally friendly.

  They stopped at a craft stand to peruse a collection of hand-made wares. There were incense burners, clever wooden wine stands, even a few creative pieces of art that Ray turned over in his fingers with interest. He was that way, always had been. While Ricky remained reserved, hands dipped low into his pockets, Ray fiddled. He had to experience things in every way.

  They moved on to another vendor, this one from a small distillery. A tall woman with auburn hair handed out samples of a dark bourbon. Ricky took one of the tiny plastic cups and downed it in one go, while Ray swished his around, sniffing the booze before wetting his lips at the edge. A delighted smile crept across his face, a look Ricky never tired of seeing.

  A satisfying burning filled Ricky's stomach as the alcohol began to seep into him. Ray pulled him toward another table, this one stacked with paintings. Ricky grinned as Ray pointed excitedly; there in front of them were prints of Ray's own work, though it wasn't his name scrawled in the corner. The vendor was doing solid business. Though he knew how much Ray disliked having to paint such overwhelmingly corny pieces, they did pay the bills. As they watched, a man picked up a familiar painting, one of the few prints of Ray's work under his own name rather than the more boring pieces he sold through his employer.

  “I didn't know any of my prints would be here!” Ray said excitedly.

  Ricky grinned. “I convinced your boss to throw in a few of your originals with the rest,” he said. “I figured since he's passing your work off as his, it was the least he could do.”

  Ray laughed, pulling Ricky in and kissing him on the cheek. “You're the best, you know that?”

  An older woman a few feet away grimaced at them, but for once Ricky didn't mind. Seeing Ray this happy was a hard feeling to ruin.

  Warm satisfaction washed over him. It was a beautiful day, and he was with the person he loved more than anything in the world. Even if some there didn't approve, most enjoyed the Bourbon Festival loudly and infectiously, and that was good enough for him.

  That pleasant contentment lasted only until they crossed a closed-off side street, the piercing wail of squealing tires announced someone who forgot the area was closed to traffic. Reflex took over, Ricky's arms shooting out like pistons to shove Ray to safety.

  The car slammed into him a fraction of a second later. Time turned to molasses, not slow enough to help in any way, but allowing Ricky to note, as the car fishtailed into him and began the agonizing work of shattering his pelvis, that it was an older model. The kind his mother called a 'lead sled.' Ancient granny cars from an era not quite bygone but still before his time.

  The arcing trajectory of the car's grill, now carrying his body along easily, ended at a turn of the century lamppost on the corner. As Ricky's spine met the post and was crushed, he recalled with detached calm that the city had been so adamant in keeping the things. Landmarks, they'd said.

  The car door swung open, but Ricky didn't pay attention to who stepped out. His focus, such as it was, rested on the car itself. His body began to move side to side, gently at first but with increasing force. He was dimly aware that someone was shaking him.

  “Ricky! Oh, god! We need to get the car away from him, get him free! Someone help, please!”

  The words barely registered, though they were in Ray's voice. Ricky was feeling sleepy, and things around him began to dim. He valiantly struggled to remember...

  “Is it an Oldsmobile, maybe? I can't recall exactly. But I know this car. I think my aunt had one.”

  His words came out in an impossible jumble, blood pouring from his mouth as he spoke. Though he couldn't feel it thanks to the merciful brain damage as his head whipped against the post, Ricky's ribs and lungs now had a much more intimate relationship.

  “Ricky, can you hear me? Hold on, okay? The ambulance is coming.”

  He looked to the left. It was so hard, and it was starting to hurt. Everything was so hard. Ray was looking at him all worried. But why? It was a nice day. There was nothing to worry about.

  “Somebody get in that car and move it!” Ray screamed.

  The people around were in shock, and none of them seemed capable of recovering enough to help. Or maybe they didn't think it wise to move the vehicle yet.

  Ray was becoming more frantic, and as the light started to drain away from the world, Ricky noticed something.

  In a perfectly clear voice, he said to Ray, “You're glowing.”

  The strength went out of Ricky's body. Blood still pumped from his wounds, but the rest was autopilot taking him to whatever destination waited.

  Beside the pinned body, now slumped against the car, Ray Elliot wept. The sounds that came from his throat were a mixture of mindless wails and garbled words, but the message was clear. Make it go away. Make the car go away. Make it better.

  Ray looked down at his hands, watching the tears fall around them as he broke nails against the cobblestones. They were glowing, and getting brighter.

  The only kindness the people of Fairmont received that day was a quick end. When the flash of green light ripped from Ray Elliot in a perfect sphere that swept outward, it did so at the speed of light. There was no time for pain or worry, no fear of what was to come when the first of a new breed screamed his birthing cry across the face of the planet.

  September 11, 2001

  8:50 AM

  Jeanette Lowery was in a crowd, but like every other New Yorker nearby, she felt alone. From where she stood she could see the tower burning.

  The electronics shop next to her had its doors open, every television on the same channel and blasting at full volume. The news anchors were all as shocked as she was, as every person in her field of vision seemed to be.

  An old woman ambled slowly from the crowd to lean against the shop's window. Jeanette tore her eyes away from the horror in the skies of lower Manhattan to assess the woman. Her gait was off, though that could be a result of watching such a terrible event unfold. But being elderly and receiving such a jolt, she wanted to be sure.

  Jeanette joined the old woman, settling next to her and pulling a bottle of water from her purse.

  “Ma'am,” Jeanette said. “Are you okay?”

  The older lady, her creased brown skin showing the spiderweb of wrinkles only found in the truly aged, smiled. It was a weary thing, devoid of any real joy.

  “I'm fine, girl. I just need to...I don't know. Get my bearings. This is...” She raised a shaking hand and swept it at the sky, only to let it fall a few moments later.

  “I know. What can you say about all this?” Jeanette replied.

  The old woman was silent. The quiet between them was broken with the sharp music of a
breaking news segment. Jeanette resumed her vigil on the burning tower as the anchorman's words pulsed around her with nearly physical force.

  “We're now learning that initial reports suggest the attack on New York may be the work of the so-called 'Next.' Some viewers may not be aware of the protests held outside of the White House last week as President Bush and party leaders on Capitol Hill met to work out the details of the McDonnell Bill. The legislation has sparked intense public debate. While many agree that some steps have to be taken to manage the superhuman population and the threat they pose, opponents of the bill argue that the measures proposed by Congressman McDonnell go too far.”

  “Jesus,” Jeanette said as she offered the water bottle to the old woman. “If they've started a war with us, how can we win? The things they can do, how could the military even stop them?”

  The stooped older woman took the bottle with a sigh. “Doesn't seem right,” she said.

  Jeanette snorted. “Damn straight, it doesn't. How could any of this be right?”

  “No,” the old lady said. “I mean, if the Next were gonna start a war, why would they do it with a plane crash? Doesn't seem as though they need weapons, does it?”

  That gave Jeanette pause. “Makes sense, but who else has a reason to do this?”

  The other woman shook her head. “Don't think reason comes into it. People been doing this to each other forever. Isn't why they did it that matters. It's how you react.”

  They listened to the news for a few minutes longer. In between updates about the attack, the newscasters reminded the audience of the chain of events following the disaster in Fairmont. In neat little bites they covered the destruction of the town, the following wave of superhuman abilities blooming in previously normal human beings, the culture of terror many normal people began to live in as similar (if smaller scale) events began to crop up around the world.

  Jeanette glanced at her watch. Two after nine. She was about to ask the other woman her name, see if she wanted help getting home, when the old lady whispered two words in abject horror.

  “Dear Jesus.”

  Jeanette followed the woman's gaze just in time to see the second plane strike. A rolling gasp of horror filled the street, every person breathing in at once before shouting as one in their grief and anger.

  The old lady stood and looked at Jeanette with sad, soulful eyes. “Do me a favor, would you, girl?”

  “Sure,” Jeanette said without thinking. The little black lady nodded.

  “Remember this. Tell people.”

  Jeanette frowned. “Tell them what?”

  The old woman smiled and turned toward the burning buildings, their smoke filling the sky.

  “Tell them what we did today.”

  And the old lady shot into the sky so fast she caused the air around to vacuum upward in a spiral, sending Jeanette's hair tumbling around her face.

  Jeanette's eyes followed as the old woman moved toward the burning south tower. All over the city, other bodies rose in the air. They flew toward the burning towers, catching people trying to escape the flames.

  What she had been unable to see before, through her tears and distance, was apparent now. All across the city, rising from the streets, the Next moved in to help. From so far away she hadn't seen the handful rescuing those trapped on the north tower, risking everything to save innocents from the climbing flames. Now there were hundreds, maybe thousands. In the minutes following the second attack, newsrooms around the world would stand in silent awe as those brave men and women worked tirelessly to evacuate everyone they could save.

  Jeanette watched until both towers fell. For years after, a question plagued her.

  She wondered time and again what that woman's name had been.

  Eleven Years Later

  Chapter One

  Behind a desk with a finish so smooth it could have been the mirror in a telescope, a thin woman with short, vivid red hair put one hand to her headset as the other continued to type.

  “Mr. Archer's private line. May I ask who's calling?”

  The question was a formality. Only one person had access to the number, and it was usually a bad sign when Archer got a call on it. The voice on the other end was what the woman expected, gravelly and old, strained by too many years full of too many worries. But the voice was also filled with the solid confidence of a man toughened by years of being right when no one expected it.

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Would you like me to transfer you to Mr. Archer, or—?”

  The man on the end of the line replied, and the girl nodded. As usual, conversation between the two men was avoided when possible.

  “Of course, sir. I'll be happy to pass on the message.”

  Nicki Baxter touched the headset again to end the call and swore to herself. The boss was not going to like this. Not a bit.

  When most people hear about covert government facilities, they think of Area 51 or hidden missile silos. Reality usually rides shotgun with disappointment, and at the same time Rowan Archer was being told the bad news by his loyal and long-suffering assistant, Kitra Singh was being called into the high-end Intelligence version of the principal's office.

  In a gymnasium that could have been transported from any college, a man in a black suit, white shirt, black tie and an expression of distaste was gesturing wildly.

  “Singh!” the agent shouted above the din in the training center. “Robinson wants to see you ASAP!”

  Kitra put her hands up to her opponent, signaling that the round was over. All around, men and women gave full-throated screams as they practiced a smattering of six different martial arts. Today's theme was control, focusing on touching your opponent without doing them harm. Their hands had been chalked to allow the touches to show on their dark uniforms. Singh's was pristine. The agent who bowed to her as she backed away, Stevie Higgs, had enough white on his togs to make them look gray.

  Giving Higgs a wink and a crooked smile, Singh turned and trotted over to the waiting agent.

  Ugh, she thought with mild distaste. Phillips. Robinson has a whole barracks full of people to send. Why this jackass?

  Agent Phillips stood at the edge of the gymnasium, twirling his finger impatiently, telling her to pick up the pace. She snatched a towel from the pile of gear at the edge of the mat, taking her time wiping off nonexistent sweat.

  “Singh, stop screwing around. Robinson wants you in his office. Now.”

  She turned a baleful eye toward him. “I'm sorry, Agent Phillips. What was that you called me?”

  Phillips turned pink. Such a by-the-book asshole, he'd let his dislike for her make him forget the rules of the organization he held so dear. “I'm sorry, Special Agent Singh, but Robinson was clear that he wanted you in his office pretty much yesterday.”

  Phillips might be a pain in the ass, but he generally didn't start trouble. Singh grabbed her gear bag and gestured for him to lead the way. Behind the clear lenses of his thick glasses, Phillips narrowed his eyes before heading for the exit.

  It was a mannerism every person in the unit was used to. Phillips was usually the go-between when the brass needed face time with the unit members, which meant that any displays of their powers were met with the small but noticeable reaction. She should have left the bags behind to avoid irritating the man, but even after three years he hadn't forgiven her for breaking his arm. And it had been his fault!

  As Kit Singh followed the irritating agent, she wondered for the hundredth time what that look signified. If most people had seen her effortlessly throw a bag the size of a steamer trunk over her shoulder, three hundred pounds of gear no more troubling than a backpack, she would say they were scared. That a simple change in expression meant disapproval.

  With Phillips, she wasn't so sure. He had been the one to break routine during mixed training in her early days with the unit. A normal human, trying to prove something in a bout with one of them. A broken arm taught him to use caution with her, but it also bred animosity. He'd never displayed a hint of dislike for the other superhuman agents.

  She could almost swear that it was envy. As if, by every show of power, the men and women of the unit were mocking the fact that they had it and he did not.