Chapter 216

The Convergence of Wills, Pt. 5

The bar was silent.

Not the comfortable kind that had settled over the room during Khalida’s presentation, or the stunned kind that followed Alexander Rooke’s revelations. This was the silence of people who had forgotten how to speak.

On the widescreen, Dubai was in chaos.

The feed had devolved into fractured camera angles and shaking drone footage. The terrace where Khalida had stood minutes ago was unrecognizable. Chairs overturned. Blood on the marble. Bodies on the ground, some still, some thrashing.

Alexander Rooke moved through the chaos like a conductor in a storm. Drones swarmed overhead, dozens of them, forming walls of metal and light between the infected and the fleeing crowd. Lightning arced from his gauntlet, connecting with a red-eyed guard who was mid-leap toward a cluster of reporters. The guard hit the ground convulsing as two more drones spun down, blades carving into flesh.

But it was the other figure that held the room’s attention. The man who kept dying and coming back. A face nobody at this bar had ever seen in person, but every single one of them recognized the moment he started spraying blood from a corpse.

“That’s the Panama Vampire,” Micky whispered from behind the bar. “That’s the fucking Panama Vampire.”

Nobody argued. Nobody could. The footage from Panama was seared into the collective memory of the world. One hundred and seventy-three thousand dead. Cities locked down. Kill teams deployed. And now the same nightmare was unfolding live on a stage in Dubai while the whole planet watched.

A beer bottle slipped from someone’s fingers and shattered. Nobody turned.

On screen, Augustus Greaves tore open a portal directly in the path of a charging superhero whose eyes blazed red. The hero vanished and the portal snapped shut. Another opened under a group of infected guards, dumping them somewhere else. Buying seconds. Redirecting the chaos.

A shockwave rippled across the terrace as Julia Delvane collided with another turned superhuman, the impact sending cracks racing through the marble beneath them. She drove the woman into the ground with enough force to crater the stone, then launched skyward as two more came at her from the sides.

Maximilian’s chains erupted from the earth in a wave, punching through concrete and tile, wrapping around a dozen screeching infected who were clawing toward a knot of civilians pressed against a barrier. The chains tightened. The infected thrashed and screamed, mouths gaping, blood pouring from their eyes.

Behind the barrier, people pounded on it, trying to climb over each other, trying to get away from everything.

Sophia’s hand found Trent’s and squeezed. He squeezed back but didn’t look away from the screen.

Then the feed cut.

The screen went black for half a second before a newsroom replaced the carnage. A woman behind a desk, visibly shaken, one hand pressed to her earpiece. Behind her, a smaller frame showed street-level footage from somewhere that wasn’t Dubai.

It was New York.

A hover vehicle had crashed nose-first into the side of an apartment building, smoke pouring from the wreckage. People sprinted down the street in every direction. Among them, figures moved wrong. Too fast. Lurching, then exploding into motion, tackling runners to the ground. One of them had a man pinned against a mailbox, head wrenched to the side, blood streaming down his neck.

“We are receiving reports from multiple boroughs,” the anchor said, her voice cracking once before she controlled it. “NYPD and AEGIS emergency services are urging all residents to shelter in place immediately. Lock all doors and windows. Do not engage with anyone displaying signs of infection. Reports describe sudden onset of violent behavior, including biting and the vomiting of blood onto victims. Contact with infected blood appears to cause seizures followed by…” She paused. Swallowed. “Followed by death. And reanimation.”

Nobody in the bar moved. Everyone had frozen in place, watching their city tear itself apart on a screen.

Then Sophia’s hand released his.

Trent stood up.

Every eye in the room turned to him. The mid-rank guys on the freezers. Devon at the bar with his bandaged arm. Rosa with the bruise on her jaw. Andre against the wall. Jason on the arm of the couch. Micky behind the counter, hands flat on the surface. The newer members in the doorways, the ones who hadn’t earned their seats yet.

“Everyone still combat-capable,” Trent said. “With me.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He crossed the room and headed for the exit, Sophia falling into step beside him.

Jason was next. Then Micky, vaulting the bar without a word. Devon pushed off the counter, beer still in his bandaged hand, and followed. Rosa slid from her stool. Andre pushed off the wall, wincing as his weight hit his bad leg, and limped after them.

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Behind them, someone was struggling with something. Trent glanced back to see one of the newer guys, a kid who’d broken his arm two weeks ago in a scrap with the Paragon Society, tearing the cast off with his teeth and his free hand. Strips of plaster scattered across the floor as he ripped the last of it free, flexed his fingers once, and jogged after the others.

Nobody stayed behind.

***

The penthouse had gone quiet minutes ago.

On the holo, a metal-scaled dinosaur the size of a truck drove its front claws through the chest of a man who had been busy tearing himself free of yet another corpse. The creature stomped down, grinding him into the marble with a force that cracked the terrace beneath. MetaMetal scales rippled across its hide as it raised one massive leg for another blow.

One of Maximilian’s barriers snapped into place around the dinosaur an instant before the body detonated. Blood painted the inside of the translucent box in a solid sheet of red. The barrier held. Inside, the Spinosaurus shook itself once, then crashed through the barrier wall at the moment Maximilian dropped it, charging toward something off-screen.

Hjordis streaked across the sky, flaming wings trailing fire like a comet’s tail, greatsword gripped in both hands. She spun and brought it down in an arc that carved a red-eyed superhuman clean in half from shoulder to hip. The two pieces tumbled apart, hit the ground, and immediately began reaching for each other. Fingers clawing through the dirt, dragging the severed halves back together.

Talia Kim held the mouth of a corridor between two overturned barriers, katana flashing in short arcs as two armed superhumans pressed her. Their eyes were blood-red, their movements jerky but relentless. She gave ground one step at a time, blade catching every strike, redirecting momentum, never letting either slip past her. Behind her, a dozen civilians cowered under chairs and behind debris, some clutching each other, some just staring.

Nobody in the penthouse spoke. The Sleipnir’s crew sat scattered across the expensive furniture, some standing, some frozen mid-motion where they’d been when the chaos began. Ryan stood near the back wall, arms folded, jaw tight. Yuki had her hand over her mouth. Doug leaned against the kitchen counter, pale beneath his tan. Petra sat on the arm of a sofa, fingers pressed to her temples.

Frank wasn’t watching the holo.

He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down. Even from this height, the streets told the story. Flashing emergency lights. Vehicles stopped at odd angles, some crashed, some abandoned with doors hanging open. People running. And among them, shapes moving wrong. Fast, lurching, converging on anyone too slow to escape.

Helena stood beside him, her reflection ghosting across the glass. Carmen stood beside her.

“Frank.” Carmen’s voice was steady, but the question beneath it wasn’t. “What do we do?”

He didn’t turn from the window. “Why are you asking me? They’re your crew.”

“Because Alexander wanted you to make the call.” She paused. “And I trust him.”

Frank looked to the left, toward the palace compound in the distance. Flashes of light pulsed above it. Orange. White. Green. The colors of powers colliding, visible even without binoculars. Whatever was happening over there was operating at a level that made the streets below look tame.

He looked back down.

“He wouldn’t want us there,” Frank said. “We’d just get in the way.” He nodded toward the carnage below. “That’s where we can make a difference.”

Then he turned from the window and took in the room. A dozen faces stared back at him. A starship crew who’d walked into a luxury spa weeks ago as normal people and walked out as something new. Something they barely understood yet.

“I don’t know what everyone can do,” Frank said. “Don’t know what your powers are or how well you control them. So here’s what we’re doing.” He looked at Carmen. “I’m heading down there. You figure out who’s coming and who’s staying. We secure the streets around the hotel first, link up with any locals doing the same, and work outward from there.”

Carmen nodded once. Behind her, Ryan straightened from the wall, already moving toward the others.

Frank turned to Helena.

She met his eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you fucking dare. I’m coming.”

He grunted. “Was gonna say that.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Mhmm.”

He sighed, then looked past her at the crew. “You lot take the elevator. We’re taking a shortcut.”

Frank took a step back from the window. He drew a breath, centered himself the way months of training had taught him, and thrust his palm forward.

The window didn’t crack at the impact point. It shattered outward in a single sheet, glass exploding across the sky and scattering into the wind. Hot air rushed in, carrying the distant sounds of screaming and sirens.

Frank looked at Helena. Raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Then he stepped off the edge and dropped.

The scream from above told him his wife had, in fact, followed him off the proverbial cliff.

That made him smile.

***

Valerie pulled the last strap tight on her bracer and flexed her hand. The gear rack beside the poker table was nearly empty now, stripped of everything useful in the minutes since Dubai had turned into a war zone.

The widescreen behind the dealer’s empty chair still showed the feed. Nobody was watching it anymore. The sounds were enough. Screams, impacts, the crack of powers tearing through stone.

King stood fully armored, black and silver, the diamond embossed over his chest. He was staring at the empty chair against the wall. Not Spencer’s absence. Something else behind his eyes, something she couldn’t read. As always, his emotions were measured. Guarded.

Jack sealed his chestplate and tugged at the collar. Titanic had been ready before any of them, standing motionless near the wall with the patience of a mountain.

Cindy burst back through the door. “Outbreaks on the station. Three decks, maybe more.”

King glanced at Valerie.

She read everything in that look.

“Take Jack and handle it,” he said. “Titanic and I will go to Grimnir’s aid.”

She nodded.

The Doorman snapped his fingers. Reality split open beside the poker table as a doorway folded into existence.

King stepped through without so much as a backward glance.

Titanic crossed the room toward the door.

As he passed Jack, her brother held out a fist. “Show ‘em what the Royals are made of, big man.”

Titanic bumped it once. Nodded. Then ducked through the doorway and was gone.

It snapped shut. The room felt emptier than the missing chairs accounted for.

Jack and the Doorman turned to her.

Valerie looked at them both for a moment. Then she smiled. “Guess we’re stuck with cleanup duty today. Let’s go.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep