No Hero by Jonathan Wood Page A

running. Except... well, if I ever meet Kurt Russell I think I’m going to have to give him a piece of my mind, because I’m running toward the bloody thing.

8
    I’m halfway to the car when the monstrosity swats Kayla like a Scottish fly.
    She watches it happen. She stands there. Does nothing. Her sword dangles by her side. She stares up at the misshapen head while the fist goes back. While it comes back down.
    At first I think something must be happening so fast I don’t even see it. I almost expect to see her dancing up the thing’s arm, standing astride its shoulders. But she’s flying through the air like a broken mannequin. And it doesn’t seem like part of the plan when she lands and lies there unmoving.
    Our biggest gun was just taken out in under six seconds.
    My pace slows. And... isn’t she...? Isn’t the plan that...? Aren’t I backup? Kayla does the whole inhuman speed and agility and stabbing things with a sword bit. And I...? I’ve never even punched a wall.
    Why did she take that hit? Why would she do that?
    The thing that was the student closes a massive fist on the roof of an old Ford Escort. Metal crumples. He hefts it, one-handed. Weighs it. Muscles ripple—inhuman anatomy flexing. In his spare hand, he still holds the car battery, two fingers pressed to the contacts. I wonder about that. Not for very long. Too busy wondering about the best way to dodge a flying car.
    I dive left. There’s a sound like the sky cracking. Chunks of glass and metal fly. My ears pop painfully. I eat pavement, scraping to a stop, skinning my chin. I roll, breathe, come up and the street keeps rolling. The student... Where’s the student? And then there’s another car. It’s in the air, already coming at me. And it’s unfair to blame Kayla for the whole thing, but I do anyway.
    Why did she take that hit?
    I brace for a vehicular enema.
    The car lurches sideways in midair. Something invisible slams into its side and knocks it spinning away. It crashes into the middle of Cowley Road. Rolls like a barrel. Bounces over the roof of another car. Collision glass shatters in an explosion of white shards.
    Clyde stands there, hand outstretched. There’s a tear in the elbow of his jacket. He brings his second hand to bear on the student, the monster. A slow deliberate movement. He bunches his shoulders. Pulls back, curls into himself. The student takes a step toward him. The ground shakes. Clyde explodes outward, flings his arms out. A great shove into midair.
    The student slams to a halt. His feet grind backwards. He stumbles, goes down on one knee. Clyde takes a step forward.
    Holy crap. Clyde is the backup.
    The student grunts, something animal, something guttural. He bellows. Everything vibrates. Clyde’s feet shake; he’s putting everything into the invisible shove. The student smiles. The student leers. The student stands. Clyde staggers back.
    I lurch to my feet. I stare.
    They come at it again. Clyde slams something massive and invisible into the massive and very definitely visible student. I see the student’s muscles quake. But he doesn’t go down. He just pushes back. They stand there. Stalemate.
    I think about the two flimsy batteries in Clyde’s mouth. I think about the car battery the student is clutching. Clyde’s power level isn’t even close.
    But... maybe, yes, maybe there’s the start of an idea there.
    “What’s going on?” Tabitha’s voice is sudden and sharp in my ear. I shake my head. I need to concentrate.
    The student needs power. That’s why his fingers are still pressed to those contacts. Electricity is power. Electricity powers the break in reality that’s causing this spell. Electricity needs a circuit. Break the connection, break the spell. We don’t have the monster to deal with, we have the man.
    All I have to do is think of a way to get the big bastard to loosen his grip.
    And the thing about movie cops is that they have guns. Magnum 45s and Uzis. They have biceps the size