Anthology Two Presents
Marshal 2:
"Prey"
By Aaron Baugh

"He's still out there, you know."

"Yeah. I know." The tall, heavily muscled man in the baseball-style jersey seemed to flex even as he bent to pick up one of the trick baseballs lying on the floor.

"Look, Doug."

"It's All-Star," he said sharply.

The other man sighed. "Fine. Christ. All-Star, then. Rumbling around in the ghetto isn't gonna make this guy turn up. You need to find out more about him."

"Easy for you to say, Larry. I thought that's why I brought you along."

"I'm your agent, not your fucking sidekick. You're beyond Olympic caliber as an athlete, but sometimes you've got shit for brains, you know that?"

All-Star spun, hurling the baseball in his hand towards Larry. Midway through its flight spikes popped out, and the ball buried itself spike-deep into the wall above Larry's head.

"JESUS!"

"Don't ever fucking condescend me, you little piece of dogshit! I'm gonna find this Marshal fuck, and beat the shit out of him! That's what this city wants. They want to see somebody do what they want!"

A new voice addressed them both. "Why wait?"

Both men turned towards the glass doors leading to the balcony. Before them was not the target of their search, but someone else entirely. He was, however, just as eager for the limelight of catching and defeating Marshal.

"Nighthound."

"Give the man a cigar." While Nighthound wasn't as big or defined as All-Star, he was still an impressive figure, but that was, perhaps, because of the vast arsenal he carried on his person. That, or the mask that hid most of his face. "Listen up. You want Marshal, and I want Marshal. No reason we can't work together."

"You aren't even supposed to be in the city. Didn't the mayor issue some injunction or something?" asked Larry.

"Who are you?" replied Nighthound. "Screw the mayor. My lawyers are talking to him. But like I was saying, two men can search the city and find him quicker than just one of us."

"Right," said All-Star. "But what happens if you find him first, and take him down?"

"Then I give you good press on the success, talking about how we worked together, all that good shit."

"What about Chieftain? I thought he worked with you all the time."

Nighthound shrugged. "Didn't want to mess with the city or the injunction."

All-Star clipped on the belt that held his gimmick baseballs, and slid a bat into the loop on the side. "Let's go. You want northside or southside?"

"I'll take north. That's where he was last spotted."

That got a grin. "Fine. Larry, get the car."

* * *

Petersburg at 3:30 AM was surprisingly loud, even from five hundred feet above the ground. The wind was the worst, howling about the decorative stone gargoyles. But it wasn't cold, thanks to the suit. CJ had thought about the discussion he'd had with the guys the previous month, but part of him didn't feel that he could quite stop what he'd been doing. The biggest problem was that he didn't feel anything was really wrong with his behavior.

Who should care if muggers and street dealers got roughed up, or even killed? They weren't worth the expense of court prosecution, getting time served or wrist-smacking sentences. It was only when they graduated to capital crimes like rape and murder, or, God-forbid, tax evasion, that anyone made a concerted effort to deal with them. Well, that'd end damn soon.

Getting down wasn't a problem. A leap would turn into a controlled fall thanks to flying-squirrel type wings, courtesy of the suit. The landings were a tad rough, though, and CJ had already dented more than a few cars that way. Trucks seemed to be able to take the abuse, though, so he usually aimed for those.

Anyone who might've idolized the lifestyle of the superheroic would be in for a rude awakening if they had the chance to talk to CJ. For every minute of ass-kicking, there were hours of waiting for something to happen. His police training helped him find those areas most likely to feature criminal activity, but hunches didn't always play out, and CJ had come home empty handed more times than he'd care to count.

* * *

"Dawkins! Line two!"

"Thanks Dan," said CJ as he lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Detective Dawkins."

"Yeah, it's Pete. I got no time, but he's around. I saw 'im last night."

"Who, Pete?" CJ was interested, and sat up straighter, his free hand going for a pen. Pete was one of the few contacts a young detective like him had outside the department. All because Dawkins had overlooked the bag of pot in Pete's coat pocket when busting him for public intoxication. Paybacks came in the form of information.

"That guy from Seattle. The sports dude."

"All-Star?"

"Yeah. Yeah, All-Star. Driving around the northside all last night, roughed up a few people, not the kind that'd make complaints, you know? But he was probably looking for Marshal."

"Thanks Pete. I'll buy you a cup of coffee next time I see you." And then CJ hung up, scribbling 'All-Star' and 'northside' in the margin of his desk calendar. He glanced up at the clock, then grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

* * *

In retrospect, he needed a car. Or a motorcycle. Something to get around. If it weren't for the city council's penchant for keeping the old architecture around, movement for Marshal would be damn inconvenient. Still, he stuck to the city, not the suburbs. What he was looking for would be looking for him. Hopefully, they'd eventually meet, and Marshal could show what he could really do. He hoped he won.

Already sick of the smell of tar, Marshal moved to the edge of the building and looked down at the street below. Nothing out of the ordinary, but All-Star drove a Hummer. That would be easy to spot. Should be, rather.

Something made him pull back just as the ledge disintegrated in a spray of pulverized masonry.

Four blocks south and on the other side of the street, Nighthound reloaded as he spoke into his mike. "Missed. Target on the move, north on 83rd, passing Lincoln." Scanning about, he reduced his scope's magnification and looked for signs of Marshal. He couldn't see anything, but a momentary flash of yellow in the darkness drew his attention too late for a shot. Strapping the rifle to his back, he fired up his motorcycle and darted out into the late-night traffic, headed after his quarry.

* * *

Run and leap. Run and leap. Try and forget that somebody just tried to blow your face off your body. He hadn't even heard the shell, hadn't heard the shot, either. Something, the suit, he thought, made him jump back just in time. Now he had to get away, get someplace and catch his bearings.

As he ran, the blue and gold form that his costume usually held shifted into blacks and slate grays, a switch to a deep urban camouflage reflected by CJ's higher brain and the odd intelligence that ruled the symbiotic suit.

After long-jumping and climbing to the top of a nine-story brownstone, Marshal stopped and moved back towards the street, searching for the shooter. The sounds of traffic reached his heightened hearing, but his eyes found nothing unusual, just like before.

* * *

"Where are you?" he asked himself. Crouched on a fire escape seven blocks north of his original firing position, Nighthound scanned the rooftops with his scope, flipped its mode to heat-sensitive, and then to nightvision. Nothing.

Published reports on this Marshal freak hadn't mentioned his powers in great detail. Word was he stuck to rooftops, could jump and fight and was quick...plus he was vicious, and that was the reason Petersburg didn't want him. Not that the populace minded, not that much. The granola-munchers who regularly protested big business, foreign policy, the rights of the criminal, and anyone with a chainsaw or wearing fur were out for Marshal's blood, and once again the voices of the loud and outraged few changed the minds of the content many. The mayor had to respond, and respond he did, but a city-wide manhunt by men ill-equipped and not very motivated to carry it out did little. Fearing wholesale destruction by the powered and skilled men and women of the country who would come for Marshal, he legislated them out of the equation.

All-Star and Nighthound didn't give a damn, and that's why the hunter was here now.

* * *

There. The longer he stared, the more clear it became. A motorcycle leaning against a dumpster in an alley. Uncommon, and the suit focused his vision, his senses honed in on the sight, giving him a full sensory picture of that area. He could smell the residual exhaust; feel the heat from the tailpipe . . .he knew that something over there was out of the ordinary.

Stepping back from the roof's edge, he gauged the distance, knew he could make it. The building across the street was a story lower, and he'd have room to fall. He sprinted, leapt, and fell though the air, a dark shape against the lighted background of the city.

* * *

Nighthound saw a shape move quickly, but could not bring his aim to bear because of the limits of his scope. Pulling the rifle up as he reduced the zoom, he saw nothing, but heard the crunch of gravel above him, atop the roof proper.

* * *

Crouching, Marshal made his way along the edge of the roof closest to the alley. The suit caused a run of electricity to zip up his spine, and he flattened himself, still camouflaged, against the tarry gravel. He craned his head around, and saw the barrel of a high-powered rifle appear over the edge of the roof. Someone was coming to investigate.

Nighthound's thumb flicked rapidly through the settings of his advanced scope. Anything that got in his sights would be on the receiving end of a high-caliber, high-velocity armor piercing slug. As it was, he was wholly unprepared for a hand he couldn't see to reach up and grab the rifle's barrel, then wrench it from his grip.

Only a last-second reaction saved his trigger finger from being snapped, and he moved forward with the momentum of the jerk that brought him off-balance. He dropped his right shoulder and rolled, coming up with two large-frame automatic pistols, pulled from slimline holsters strapped to his side. He squeezed the triggers, directing their lethal salvos low and to the left of his previous position.

Marshal was in a half-crouch, the barrel of Nighthound's rifle bent slightly where he'd applied his vicegrip. The bullets from the heavy pistols thudded solidly into Marshal's chest and head, eight in all from each gun, flinging him back against the lip of the roof. He could feel the pain of the symbiotic suit, could feel it begin to thin and tear at the point of impact, and felt two searing hot blazes of pain as the suit at his head was penetrated, the bullets' path altered enough to scrape against his skull. Even with the added constitution provided him by the suit, CJ felt himself blacking out.

Nighthound stood and holstered one of his weapons, keeping the automatic in his right hand trained on the vigilante. "Who are you?" he asked, not expecting a response from the still form. To his surprise, Marshal's legs quivered, then his hands reached up and took hold of the roof's ledge, pulling himself up to a standing position.

With an astonished blink, Nighthound pulled the trigger on his pistol and emptied the last three shots in the weapon into Marshal's head at point-blank range. He fell off the edge of the roof, his shoulder striking the railing about the fire escape, causing him to ricochet out and scrape against the brick of the building before he fell into a disorganized heap at street level, six stories below.

The roar of a huge, overpowered, supercharged V-12 engine filled the alleyway as a massive Humvee with no fewer than twelve forward-facing spotlights barreled into the alley where Marshal lay. Tires screeched and All-Star hopped out, steel-cored Louisville Slugger in hand. He glanced up at the rooftops, saw Nighthound beginning his descent via fire escape. The athlete hero grinned and grabbed for Marshal's arm, to pull him out of the mound of garbage he'd landed in.

* * *

CJ swam in a world with no up, no down. He hadn't felt this bad since the first night out after the academy, when Vicky had driven to the bar to pick him up. He'd laid in the back of the car, a brown paper back double-lined with garbage bags on the floorboard near his face. Vicky had always been a first class planner, and she had dutifully taken care of him until he was sober the next day...or had it been the day after?

The suit began to work on the fragile body it inhabited, forcing itself thicker over the areas where it had been thinned, pressing against the impact wounds on chest and head, snaking tiny tubes in under the skin to siphon the blood away that would form the painful bruises, using pressure to stop the serious scalp bleeding on the head. And amidst all this, it manipulated CJ's body, triggering a burst from tiny glands sitting atop his kidneys, near where the organism had taken up residence.

* * *

All-Star dragged the body to the center of the alley, and even sat down his bat to prop the unmoving form against the huge brush bars covering the front of his Humvee.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Nighthound.

"Setting him up for the Grand Slam," said All-Star with a grin. "If he stays up long enough. One swing, no head, Grand Slam." His grin grew wider.

"Idiot!" snapped Nighthound. "We want to give him to the city, turn him over, not put his blood on the walls. We need to find out who this guy is, first, before we do anything."

All-Star just stared, and the two had a brief war of wills before the athlete turned back towards Marshal. "Fine." He reached up to the part of the suit that covered CJ's head, and just as he touched it, he pulled his hands back. "Fuck!"

"What?"

"Something fucking shocked me." All-Star shook his hands, looked at his fingertips. "Fuck it." He bent to grab his bat, and was half-way through his windup when Marshal's head snapped up.

* * *

The adrenaline roared through CJ's body, and his eyes opened just as All-Star cranked the bat back, prepared to shatter his skull. An odd feeling of time dilation snaked through his consciousness as he saw All-Star, felt the metal of the brush guard, felt the heat from the insane amount of lights pointed at his back, saw Nighthound already going for his pistols.

He acted. The left hook that he let fly should have been photographed, catching All-Star on the side of the face and fracturing bone even as the small spikes decorating Marshal's knuckles cut through skin. All-Star spun, and Marshal's other arm lengthened and wrapped around All-Star's neck as the other hand grabbed a handful of shirt and hauled the Seattle hero into the space between Marshal and Nighthound.

Nighthound's automatics roared, their specially-designed loads making mincemeat of the kevlar weave in All-Star's outfit. The tendril arm released its grip on All-Star's neck, letting the body fall as it snapped out to slap the guns from Nighthound's hands.

Marshal lurched forward, and Nighthound tumbled out of the way, coming up with a large combat knife. Through the adrenaline haze, CJ wondered how he did that, roll and come up with a weapon. If he knocked the knife away, what then? They faced each other, throwing wild shadows from the Humvee's lights. Nighthound lunged, making a dark line on Marshal's body that faded just as quickly, like it had been run over with an eraser. CJ grabbed the arm and wrenched it around, his other arm locking in a grip about Nighthound's neck.

"Chokehold? You fight like a cop," said Nighthound through gritted teeth. He twisted his arm and drove the knife towards Marshal's armpit, making him release the urban hunter.

The suit, however, hadn't let go. Instead, it had merely stretched, and whether responding to some unbidden thought in CJ's mind or another of its base emotional needs for blood, it drove thin spikes into Nighthound's neck, formed hooks, and then let itself be pulled out as Nighthound 'escaped' the chokehold. In effect, Nighthound tore out his own throat, and collapsed, foamy blood coming from the hole that no longer let him breathe.

CJ stared at him until he stopped moving, then loped into a run, away from the death scene. He collapsed twelve blocks away, the adrenaline surge finally dying away, letting him feel the full brunt of the pain his body had endured. Some time later, he was perched on the fire escape outside his apartment, a long extrusion from an index finger up between the panes, sliding the lock open, then moving down to hook the securing bolt and pulling it loose. Normally, the action took a few seconds, this night, it seemed to take forever.

As soon as he closed and resecured the window, the suit slid off him, more slowly than usual. CJ collapsed onto his sofa and blanked out.

* * *

Dawkins woke up naked and cold, cheek damp with his own spit from where he lay open-mouthed and most probably snoring. Blinking bleary eyes, he slowly pushed himself up off his chest, every muscle screaming in protest. Collectively, their voice won out and he eased back down, pausing to pull a throw pillow under his head.

"Fuuuck," he murmured slowly, voice muffled by the pillow. His body had disbanded the protests, but here and there voices popped up. Valiantly, he made another effort, this time sliding onto the floor instead of pushing himself up. One hand on the sofa, another on the table, he got his feet under him and rose slowly, somewhat steadily, and padded to the bathroom.

He didn't recognize himself. Puffiness under his left eye was dark red, nearly purple. His lower lip out-swelled his upper, but just barely. Circular scars from what could have only been bullets impacting the suit decorated his chin, jaw, and cheek spreading to his right ear. His chest was a miasma of blue, purple, and yellow bruises intermingled with the deep red of hard scabs and coagulated blood. Deep down, CJ knew that the suit had tried to accelerate the healing process, and was probably very successful, but if this was the result of its assistance . . .

His fingers traced a tender line on his scalp where hair no longer grew, noticed that it was in much better shape than the rest of his visible injuries, and deduced that this, more serious injury had been the focus of the suit's mending abilities. Still, he could move under his own power, and even as he tried to make contact with the thing that lived inside of him, he knew it was doomed to failure.

An abrupt gurgling from his abdomen told him that the rapacious needs of the suit needed to be satisfied. He was damn hungry, and gave himself a last look in the mirror and shook his head. It was going to be hell explaining this one.

* * *

Again, the suit had surprised him. After a pound of pasta and two burgers, plus two bags of barbecue potato chips that he didn't even remember eating, the thing his back had its urgings quelled, at least for the time being, and CJ called in, begging off work.

It failed, though he did get a three-hour reprieve, which he used to take a nap.

So, an hour after waking up and being pleased and amazed to find himself with only a black eye, CJ went to the site of a radio call, involving a very familiar alley, with two very familiar corpses.

The amazing recovery allowed him to get away with sunglasses to cover his black eye, and a police-logo cap covered his head wound. It had also come with a price. He was hungry again.

Lenny stood directing the photographers, shaking his head. CJ crumpled the wax paper from his chili dog into a ball and tossed it into a dumpster well beyond the inviolable border of yellow crime scene tape.

"Heya," said the CSI man, nodding his welcome to Dawkins.

"Lenny. We have to stop meeting like this." CJ pulled on latex gloves and moved beside his friend. All-Star's body lay against the fender of his massive utility vehicle. Press was kept far away, more than fifty yards from the mouth of the alley, held there by a line of uniforms and squad cars.

"Tell me about it. This is a goddamn slaughterhouse."

"What have you put together so far?"

Lenny shrugged. "Baseball boy here died from what looks like nine close-range fifty-caliber rounds from Bullet-boy's monster pistols. Bullet-boy had his throat torn out."

"Marshal?"

"It's his M.O., that's for sure."

A trim, dark-haired woman in a conservative gray suit moved forward through the throng of CSI personnel and plainclothes cops. "Hey Lenny," she said, then gave CJ the once over and extended her hand. "Liz St. Clair. Psych."

CJ took it. "CJ Dawkins. Homicide."

"What does the CJ stand for?"

He smiled. "I think I've forgotten, it's been so long since someone asked."

Her smile was faint in return. "Another Marshal visit, I take it?"

CJ frowned. "You a fan or something?"

She nodded. "Something like that. I've been profiling his work since the first sighting. A real piece of work. Please don't think I'm stepping on your toes, Detective. I may be of some help here."

He nodded. "Right. Do your thing, Lenny."

"Right. We'll say Nighthound was here, give or take ten feet, when he fired. Looks like he snapped off rounds like they were going out of style. Every one hit All-Star, some we pulled out of the radiator, most we'll find inside, I bet. He's got kevlar and flexible ceramic armor under his outfit, but Nighthound's hi-tech loads shredded them like cheese. But that was after he tussled with our boy."

"Yeah," said CJ, kneeling by the body. "Jacked up jaw, probably broken. Bruises on his neck."

"Right, my young apprentice," said Lenny. "So there was close combat, some strangling. Nighthound over here fell up close and personal."

"So Marshal gets the drop on these two and struggles with All-Star, decking him to put him down for the moment. Nighthound comes up, they fight, Marshal tears his throat out and uses 'Hound's guns to put him down."

"Maybe," said Lenny, "but we've got tracks in All-Star's blood and in Nighthound's blood."

"Made on escape?"

"Can't be. There's two distinct sets, all muddled in the fight. Nighthound was the last to die."

CJ nodded, then looked up. "Checked the roof?"

Lenny's eyes narrowed. "The roof?" Liz looked at him as well.

"I'm not the only one who follows the moves of our city's favorite vigilante. Sightings put him on roofs, why not check this one?"

"You just might have a good detective hidden in there somewhere," said Lenny with a smile.

"Maybe I'll find something else there too," murmured CJ as he moved to the fire escape.

"You say something?" asked Liz, coming up behind his left shoulder.

"Nah. Nothing."