Chapter 18

The first sign that something was about to happen was the sight of two vans with darkened windows pulling up from the road and entering the dusty parking lot at full speed. Through all the dust that was kicked up, Michael could hear many people shouting, and then he saw bustle of armed men emerging from the squat concrete buildings at the other side of the sun-bathed dirt lot, barren and mostly empty. Then there were gunshots, with one of the two cars pulling to the side and engaging with the people who had come out from the strange car dealership place he had seen from the road, which he already knew was probably a front for some sort of illegal activity.

The problem was that the other van was heading straight towards where he was, and it wasn’t slowing down. It rammed into the building as he threw himself to the side, bullets raining from the back window of the van with terrible accuracy, fortunately for him, destroying the door. Then the car got stuck on the concrete wall, unable to breach through even with its considerable bulk and speed. It tipped to the side, balanced on two wheels for a long moment before falling down to rest upright at an angle with the door. Four men climbed out, rushing, guns hot.

The four people who were having a meeting inside, hearing the commotion, had also rushed out. They were followed by a couple goons, and all of them were armed with guns except for Carmela. They immediately started shooting at the people who were still climbing out of the van, taking positions. The driver was killed immediately, but the other three managed to get to cover behind the van, shooting all the while.

Michael had mostly been ignored up until now, seeing that he was unarmed, as he had been instructed to be, but things were about to change.

The situation wasn’t good. With the door destroyed, there was barely any cover, and already the Italian man who had insulted American food was down, a growing puddle of red beneath his still body. The others were still shooting, but wounds were accumulating, while it was clear that the attackers were wearing some sort of protective gear.

They were also shouting, two languages Michael could not understand. One he recognized, Italian, and the curses and blasphemous yells abounded, the other was unintelligible. He was caught in the crossfire, though, not much time to think about languages.

What the hell am I going to do? I can’t show my magic in public like this.

The decision was taken away from him as two more of the people on ‘his’ side fell. That’s when the attackers grew bold enough to leave their position behind the sideways van, and they saw him as he tried to hide from their view. They opened fire, two of them trying to finish off the people inside, rushing into the building that was rattled with gunshots, while the third focused his attention onto him.

The first bullet was deflected by a [[Distortion Field], and the surprise was great enough that the shooter was momentarily stunned by the strange sight. Michael’s frightened face changed as fear gradually turned into rage and determination, with a hint of pride that his training had paid off. He rushed at the man, who had the time to shoot twice more, and both bullets embedded themselves in Michael’s flesh, hurting like hell and staggering him. But they only slowed him down. They didn’t stop him.

The gunman watched in horror as the bullets were pushed out of Michael’s body and the flesh knitted itself, only leaving behind bullet holes and blood stains. Then Michael was on him, fists flaming and radiating impossible heat. He grasped the man’s head and held it tight, while the fire cooked the stunned man’s brain. Moments later, the dead body slumped bonelessly to the ground, and Michael let it fall as the smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils.

Looking down at the charred dead man, he felt something rise from his stomach. He was forced to swallow it down though, hearing more shouting coming from the other building. It seemed that the attackers had prevailed there, and they were rushing towards him, shouting things he could not understand and opening fire. He deflected a couple of bullets, then ran inside to have some cover.

Not now! He thought, but even as he dismissed the message, he noticed that it was now much easier to intercept bullets with his bubble. By a stroke of pure luck, one deflected bullet bounced right back at its sender, clipping his shoulder.

There he found a dead gunman, almost stumbling over its body, while the last one was still alive. The defenders, if he could call them that, were all dead, as were the people he had escorted here. No, not all of them. The gunman was looking for someone, sweeping the room with his gun, unaware that Michael was behind him.

Michael capitalized on this, and clobbered the man’s head with a distortion bubble from behind, snapping his neck. It was horrifying, seeing the man’s head hanging limp at a strange angle for a few seconds before the body fell to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, landing with a crunch of broken bones.

“Oh my god!” There was no time to be horrified. “What is happening?”

“Carmela? Is that you?” Michael asked.

“What is going on?” She asked again, voice full of panic.

“We are under attack. Please remain hidden!” He told her, trying to project confidence even as the voices from outside grew closer.

“That’s not what I mean,” she whined, “I will not keep hiding, not while—” She cried out in pain then, and Michael saw her trying to crawl towards a gun one of the men had dropped.

He could clearly see that she was hurt, blood pooling, and he knew that she wouldn’t be of any use even with the gun.

“I said stay there!” He commanded, using his [Presence] to force her to obey him.

He then turned to the door, where three men were rushing inside. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he burned coins to blast them all with a full powered [Presence], and since they were all close together and in range, they were all stunned for a brief moment. It was a good window for him to rush at them, flaming fists roaring in the dim light of the inside of the windowless building.

He didn’t aim for the head this time, instead pummeling them in the gut, burning flesh and using his bubble to snap bones, until two of them were lying on the floor, groaning and helpless. The third had managed to get away, screaming curses and emptying his gun’s magazine in wild shots, forcing Michael back inside. Then there was the sound of a car’s engine roaring, tires screeching, and he knew that the final attacker had gotten away.

Shit, he saw me use my powers.

Turning back to the two downed attackers, who were screaming curses in whatever language they spoke, Michael made sure to bind them tightly, stomping on their legs to break them as well. He had already removed their guns, which he had appropriated.

With the situation now well in hand, he went to the toilet, removed his shirt and vomited.

When he emerged back from the toilet, he had cleaned himself and washed his face with copious cold water, he was much calmer. His nerves were still frayed, his hands twitching, heart hammering in his chest, but he was much better.

I handled myself very well, all things considered. And I have the dungeon to thank for that. Guns are scary, yes, but so is an 8-foot skeleton boss.

Carmela was on the floor, holding her shoulder, whining. Beneath her a puddle of blood was growing, gushing from where a bullet had nicked an artery.

Shit. Good thing I brough all the coins with me.

Michael kneeled down beside her, and she whimpered again, trying to crawl back but finding her escape route blocked by the wall. She saw me use magic, no wonder she’s scared of me. Her eyes were wide and full of panic, seeing Michael as some sort of beast or monster.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said, trying to calm her down, “but I need to do something about that wound, you’re bleeding out.”

He reached out with his hands, getting within the one-meter range of his healing skill, and Carmela was limp and afraid, yet defiant. She watched him with eyes that were in equal amount scared and resolved, as if daring him to hurt her even though she knew that there was nothing she could do to stop him if he wanted to. She had no gun, and no strength left.

She gasped when the first wave of healing hit her, then again when two misshapen bullets clinked on the floor, pushed out of her closing wounds. It took a lot of mana and time, but then she was fully healed, physically at least. She was still sitting against the wall, but she looked much better, and soon she was trying to stand up, pacing around the room.

“What do we do now?” She asked after a while, as Michael was gathering the bodies and moving the bound men. Then she looked at him, “what are you?”

“It’s not important now. As for what we do… we call Old Dave. What else can we do?”

“I’ll do it,” she said, “I’ll explain to him. You…” she seemed much more composed now, even though she was shooting glances at the bodies and at the bound prisoners, emotions flashing in her eyes before she hid it beneath the surface, “I don’t know how you did it, but you saved my life. I won’t forget it.”

Michael nodded, not knowing what to say. He just elected to stay silent as she dialed Old Dave, speaking rapidly as she explained the situation to him, omitting the parts where Michael had done superhuman things.

Not that it matters. Old Dave isn’t a fool.

They waited then, keeping hidden but making sure they could see the road. When they heard a car approaching, Michael peeked out, [Distortion Field] ready to go at a moment’s notice. Man, I need ranged options. He gripped his gun, and only relaxed when he saw Old Dave coming out of the car, alone.

“Shit,” the old man cursed loudly. Then he saw him, and he called him over. “Michael! Carmela told me you were attacked. What the hell happened?”