That Nietzsche Thing

  #

  The van didn’t make it three blocks. Fourth Avenue just north of Town Hall was still a running battle. We came in behind the Fed’s battle line and were quickly hit by a hail of bricks and stones thrown by protesters. The driver shunted forward, but there was no pushing through the throng.

  Teargas grenades exploded around us as riot police, sporting batons, charged at the crowd. Everywhere, people were yelling, screaming, coughing and running. Bats and sticks smashed against the iron grates over the windows as protesters violently rocked the van. They surrounded us. There was no moving forward and no moving back.

  We’d certainly make a wrong turn.

  Constantine removed his centimeter gun from his holster, wrapping both hands around its grip. It didn’t exactly feel like a situation we could shoot our way out of, but I fished around for my Rhino.

  It was in my hand when the van shook with an earsplitting thunderclap. It sounded something like an explosion, but far deeper and shaking the very earth below us.

  The echoing boom caused the riot beyond the van to stumble, then finally grid to a halt. Protesters and police alike stood dumbstruck in the street. They looked to the sky for any sign of thunder and lighting. But it was a clear night. The stars shimmered in the sky.

  Slowly, the fading explosion was replaced by the sound of screeching.

  A swarm engulfed the crowd from all directions at once. A fog of flapping, shrieking bats filled the air. Rioters screamed and police swung their batons at the sky, but the beating wings were everywhere and nowhere all at once. Creatures impacted against the windows of the van as people fled for their lives away from the intersection.

  When the street was finally empty, the bats began to slowly disperse. Like a fog lifting.

  “What the hell was that?” Constantine asked, straining to see out through the grates over the van’s windows. “Drive.”

  The driver put the van into gear and began to pull north, up Fourth.

  We hardly made it twenty yards before two figures seemed to materialize before us. They stood among the detritus of the riot, a man and a woman. I instantly recognized the girl, but the man was unfamiliar to me. He was a giant, towering over the small woman. Almost as wide as two men.

  “Turn around!” I called out, climbing to my feet for a better view.

  The woman and the man were walking slowly toward us. She still wore her evening dress and heels. The man wore a long, black coat.

  The van rolled forward.

  “Stop! Turn around!” I screamed at the driver. Belatedly, he hit the brakes. But the rubble in the street made it impossible to turn about.

  “Who the hell are—” Constantine managed, before the male figure of the pair before us suddenly vanished. He left the woman alone walking menacingly closer to the van.

  How can walking be menacing? Trust me.

  Something large landed on the roof of the van. I didn’t need an invitation. I was already on my feet, and I reached for the side door. I threw it open and leapt clear into the rubble.

  Sure enough, the large man was standing on top of the van. If he’d jumped from where the woman in the evening dress stood, he’d have easily flown two hundred yards.

  I didn’t stop to contemplate what was going on. I turned my back on the scene and sprinted up University Street. But ten steps and something large landed before me. Hitting it was like running into a brick wall.

  From the ground, I sat up to see Constantine stepping out of the van. The girl was coming around the hood as Constantine leveled his centimeter gun. Pop, pop, pop, he fired. But the girl didn’t flinch. With each round she seemed to derez a little, like every particle of her body was shifting out-of-the-way to let the bullets past.

  When she was within reach of Constantine, she hopped into the air and kung-fu kicked him with a black pump.

  Constantine hit the concrete.

  The girl turned toward me.

  It was Vivian. Even with her black locks falling over her face, I knew it was her. Same dress, same sultry curves. She strode up to where I lay in the debris and looked down at me.

  My Rhino was still in my hand, but I didn’t dare use it.

  “We didn’t finish our conversation,” she said down to me. I looked up at her in terror. “The book? The name? Q?”

  “I know where he is,” I blathered. “I can take you there.”

  “Good,” Vivian said. Then to the walking brick wall, “Get him on his feet.”

  A great mitt of a hand came down and lifted me bodily up off the road.

  “Watch out!” I screamed.

  Vivian had her back turned, but I could see the riot cop climbing out of the van with one of the FBI’s centimeter assault rifles in his hand.

  One second, Vivian was there, then next she’d vanished. The brick wall seemed to envelop me. The machine gun barked, and I could hear the bullets impacting into something solid. But the gargantuan man had me wrapped in his arms.

  When he let me go, I looked up to see the riot cop laying crumpled on the ground. Vivian stood above him with his severed right arm in her hand.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said, tossing the arm aside.