The Law of Averages - Book 2: Chapter 157: Doppelgangers, Deceased

Backup arrived within five minutes, three armored vans tearing through the flooded streets and skidding to a stop in front of the target warehouse. They disgorged a dozen heavily armed and armored federal agents, who sprinted up the stairs and towards the entrance. Dan waited at the security desk, sitting cross-legged atop it and keeping an eye on the feebly twitching False Cannibal. Dan had closed the door to the creature’s meat locker, and it hadn’t the strength to open it again.

The feds descended upon the dying criminal, and quickly wrestled him into submission, zip-tying his remaining limbs together and carting him out to the vans for processing. More agents piled out of the vans, the support staff, who used upgrades to throw out light and cover against the storm. The rain thundered down against an opaque ceiling of force. It wasn’t perfect; water seeped in through invisible cracks, and air flowed freely, but it dulled the worst of it. Rawls came last, one hand wiping moisture from his face, coattails flapping in the wind.

He approached Dan, shouting to be heard over the storm above, “What’ve you found?”

Dan gestured to the closet across the way. “See for yourself.” His veil told him what was inside, just like it had told him what awaited them in the rest of the building. His eyes had confirmed it, and added fuel to his nightmares.

Rawls moved towards the closet, but was stopped by one of his men.

“Sir, we haven’t cleared the building,” the agent protested.

Rawls looked from his man, to Dan. Dan shrugged. “I’m not sensing anyone. Feel free to double check.”

Rawls barked out a laugh, like Dan had just made a joke. Of everyone present, Rawls was the most aware of Dan’s potent sensing abilities. He waved away his agent. “If he says it’s clear, it’s clear.”

“Of life,” Dan added. “I’d suggest checking for booby traps past this room.”

Rawls nodded, gestured to his subordinate and ordered, “Make it so.”

The man walked away, giving Dan a confused, scrutinizing look. It must’ve been a strange sight, Dan in his soaked orange vest and stiff jeans. Dan, the civilian, who’d been sent in as a scout, and come out having violently dismembered a dangerous villain. Dan felt a sudden urge to put on a mask and hide his face, but it was a pointless thought. He’d committed. Too late now.

Rawls walked towards the service closet, wrapped his hand tight around the knob, and took a deep breath. His nose immediately wrinkled. The expression on his face clearly said he knew what was inside. The stink of death permeated the immediate area. Rawls steeled himself, turned the knob, and pulled open the door. He stared down at the mangled remains within, his face locked in stone.

“My history isn’t the greatest,” Dan said, still seated on the desk, well away from the stench, “but I’m pretty sure I recognize some of those outfits.”

Rawls produced a small flashlight and shone it into the tight room. Dan had already looked inside, if briefly. There were somewhere between five and fifteen bodies—or what was left of them—crammed into a four by eight janitor’s closet. There was a lot of blood, and viscera, and other bodily fluids. The smell was indescribable, and only the shattered front door allowed the storm to ventilate the lobby.

“Crash, Moonslice, Fireheart… I think that’s supposed to be Wonderman.” Rawls took a breath, paused, then briefly retched. He wiped his mouth, and called for a cleanup crew. “I need these bodies sorted! Take fingerprints and DNA samples. These vigilantes are all supposed to be dead. I need confirmation that they’re real or fake.”

“They’re fake,” Dan said. Every single one of those vigilantes had been powerful Naturals. It was incredibly unlikely that the False Cannibal could have killed them all. Especially not at the same time, in the same place.

“I need confirmation,” Rawls repeated. He turned to Dan, met his eyes. His face was grave, his expression, harrowed. “You’re with me,” he ordered. “Warehouses like this usually have excellent surveillance systems to prevent employee pilfering. Let’s find the security office.”

He whistled, sharp and piercing, and several of the armored feds fell into formation beside him. This part of the building was mostly offices for the business oriented side. They were arrayed as a series of long hallways with adjoining rooms. The squad moved through these dark corridors at a slow and steady pace. Dan swept the path with his veil, and the agents followed up with upgrades and technology. Neither found anything of note. No tripwires, or hidden bombs, or trapdoors.

Every now and then, they found signs of battle. At the end of one hallway, there was spent brass on the ground, and a large bloodstain. The walls were covered in bullet holes and claw marks. There were no bodies in sight, and no drag marks indicating where they’d gone. With nothing to investigate, and no evidence of where the evidence had gone, they moved on.

The security office was wedged at the back of the building, adjacent to the open warehouse area, but still within the business offices. Unlike most of the other offices, the door was hanging wide open. The rolling chair of the security guard sat just inside the entrance, facing out. Something inside the room still had power. Light played over the chair in random patterns, just bright enough to illuminate the brown tweed coat draped across its back.

“Well that’s fucking unnerving,” Dan remarked.

“That’s the same coat Champion wears,” Rawls breathed. They advanced, the federal agents moving in formation with Dan and Rawls trailing behind. They swept the room, assault rifles at the ready, but nothing jumped out to attack them.

“Clear,” one eventually determined, and they fell back to allow Rawls entrance. Dan followed behind him, peering curiously at the source of the light. It was a laptop, with a twisting, prismatic screensaver. USB cables connected it to the security room server, though the server was obviously trashed.

Rawls glanced at the laptop, then snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and poked at the jacket hanging on the chair. One of his men produced a large plastic bag, and they carefully stuffed the jacket inside.

“Process that. Find out if it belonged to Champion,” Rawls ordered. They had the man’s DNA on file. It wouldn’t be difficult to match it. Not that it mattered.

“You know it doesn’t,” Dan noted, walking towards the laptop. He tapped at the pad, and the screen lit up. It was some kind of security monitoring program. Six small screens showed six different camera views throughout the warehouse, all paused at the same timestamp.

“Rawls,” Dan said. “Take a look at this.”

The fed stepped over, glanced at the screen, then clicked play.

“There’s no way this is protocol,” one of the agents muttered quietly. His fellow shushed him, and they all leaned in to watch.

The sound caught Dan off guard. Only a single screen played it, and a little volume icon flickered along with voices. It was a group of people dressed as vigilantes, standing in a room and… plotting? It was really the only description that fit. Ten men and three women, standing shoulder to shoulder in a large circle, talking about their plans to overthrow the government and kill a bunch of people in loud, excruciating detail.

One of them was dressed as Champion. He had the voice down pat, but none of the legendary charisma seeped out of him. Echo had done a better job. The rest of them were more or less recognizable as old members of the People, some dead, some unconfirmed. The False Cannibal sat in the background of the shot, staring blankly into space, mouth slightly ajar and drool running down his chin.

As Dan watched, another man approached from off screen. None of the others seemed to pay him any mind, as he leaned into the False Cannibal, and whispered something into his ear, then stepped back out of view. Seconds passed, as False Champion continued to monologue about his plans to undermine the government and generally act like a terrorist.

Dan didn’t pay attention to that. His eyes were on False Cannibal, whose slack-jawed expression seemed to be slowly clearing. First, his mouth clamped shut and swallowed. His eyes went from glassy, to focused. His taloned fingers twitched, one, then another, then another. His knees tilted and his feet fell flat on the ground. He went from sitting to standing in the blink of an eye. The next moment, he was in the center of the huddle, ripping and tearing, and screams replaced any conversation.

There was movement on a different camera. Near the entrance, a man walked into view. He stopped by the doors, not yet broken, not yet open. He turned, facing inward, facing the camera, and for the briefest of moments a man in a silver Venetian mask glared up at the lens. Then he flickered, like a trick of the mind, and another stood there. Someone bland, unimportant, unknowable. He smiled into the camera, and Dan smacked the pause button.

“That,” Dan said, jabbing his finger at the man he’d only seen in very old pictures, “was Echo.”