The Union

By Hal Hammons

Arthur MacLean has a gift. A very special gift that sets him apart from all others. And he wants to use it in service to his community -- and if it's not too much to ask, make a little for himself in the process.
So he is doing what several other young people in the Houston, Texas, area are doing. He is applying to join The Union.
The Union of Unusually Gifted Heroes brings together people like Arthur, who calls himself "Artist," in a special crime-fighting organization that works in conjunction with the Houston Police Department. The Union provides them more than just a legal way to intervene in the cause of justice. It provides a peer group. Guidance. Health insurance. And perhaps most of all, an opportunity to investigate where their gifts came from in the first place.
But Arthur's interview does not go at all as expected. He and three other young people apply for membership. One is accepted. One is accepted under special circumstances. One is rejected. And one almost dies.
The mystery of the strange attack on Nick Rye takes The Union on the deepest, most challenging investigation in its history. As the truth slowly reveals itself, it becomes more and more unbelievable, shaking The Union to its very core.
The Union is ...
Glenn Cabot. "Doc" detects and alters chemical processes, from making sugar sweeter to detecting cancer. He is obsessed with finding the answers -- his own way.
Joy Caraway. "Upper" replaces anger, bitterness and other negative emotions with tranquility, all with just a touch. But could "just a touch" be too much?
Eli Knox. "Conductor" travels through phone lines, power lines, and any other conductive surface almost instantaneously. More than anyone, he knows the advantages that come with Union membership.
Melody Hu. "Siren" uses the sonic waves of her songs to levitate, fly, and crush opponents as easily as aluminum cans. Her ability at the piano is totally unrelated.
Mitchell Axe. "Hyde" has adrenaline surges that give him unbelievable strength and speed. Considering the stress involved with driving in Houston, he tends to be the passenger.
Douglas Peyser. "Fly" hears everything within his range, which is rumored to include several square miles. Sometimes, unfortunately, he hears things he wishes he hadn't.
Each member is forced to call into question everything they have assumed about themselves, their organization, and the purpose that brought them all together. Every hour brings a new development -- intrigue, deception, friendship, love, and even murder.
Will The Union survive the ordeal? Is the benefit it provides to the community worth the cost? Or is it, as some in the Houston Police Department believe, actually part of the problem?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hal Hammons
• Release date: Jan 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310513114

Hal Hammons

Hal Hammons has been a gospel preacher for the better part of the last 25 years. He is well known in the Facebook community from his blog, "The Final Word." He also publishes a monthly magazine, "The Preacher," which is downloadable for free at thepreachermag.com. He has books and workbooks in print that are available through retailers such as amazon.com as well as religious booksellers such as onestone.com.The Union is his first completed work of fiction.Hal, a native of Central Texas, lives in the Pensacola, Florida, area with his wife, his two daughters and his dog, Max.

Book preview

THE UNION

By Hal Hammons

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Hal Hammons on Smashwords

The Union

Copyright © 2013 by Hal Hammons

This e-book is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

***

To Tracie,

My first, best, harshest, kindest, and most supportive reader

1. Decisions

Tuesday, 11:05 a.m.

The young man clearly wanted more than a lottery ticket. Anyone who had ever watched an episode of any one of a hundred police dramas on television would have known that. The frantic, paranoid looking about. The oversized raincoat (a real oddity for October in Houston). The hand that would not come out of one of the pockets. The eyes that refused to close.

"Hands up! Open the register!"

The frightened man behind the counter, who according to the pin on his shirt was named Ahmad, ignored the apparent contradiction and focused on the small handgun in the young man’s hand. His shaky hand.

Don’t do that, sir. They both turned to see the source of this soft but firm voice and were surprised to see a young white man — medium height, medium build, medium everything — wearing a white windbreaker with a small crest on the left front panel and a much larger one on the back. His empty hands extended outward and forward.

He wore a mask. The interloper, that is — not the robber. A large black bandana, tied at the back, with holes cut out for his eyes. His eyes, too, refused to close.

I’m with The Union, said the masked man calmly. Not breaking eye contact with the jittery young man with the gun, he gestured to the terrified cashier. Just duck down behind the counter, sir, nice and slow. No one has to get hurt here. I’m Hyde. And that appears to be Ahmad behind the counter. What’s your name?

Stay out of this, freak! the gunman, whose name happened to be Luis, shouted at Hyde while keeping his gun trained on Ahmad. Go knock over your own gas station!

Son, this is going to end very, very badly for you if you don’t put the gun down. Right now. His voice was rock-steady, showing no sign of fear or hesitation. His hands, however, were beginning to shake as badly as the robber’s hands.

I told you, stay out of this! You wanna die today?

No one is going to die today. Least of all me. Ahmad, taking the hint from Hyde, had begun crawling away from the confrontation. But you need to make a decision. You can go to prison, or you can go to prison with a broken arm. Your choice. It’s not that bad, really. Prison, I mean. They have good programs. They’ll get you clean, maybe teach you a trade, —

"Shut up!" Frantically Luis stole a glance at Ahmad — or rather, where Ahmad had been. Seeing no one there, he instinctively swung the gun around to face the masked man.

Luis’ drug-induced haze slowed his reflexes somewhat. His brain had trouble processing all of the signals his body suddenly began to send almost simultaneously from virtually every sensory organ. But in fairness, it would have been difficult for anyone, drugs or no drugs.

The first signal came from his eyes. The masked man didn’t disappear, exactly, but very nearly. Almost immobile, suddenly he sprung to life, headed at blazing speed directly at him. His actions resembled a cat pouncing on a mouse, or perhaps a coiled rattlesnake finally out of patience, finally ready to strike. Luis had never seen a human being move so fast.

Long before he had a chance to react, he received another signal from the largest of all his body’s organs — his skin. Intense, sudden pressure impacted his right arm, his gun arm, from the front; it was as if an entire automobile had hit two square inches of surface area, one near his wrist and one just above his elbow. A millisecond afterward, a similar, parallel impact came from behind, from the area of the countertop — a single point of impact, exactly in between the other two.

Then it was his ears. From very close, horrifyingly close, he heard a sharp snap! Actually, if he had had more acute senses, he would have heard two. Like rifle shots fired in tandem, or boards breaking under the hands of a karate master.

Then it was his eyes again. He saw two white spears, sharp and jagged, plunge through his plaid long-sleeved shirt. Almost immediately he saw the shirt begin to turn wet and dark, brown tinged with red.

My arm is broken, he suddenly realized, unable to calculate the who and the how of the event, only the what. My arm is broken.

And finally, above it all, his skin again. The pain from his arm washed over his brain, overwhelming every other impulse. He did not even notice the sharp impact to his knees as he collapsed to the hard concrete floor, did not notice the clatter of his gun falling to the floor, did not notice the masked man take the lace out of his left boot and use it as a tourniquet to stem the sudden flow of blood.

Lie down. Keep your arm elevated. Try not to move. He turned to Ahmad. Sir, would you call 9-1-1 for me, please? Tell them an armed robbery has been stopped and that the robber is in need of immediate medical attention. Ahmad quickly snapped out of his stupor, having barely been able to comprehend what had just played out before his eyes, and started dialing.

The young man who had called himself Hyde bent at the knees and examined the young man at his feet more carefully. Hispanic male, surely not a day over 19, showing all the classic symptoms of methamphetamine usage. He shook his head sympathetically. What a waste.

The next time someone tells you he’s from The Union, he said as he rose to his feet, try very hard to pay attention. This could have gone much, much worse for you. Then he handed a MasterCard to Ahmed. And when you get a chance, could you ring me up? I’m on pump number two.

***

Carl Power stared blankly, then angrily, from behind his mask at the three of them.

You cannot be serious.

I’m sorry, Carl, said the larger and older of the two men at the table.

"You cannot be serious!" Carl repeated, somewhat louder.

It is our judgment that you still do not have the requisite control over your gift so as to be a productive and reliable —

Oh, give me a break, Doc! We went through this last year. This is unbelievable. Carl stood up suddenly from his seat, turned and punched the soundproofed wall of the conference room, hard. The padding cushioned the blow; nevertheless, it hurt a lot more than Carl had anticipated. Not willing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him react, he winced briefly while facing the wall, then whirled to face them again. At least I thought I’d be getting an interview with the whole Union. I got that far last time.

That’s kind of the point, said the female third of the panel. "If you’ll remember, I was present for your first interview last year, as was Doc. We had reservations about your ability to control your gift — and your emotions — back then, but we were impressed enough to let the group weigh in. The general opinion was, you posed too much of a hazard in a tense, potentially life-threatening work environment."

Whatever.

In fact — and I didn’t want to bring this up — more than one of the group absolutely refused to be partnered up with you if you should be approved.

Then why bring me back, huh? he exclaimed to the third panelist — a younger man also wearing a mask and, as best Carl could tell, a disappointed expression underneath it.

We talked about this, Carl, he replied. You asked me if you could get another interview if you could show improvement in your control. I said yes, but that final approval would be up to the committee, and then The Union as a whole.

And although you have shown some improvement, Doc added, it would not be enough to change the minds of the group. Really, there’s no point in putting you through the process any further. I’m sorry, but there it is.

That black girl, the one who was out there in the lobby with me. The one with the stick. She’s getting through, isn’t she? You’re taking her instead of me?

I think we’re done here, Carl, Doc said, standing and walking toward the door. Good luck to you.

Carl cut him off with a dismissive wave and opened the door himself. Knowing, even in his enraged state, that further arguing would make the situation worse instead of better, he kept his mouth shut as he walked out of the room, back through the double glass doors that opened into the lobby, past the pretty intern who he’d already made plans to hit on, into the elevator, and back to …

Back to what?

He had already quit his job. He had already quit his job in anticipation of, finally, getting a shot with The Union. He had consciously avoided thoughts of rejection, not wanting to allow any negativity to set in. Now, with no Plan B, he was suddenly at a loss. After all, there was not a lot of money to be made with his ability — at least, none that he had been able to find in the last five years.

Except with The Union. They had a monopoly. A veritable gold mine that they had created for themselves. And that, now for the second time, they had refused to share with Carl Power.

Well, that was a mistake. And one day, one day soon, they would realize that.

That’s an idea, he thought to himself. A demonstration. Show them just how much power Carl Power could wield, how much of an impact he could make. He smiled for the first time in an hour as he finally put the car in gear and headed for the nearest pizza slice and quiet table. He would need to think about this a bit.

***

The problem with hearing everything, Fly thought for the thousandth time, is, you hear everything. Including things you didn’t want to hear.

Of course, it was a lot better now. Over the years Douglas Buzz Peyser had trained himself, with the help of The Union, to focus his hearing When his gift first started to show, he had drown out background noises by humming or buzzing to himself just to walk down the halls between classes at school — a habit, still engrained in him, that had earned him his nickname. Eventually, as his gift grew in magnitude, even being in the same room with two dozen people was enough to make concentration impossible — the shifting in chairs, the scratching of pencils, the breathing. Now, after ten years of experience, he could pay attention to a particular person or conversation almost as well as anyone else — even without humming — and still allow himself to be interrupted by a particular word, voice or tone that he might be targeting. He had taken to thinking of it in terms of a queue — run-of-the-mill issues got to wait while urgent ones cut in line.

But now, his biggest problem wasn’t the things he didn’t want to hear. Now it was the things he didn’t want to say. Couldn’t, in fact, say. Not to anyone. Certainly not to anyone in The Union.

As he stood in front of the mirror in the office restroom, he looked at himself. The lies were taking their toll. He saw a man far older than his actual age of 26. He was losing weight. And losing hair — he had found another half-handful in the shower that morning. The bags under his eyes were getting worse. He had always had trouble sleeping, of course, but the problem had always been external; now it was the noises inside his head, not outside, that were keeping him awake. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Why couldn’t I have been a telekinetic? he thought to himself. Or a shapeshifter? Or a blaster, like that poor slob Carl? A naturally sympathetic man underneath his gruff exterior, Buzz tended to root for applicants. But he knew, as always, the mood of the room. And Carl didn’t have the votes. By now he was probably heading home in his typical huff. Pausing for a moment, he listened. The angry footsteps on the pavement 64 stories beneath sounded familiar, as did the slam of the car door. Yep. Sorry, Carl.

But at least Carl had friends.

And how can someone like me have friends? They have to assume I hear everything they say. I’ve certainly told them enough times to assume it. But still, no matter how up-front I try to be, they’re bound to be thinking I spy on them, just like I spy on everyone else.

And, of course, he did. Far more often than they realized. That’s how the trouble had started.

He probably shouldn’t have let himself go down this road in the first place, he thought — again, for the thousandth time. It probably could have been avoided. He never would have been in a position to lie. Never would have known the truth.

Would that have been better? Certainly it would have been easier. And now, armed (or cursed) with the knowledge, what could he do about it?

Nothing, he concluded again. Absolutely nothing.

And even doing nothing would not be an option for long, it seemed. This new applicant — Buzz shuddered involuntarily at the thought — would change everything.

He would ask Lori about the security system. He could at least do that. He’d say something innocuous. Something that would not arouse any suspicions, either from her or from anyone else who might find out. He was entitled to ask about security; enough of those cameras were pointed at him, after all. Too many.

But he had to hurry. He glanced at his watch. Before lunch, at least. Before he arrived.

Would The Union survive the confrontation that was appearing more and more inevitable? Would he survive?

Almost certainly not both.

2. Reception

Tuesday, 2:57 p.m.

It was a very nice desk.

The wood was walnut, hard and dark, with elaborate carving on the legs and the front panel that faced out toward the reception area. A 21-inch computer monitor stood in the front left corner so as to not obscure the view of the room. Atop the desk sat a normal assortment of paraphernalia — a jar of pens, a bonsai, a photograph of a handsome young man on a ski slope. The three-quarter inch block letters on the name plate indicated that the woman who occupied the desk was named Lori Cosgrove and that her job title was not receptionist but rather office manager. It was the workstation of a person who did not see a tremendous number of people in a typical day, but who wanted to be as open and welcoming as possible to the ones she did see.

On the wall behind the workstation were two items. One was a large analog clock; the time was 2:57. The other was an elaborate wood carving in the shape of a shield. The mass of the shield bore the initials UUGH in bold capital letters. Decorating the shield were three ribbon-shaped banners. The one across the top read, Protection. Draping the shield on the left, the second read, Research. Mirroring it on the right, the third read, Support. Between the clock and the shield was a closed door with a small faceplate that read, Security.

The woman at the desk was impressive in her own right. She sat up straight in her chair as she typed, looking at the monitor with piercing green eyes through rectangular tortoiseshell frames. Minimal but effective makeup. Her long, medium-brown hair was tied behind her in a simple ponytail, showing small ears and simple gold loops. Slight creases in the corners of her eyes, concentration lines, added a couple of years to her appearance — perhaps from 31 to 33. She wore an olive-colored business suit with a cream-colored blouse showing underneath. Her left lapel bore two pins — one of the American flag, one resembling the shield carving. Well-toned legs ended in brown heels underneath the desk.

Not that Arthur Scot MacLean noticed any of this particularly.

Having left his completed job application with Ms. Cosgrove, Art had returned to the chairs in the lobby to wait. Trying hard not to think of the significance the next hour would bear on the rest of his life, not to think of how much he wanted the position, not to think of the pre-prepared answers he had concocted for the questions he imagined he might be asked, not to think of how much his mask itched or how silly it must look, he did what he always did when he had three minutes to spare.

He got out his pencil and sketch pad.

Mindlessly he let his pencil dance across the surface of the paper as his mind drifted to the full-page ad in the Houston Chronicle that encouraged people with special gifts — people like Art — to apply for positions. And to the unbelievably arduous two-hour process he had just completed, barely finishing the small phone book of an application in time for his 3 p.m. appointment.

Lost in thought, he barely heard Ms. Cosgrove say, Sir? They are ready for you now. Almost looking for an excuse to stall further, he glanced over at the other young man in the lobby — a brooding young man, dressed all in black, listening to an iPod through earbuds at an obviously high volume. No mask.

On the other side of the room.

Turning to his right, he saw the office manager hovering near his shoulder, looking him in the eye. Are you ready? she asked, clearly speaking to him.

That’s a very good question, he thought to himself. Yes, he heard himself actually say, as he put away his tools, pulled himself out of the armchair, and walked into the future.

***

Dr. Glenn Cabot opened the folder just handed him by the intern and looked at the innocent, earnest, slightly scared face on its front. Arthur Scot MacLean, 19, lives in Pearland with his parents. Seems he can reproduce anything he has seen with paper and pencil in a matter of seconds.

Eli Knox nodded his head sagely. Black and white, or color?

Either one. Color takes longer, naturally.

Naturally. Super-speed?

Judge for yourself, Cabot said, nodding toward the closed-circuit monitor. Looks like he’s doing it right now.

Eli and Joy Caraway, the other committee member, leaned forward instinctively. Zoom in a bit, Eli said, and Cabot obliged. Looks like he’s drawing the lovely Lori, he continued, hoping finally to get a rise out of the perpetually happy woman to his left after months of effort. Couldn’t pick a better subject.

Not just Lori, Joy said, not taking the bait or even appearing to notice it. Look at the details on the desk. Amazing.

I wouldn’t call it super-speed, Eli said, giving up yet again. More like a complete efficiency of motion. No wasted time or effort, no glancing back at the subject. I wonder if he could do it with his eyes shut.

I wouldn’t be surprised.

Cabot pressed a button at his station, signaling Lori to send Art in. Tempting as it is to just sit and watch, we’re on a schedule. And I’d rather see Art do a demonstration for us anyway, maybe of something he hasn’t seen in awhile.

Like a good hairstylist, maybe, Eli joked.

Not everyone’s the metrosexual you are, Eli, said Joy to her sartorially conscious comrade.

More’s the pity, he cracked back. And another one with a mask! What’s with the masks, Doc?

You’re one to talk. And anyway, what difference does it make? If it makes him feel more qualified, let him wear it. He’ll take it off soon enough. And speaking of which, you’d better put yours on; he’s coming in.

***

Ms. Cosgrove escorted Art toward the large double glass doors at the end of the room — one etched with the same design as was hanging behind her desk, the other simply with the numerals 6401 — and said, They are waiting in the conference room. Just go through the doors; our intern, Cassidy, will show you in.

OK, thanks, Art responded, visibly nervous. He paused to collect himself before moving, then, sizing her up as a friendly face, leaned in and half-whispered, I’m sorry, Ms. …

I’m Lori.

Lori. Right. Do you mind giving me some last-minute advice?

She smiled. Of course. How may I help?

Art looked nervously at the doors, then back at her. Do other applicants come to interviews wearing a mask?

Lori nodded knowingly. I thought that might be it. Some do, some don’t. As they probably told you in the pre-interview, the mask is only for your personal privacy. Some people with The Union prefer to maintain more privacy than others. You may decide that you don’t want everyone in Williams Tower to know who you are and what you do — assuming, of course, that you are offered a position and that you accept. So we encourage people to wear a mask on their first visit, just to help them cover all their bases. But really, it’s just to help you feel comfortable.

"Comfortable is about the last word I’d choose," Art said, fidgeting with the mask nervously and accidently disconnecting the strap. Panicked, he pushed it into his face as he vainly tried to gather the straps one-handed.

Smiling to herself, Lori leaned in and whispered, It’s OK, Art. It’s just me. And I already know who you are. Remember?

Of course. Feeling silly, Art remembered Lori had called him at home to inform him of the appointment. Called him by name. Right. Sorry.

There’s nothing to be sorry about. Here, let me help you with that. Calmly she took the mask in hand, made the repair, and replaced it. There. Very becoming. A nice choice. Feeling a bit motherly with regard to the 19-year-old, she touched him lightly on the cheek and looked intently into his eyes. You’re going to be fine, Art, she said slowly and confidently. There’s nothing to worry about. No monsters, no dragons. Just three people who want to talk to you about a job opportunity.

He took a deep breath. Right.

That’s good. Take another. He did. Feeling better?

He took a second to assess. Yes, I think so.

Good, she said with a warm smile. Because it’s my job to make sure you get from the lobby to the conference room without passing out. Are you going to make it?

Art smiled back — a weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. Well, I guess you’re pretty good at your job.

Yes, I am. Now, go in there and get a job of your own. I’ll be out here rooting for you.

Right. Here I go.

Art took two big steps toward the doors, looked instinctively down at his sketch pad, then pulled up short, walked back to the desk, and tore the top page off.

I guess this is yours, he said, distracted, not even catching the eye of the surprised Lori. She reached out and took the page, thinking perhaps this was some sort of flirtation; it wouldn’t be the first time she had had a stranger try to take liberties, although Art didn’t seem the type. But before she could assess his intentions, or even speak, Art had already turned to walk away; clearly flirtation was the last thing on his mind.

Confused, Lori watched as Art paced quickly to the doors, paused for another deep breath, then opened them and walked through to confront his destiny. She shook her head slowly with a half-smile. Well, we certainly get all kinds, she thought, and allowed herself to quickly glance down at the page before getting back to her regular tasks.

And then she stopped. She blinked hard and looked again. She was holding in her hand a perfect black-and-white drawing of herself at her desk.

Everything was right. Exactly right. The number of pens in the can. The tiny limbs and leaves on the bonsai, each one in spectacular detail. The photograph of her husband, including the silly knit cap he had insisted on wearing for the entire week at Taos. The features of her own face, down to the length of her hair, the style of her earrings, even the way she cocked her left eyebrow when she typed.

Of course, she had already known about Art. Even so, holding the proof in her hand made quite a difference.

He did this in three minutes?

3. Interview

Tuesday, 3:01 p.m.

Eli picked up the wild, purple Mardi Gras mask he usually used for interviews — partly because he loved Mardi Gras, partly because he knew it annoyed Cabot — and slipped it on just as the door opened and an extremely nervous Arthur MacLean stepped through.

Cabot stepped out from the table and walked around to greet him, hand outstretched. Immediately Art took note of how much bigger Doc seemed in person — well over six feet tall, with perhaps 220 pounds of muscle packed on. His brown hair was graying at the temples and he showed signs of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the energy he exuded still gave the impression of a man in his late 30s instead of, as he knew very well, his early 50s. His smile was broad, and his handshake firm.

Art, so glad you could meet with us today. I’m Dr. Glenn Cabot, and on behalf of the Union of Unusually Gifted Heroes —

"UUGH!" shouted Eli and Joy in unison, each with a big grin, causing Art to jump back a bit. Their signature shout had not only become a ritual among Union members over the years, it had also led to them describing themselves as Grunts.

Yes, said Cabot with a patiently enduring sort of look on his face, as I was saying, on behalf of the Union, I’d like to say how pleased we are that you would consider a career with us.

Oh, the pleasure is all mine, sir, Art managed to get out. Thank you for having me.

Not at all, not at all. And you can just call me Doc. We like to keep things friendly here. Of course, you know my colleagues. The lovely lady in the middle I am sure you will recognize as Joy Caraway, or Upper. She usually stays seated at these meetings; men who shake her hand have a tendency to fall in love with her.

Oh, Glenn, knock it off, Joy responded, shaking her head in a pseudo-disparaging way, but not denying the charge. As always, Upper made a wonderful first impression. Her long, blond hair, light skin and supermodel features would ordinarily give the impression of flightiness; however, something about the look in her bright blue eyes invariably convinced people in Art’s position, and correctly so, that she was far more intelligent than the typical dumb blonde.

And this ridiculous fellow, indicating toward Eli, who was by now around the table and extending his own hand, is Conductor. We’ll have to keep things a bit more formal with him until you officially become a member, you understand.

Of course, Art said, shaking his hand furiously and trying not to gawk. It’s an honor. Really. Conductor, very much unlike his colleagues, came across as a fun-loving attention magnet — partly because of the mask, partly because of the image he so diligently courted in the media. He stood perhaps an inch over six feet and carried a bit of extra weight around his middle — a consequence, no doubt, of getting to zap from place to place instead of walking.

The honor is ours, Conductor responded gregariously and managing with considerable effort to get his hand back.