Matt Callaghan ran.

As the streets of New York rang with sounds of gunfire, shouting and explosions, the howls of wind and the cries of the undead, as soldiers in military fatigues and policemen and crimson‑gold warriors raced in every direction – Matt ran. Behind him, the blinding white of Jane’s flare darkened into a burning golden glow, and a shockwave rippled through his clothes as her beam of energy shot out of her and slammed straight into the Divine field. Matt did not turn, did not look to see if Jane was succeeding, if the corruption was being pushed back. He simply ran, heart pounding, as fast as he could go.

He vaulted a police car, swerved a signpost, and with a crack a section of sidewalk a foot away from him exploded. Gunshot. They were on him. Matt never stopped, forcing his burning legs forward with breathless energy, zigzagging this way and that, dodging on instinct, unpredictable. He hurtled around a corner into an open, abandoned Chinese restaurant, racing past half-strewn chairs and tables into the kitchen, around steel benches laden with food left forgotten and out the back into an alleyway, around one corner, two corner, three and- there. Another open door. Matt sprinted past a dingy‑looking bathroom, slammed through a swinging door and skidded into the snack‑laden aisles of a convenience store. He slid to a halt and dropped to a crouch, panting and pushing his back up against one of the shelves, packets of chips crinkling behind him.

Just had to hide. Just had to lose them. Don’t have to win, just keep on living.

Matt breathed hard, forcing air down deep into his burning chest. He could do this. He could do it. The city was chaos, these idiots had cut off their own communication, they couldn’t teleport, and there were a thousand places he could be. Once they’d lost sight of him he could’ve gone in any direction. What would he do? Where would he go? A normal person would panic, keep running, maybe back out into the streets, trying to get as far away as possible. No. Out-think them. Do the opposite.

Matt pulled his knees to his chest, glancing around the empty store, his heart racing, making doubly sure he wasn’t visible from the outside. He wasn’t – the aisle hid him from view. Just wait. Wait.

And then beneath the sounds of distant fighting, beyond the bangs and screams, Matt felt it, worming into the back of his mind.

Telepathic contact.

Matt Callaghan. A woman’s voice – cold with a hint of laughter. You cannot run. We’ll find you.

Crap, Matt swore. He felt the tendrils of the psychic’s connection wrapping around the base of his skull. Unlike the amateur back at the apartment, this telepath did not try to see his thoughts or take possession, made no attempt to make their connection firm. She was just waiting there, keeping the barest touch on his presence. Sensing where he was, relaying it to the rest of them.

She was their spotter.

Surrender, the psychic’s voice cooed. You cannot escape. We’re coming for you. We’ll make it quick.

You’d like that wouldn’t you, Matt thought back, opening his mind to her presence. If I just gave up. Well too bad so sad. Didn’t expect Jane’s flashbang did you? And you’re never getting inside my head.

Laughter echoed down the psychic link. You are outnumbered. Outmatched. What can you do, little boy?

I escaped your kill zone.

It won’t matter. He could feel the voice smiling. We’re still stronger than you.

Everyone always is, Matt replied, defiant. That’s what makes me special.

He severed the connection, though he could feel the telepath’s gaze lingering on the back of his skull. Matt pulled himself to his feet, turning back towards the rear door – and despite everything, his mouth split into the barest hint of a smile.

This telepath was good, he knew; a professional. Unlike the one who had attacked him back home, she knew not to throw herself unprotected into Matt’s mind, was wary of his defences, keeping little more than a thin, monitoring link. But she’d made one fatal error. With network connections down, she was fulfilling multiple roles – spotter for Matt, lookout for danger, and her team’s communications link. She may have been a competent psychic, but she was also confident in her abilities, used to being the dominating mental force. And like every person with every power who ever went up against him, she underestimated Matt. And unbeknownst to her, while she’d been talking and seeing through him, he’d been reaching and seeing through her. The river flowed both ways if you knew how to ride it. And while Matt hadn’t been able to see the psychic’s thoughts, who she worked for, even her name, he had felt, like a blind man tracing down woollen strings, the other minds she was connected to.

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There were eight of them. Eight people out to kill him.

And now he knew their powers.

Matt raced into the next aisle over, scooped up bottles of cooking oil and deodorant, and sprinted for the rear door.

*****

Ninety degrees around the curve of the monochrome field, Giselle Pixus could see the power of Dawn blazing in a golden torrent. From this distance Jane’s power shone like a second sunrise, blasting unrelenting into the grey corruption, burning slow and unrelenting, pushing the field back. Step by step, inch by inch, Giselle could see the bubble buckling inwards around the billowing light, folding in, drawing back the perimeter.

But for every foot the undead zone retreated, another wave of those trapped inside it were unleashed.

There were two sorts. The first were still human, or at least humanoid. Deathless, undead, whatever you wanted to call them, they were still ostensibly people, and once free from the power of the field collapsed into a heap if they were very old, or crawled away crying if they were very young. Her concern was those in the middle – the ones who staggered out as walking corpses or white‑eyed adults, their faces twisted in mad, vacant expressions, moaning and bristling with powers flaring at anything that came near them, repairing and refusing to die.

But they were not Giselle’s biggest problem. That honour went to the second category, the ones who’d been stuck in the coloured patches inside the motley bubble, or who otherwise through some distinction Giselle couldn’t see and didn’t care about right now were afflicted not with cycling undeath but endless unnatural growth. These were the monstrosities, the Cronenberg‑esque mountains of bubbling, lumpy flesh, protruding bones, hair longer than their bodies, seven‑jointed fingers, multiple heads, spidering legs. Anywhere from five to forty feet tall, no two were the same and many of them seemed to be growing as multiple people, three, four, five bodies melted and melded together with flailing arms and legs and eyes. They were horrifying to look at, terrifying to hear, their fleshy throats warbling cacophonous, disharmonious medleys of guttural wailing and moans. But most horrifying of all was their powers. From each one of these abominations – Chimeras, Giselle was mentally calling them – streamed abilities. Multiple powers. A body turned to iron while fire bellowed from the mouths of two heads. One monster blurred with inhuman speed, arms lengthened to ten feet rocky ropes, while telekinetic debris ripped from the street around another mountain of perpetually‑growing fat. A creature with an acid‑drooling, ten‑foot jaw shimmered and turned invisible, and beside it a three‑legged thirty‑foot titan lumbered slowly forward, a shock of telepathic pain reverberating through its heads every time one of its twenty‑toed, oil‑drum sized legs pummelled into the ground.

And they were coming for them.

Whatever was happening inside the zone clearly inflicted upon these monsters terrible agony. As their bodies changed, as they grew younger or aged or mutated or died, they were paralysed, unable to do anything but wail inhuman screams while they were wracked by flux. But the second the field fell back, the second they were exposed and free, the changes ceased. The bloodcurdling shrieks swung in pitch, dropped in volume. The agony of constant change disappeared, replaced with the agony of unnatural existence, and as far as Giselle could see the latter of those two nightmares was a lot less incapacitating and a lot more inciting towards frenzied rage.

She’d done two laps around the bubble, getting everyone clear she could, helping other Legion members get in place. They stood spread thin now, around the entire twenty block circumference, sentinels of crimson arrayed behind makeshift barriers, between buildings and abandoned cars. Some of the police, some civilians, the military had joined them while others had fled or focused on helping the vulnerable get clear. They stood interspersed along the Legion’s battle lines, blue and white and khaki, blazing powers, aiming guns. An army of superhumans, suddenly so small and mundane and insignificant against a horde of so much worse.

A group of seven crimson warriors stood behind Giselle; Neil Lomachenko, Becky Sandstrom, Editha Reyes, Carla Black and the Acolytes Gabbi, Monique and Nour. Everywhere around her she saw pale faces, fists clenched, sweat trickling down brows. In the distance there came the shrieks of children, a school group and their families being rapidly loaded into a bus. Giselle’s eyes swept back to the monstrous onslaught, and though her heart hammered, her lips curled.

“LEGION!” she shouted, and she threw into her voice every ounce of conviction, every iota of fury and self‑belief, “YOU ARE THE BEST!” A shout went up around her. “YOU ARE THE BRAVEST!” The cry rang louder.

Around the curve of the field there came a blinding flare, and the golden light intensified.

“PROTECT THE INNOCENT!” she roared, “PROTECT THE WEAK!”

Carla raised her hands and threw Giselle two half-foot silver rods from the black weapons crates the Legion had brought with them. She caught them both in mid‑air, twisted bands atop the grips, and the hilts shot out into seamless titanium blades.

“KILL THE MONSTERS!”

A mighty roar surged all around her. And at that moment, the dead zone moved and the enemy broke free.

And faster than a bullet, at the head of the Legion reborn, Giselle Pixus charged forward, a crimson blur.