Shadow Ops: Control Point

off. Better not to risk opening his mouth. But the events of the last few hours, and his one hope of refuge evaporating, made him careless.

“Where in the Bible does it tell you to hit your wife? Where does it tell you to hit your son?” Oscar asked.

“Oscar, please!” Desda’s voice was pleading.

But the magical tide didn’t care. It surged with Britton’s fury and sadness. He pushed against it, but it was useless. The air in the kitchen archway shimmered, folded in on itself, and resolved into the static light of an open gate.

Stanley’s eyes shot wide, but Desda continued to look at her son.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said quickly.

“Sweet Jesus,” Stanley said, backing away.

“What’s wrong?” Desda asked, turning. She froze as she saw the gate.

“Oh my God,” Stanley breathed. “You’re one of those…one of those damned Selfers. This is un-friggin- believable!” He invoked his single response to all unexpected events — anger, but still moved backward, bumping the front door. He fumbled for the handle.

“My God, Oscar,” Desda whispered, “are you doing that?”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said, his eyes wet. “I love you.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “This isn’t right. I’m your mother, Oscar, I would have known.”

Stanley tore his eyes off the gate. “For Christ’s sake, Dez! Get the hell away from him!” he shouted, reaching for her but not daring to come closer.

Oscar could hear faint keening from the gate. The demon-horses were not far away.

Desda didn’t move. “No, no. This isn’t right. Not right.”

“It’s just a thing, like acne or chicken pox,” Oscar said with a certainty he didn’t feel. “I don’t have a choice. It’s going to be okay.”

She continued to shake her head.

The gate flickered, snapped shut, reopened deeper into the kitchen, then disappeared.

With the gate gone, Stanley found his fight at last.

“Get your damned hands off her!” he shouted, leaping forward and grabbing Oscar’s arms, shouldering Desda out of the way and knocking her to the floor. For all the strength in Stanley’s callused hands, he might as well have grabbed an oak.

Oscar ignored his father, reaching for his mother. Stanley snarled, pounding against his son’s massive chest. Oscar stepped back, raising his hands. “Stop, Dad. This is stupid.”

Desda pulled at her husband. “No! No! No!”

“Shut up!” Stanley screamed. “Get out of here! Leave us alone!”

Oscar tried to move to the door, but Stanley blocked his way.

Oscar backpedaled. Was Desda screaming at him or Stanley? He tried to see her face, but Stanley punched him in his mouth, rocking his head back. He took another step backward, caught his heel on the staircase, and went down hard, bruising his back. Stanley followed, punches raining down.

Desda screamed, the sound merging with the roaring blood in Oscar’s ears. The magical tide drowned him. His skin began to burn. Am I going nova? he wondered. He had heard that Selfers, unable to control their magic, sometimes succumbed to its power, burning themselves to a crisp. A gate half opened above him and vanished. He saw through the window as it reappeared on the lawn, grew, and disappeared.

“Dad! Get off! You’re hurting me!” he shouted. “I’m trying to leave!”

“Fucker!” Spittle landed on his shaved head.

Stanley punctuated his cursing with punches. Somewhere the buzz that wasn’t quite a scream droned on. The magic pulsed.

“Dad! No!”

Oscar lunged forward, throwing an elbow into what he hoped was his father’s chest. The blow struck Stanley’s nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed from his father’s face. Stanley’s eyes crossed as he staggered backward, arms pinwheeling.

A gate opened wide behind him.

Oscar reached for his father’s wrist. “Dad, look out!”

His fingers brushed the tips of Stanley’s fingers as his father half stepped, half fell into the gate, tumbling onto the grass beyond and sliding to a halt.

Oscar watched through the portal’s static sheen as his father looked around, his eyes huge. Suddenly, they shot wide and Stanley scrambled to his feet. “Oscar…” he said.

Oscar could hear keening voices approaching fast. “Uskar …Uskar…”

“Oscar!” Stanley shrieked, then the gate snapped shut, and his father was gone.

Oscar stood staring at empty air.

Desda reached one hand to her mouth. Her other hand reached out to the empty air. “Oscar?” she whispered, “Where did he go? Where did Stanley go?”

Britton wrestled to reopen the gate. “Come on,” he muttered. “Open, damn you.” He pried with his fingers at the empty air. Somewhere beyond it, his father was trapped, possibly dying.

“Open!” he shrieked. “Open the fuck back up!”

Nothing. The tide churned within him, eddying uselessly. A gate opened beside his mother, but vanished before he could turn to face it.

“Where is he?” Desda repeated.

Britton shook his head, choking back a sob. “I don’t know, Mom.”

Her knees wobbled, and she sat down hard, her hands still not moving — one on her mouth, the other pointing. “You have to…you have to bring him back,” she whispered. A tear escaped from a corner of her eye. “Bring him back!”

“I can’t.” His voice sounded flat in his own ears.

“What do you mean?” she asked, finally lowering her hands. “Open it up and get him back!”

He shook his head, his hands making useless circles at his sides. “I don’t know how. I can’t control it.”

She sat in silence for a moment. Then she made a sound between a scream and a growl.

“Mom?” he asked, kneeling and reaching for her. She blinked at the empty space where the gate had closed, her head shaking slowly, her mouth wide.

He stood and took a step toward her. “Mom?”

Her head jerked toward him, her expression blank. Then her eyes registered shocked recognition, and she scrambled backward, kicking out at him. “You get away from me!”

His father had vanished. Britton couldn’t save him.

His mother shrieked.

The need to run overcame all else. He surrendered to it and let his legs carry him away from his mother’s accusing eyes.

CHAPTER V: FLIGHT

…Latency presents a challenge to the American people and the world as unique and as dangerous as the atom bomb. It represents the greatest opportunity, but also the greatest threat we have faced as a nation since the first atomic weapon was tested in 1945. Like it or not — Magic is the new nuke.

— Senator Nancy Whalen

Chairman, Senate Subcommittee on the Great Reawakening

Oscar Britton’s bloodied feet slid inside his father’s shoes, pounding down the road toward the town where