Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Sixty-Two

Sam no sooner turned to run up the hill than something short and sharp smacked his left torso just below his rib cage. A sudden pain sapped his breath, and his knees buckled, an infirmity that saved his life. The sharp report of what sounded like multiple loud hand claps came from his left, followed by the whiz of bullets going just overhead, nearly close enough to trim his scalp.

At that precise moment, two heavily camouflaged men, weapons leveled in front of them, emerged from the woods to his left at a steady walk. They were close.

The old man regained his feet, ran half crouched for 20 feet below the bank of the stream, and burst from the knee-deep water onto the solid ground behind the men and to their right. He was on top of them in a flash, but his breath was ragged and hoarse. He knew he'd been badly wounded and realized that he couldn't let these men get another shot at him.

The nearest fell before a single blow from his right fist, but the second dodged, nearly knocking a weakened Sam from his feet. Righting himself, Sam scruffed the man by the collar and, spinning him about like an Olympic athlete might toss a hammer, slung the man high against a nearby tree.

Even before the man's limp body had slid to the ground, a breathless Sam was moving through the dense underbrush and up the hill toward the shouting and screaming girls. Before he'd made it halfway, he heard movement ahead, and ducked behind a large tree, just as two more men emerged from the brush, weapons at the high ready.

For the first time, it was clear that the men wore U.S. Army uniforms, and Sam wanted to cry. The oldster was a veteran who very much loved his country, but the soldiers were there for one objective. And it wasn't to reason with him.

Stepping out, he grabbed the nearer man, snatched away his weapon, and roughly tossed him into his fellow. Before either could rise, the old Chicagoan disarmed them and delivered hard, incapacitating kicks to both men's legs. Sam wanted to speak, to curse their betrayal, but his breath forsook him. He couldn't utter a word.

And then chaos.

Out of nowhere, something large, heavy, and hard hit him, sending the old man head-over-heels down the steep rise he'd just climbed. Sharp rocks and damp sand met his face. Scrambling to his feet, the now gasping Sam saw a young man crouching in a three-point stance not 15 feet away, a wicked and self-assured grin on his face.

His new opponent was large, bigger even than Tommy, and looked at him as if silently laughing. The young man moved swiftly, but even before he rushed in, grabbed Sam, and tossed him high against the same tree at which Sam minutes before had hurled the soldier, Sam knew his new opponent was Gifted. And the kid was incredibly strong.

The newcomer tossed Sam as if the Chicagoan were a bag of potatoes, and, after glancing off the tree, the oldster landed in a heap 20 or so feet down the hillside.

For barely a moment, fear threatened to seize him. He was hurt—badly. And he faced an enormously powerful adversary. But Sam had faced Gifted opponents before, in life or death struggles, and there was something about the man who now came toward him that suggested he suffered a curse common among unusually big and strong men.

Namely, this man wasn't a fighter—the kid certainly didn't move like one. He probably had never been in a real fight in his life, but like many such strong men, had always relied on his enormous size and ponderous strength to intimidate and to brutalize weaker opponents.

Well, Samuel Taylor Babington was not going to be one of those.

With a growl, Sam lunged to his feet. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, so he needed to put his opponent down, quickly, while he still had strength. Moving in low, Sam went for the man's legs, feinted, and struck a sudden, wicked punch in the middle of the fellow's face. The youngster's head snapped back, and after the slightest of pauses, he looked at Sam with another huge and feral grin on his face.