STORMY WEATHER

By Desmond Reddick

Author’s Note: This story takes place after Amazing Fantasy #43

Austin, Texas

Norteño music, with its pronounced accordion and rock and roll swing filled the air at Fiesta Gardens. The annual Latin music festival was well under way with the sound of joyous celebration and the amazing aromas of traditional foods.

Hispanic families from all over Central Texas flocked to the event as it was more than music and food; it was community. And, as a result, it was a heavily anticipated event for Austinites of all colors.

Miguel Santos, a recent resident of the city, watched the festivities from the rooftop of an adjacent high-rise building, one that he lived in, in fact. He relocated almost a year ago to move in with his mother. She had taken ill and, with his father dead, he was all she had left.

He loved his position; the music wafted up and delighted him, and the food was too far away to entice his olfactory senses. Mom’s cooking kept him more than full, so the last thing he needed was a fried taco staring him in the face.

Miguel took in the celebration and waited for his time. Something of a hero in the Latino community, Living Lightning was scheduled to make an impromptu appearance streaking across the sky at sundown. He looked forward to giving the crowd a thrill. Abandoning his mother was not an option, but he hadn’t done much since moving to Austin. It was beginning to bother him.

The hum of motorcycles rose in the distance. For a several block radius, motor vehicles of any kind were almost non-existent. Even for the party-pooping non-attendees, they knew not to drive down near Fiesta Gardens during Pachanga.

It only took a moment to realize that all was not well. A taco stand tipped over, spilling the man inside and his ingredients onto the grass. From around the toppled kiosk, the front wheel of a motorcycle peaked out, and then it lurched out into the open.

The man riding it was difficult to see from Miguel’s vantage point, but he wore a white wife-beater, camouflage fatigue pants and combat boots. The man wore no helmet and his shaved head had a red, burned complexion. As he brought his right arm to bear, he levelled a double-barrelled shotgun at the crowd of fleeing revellers.

Miguel ran to the edge of his apartment complex roof and stepped off into the open air, his body instantly flashing into a streak of Living Lightning!

KRA-KOW!

Living Lightning’s electric body hit the barrel of the shotgun in an instant, knocking it off target and sending a powerful shock up into the body of the attacker.

Convulsions rocked him even after he hit the ground. The shotgun landed on the soft grass. The sound of motorcycles was not quelled.

Three more bikers, similarly dressed, assaulted him from behind.

POOM!

The shotgun blast took Miguel by surprise, but, at the last second, he was able to manipulate his electrical field with a thought. The buckshot pellets that were only a microsecond earlier hurtling through the air intending to tear through his body had magnetically been redirected up into the air. With the kinetic energy sucked out of them, they would rain down behind him no harder than hailstones.

It was a new trick, but it took it out of him.

Living Lightning flashed back to his human form and rocked, nearly unconscious, on the balls of his feet. He would be unable to attack in lightning form for a little while. And he was in no shape to take them on in hand to hand combat.

“Well,” a man making his way through the gathered bikers said. “We came to hunt us some spics, today. You’ve ruined that.”

The man, wearing an odd leather mask, waved his arm, pointing to the now almost empty park. His mousy brown, straggly hair hung over the mask and, unlike his mostly tank-topped crew, he was bare-chested under his cammo flak jacket.

“But it looks we got us a spic superhero, instead!”

The rest of the men laughed.

The masked man reached to the side without looking, and a lackey handed him a huge chainsaw. He pulled on the starter cord, and the huge chainsaw roared to life. Smoke bellowed out of the exhaust, but the men seemed to revel in it.

“What do you think, boys?!” Chainsaw shouted over the roar of the machine. “Wing or drumstick?!”

They all laughed as they watched their leader approach the stunner Hispanic hero.

The chainsaw was only inches away from Miguel when the wind suddenly picked up. And, like a cavalry, a blue-suited sheriff on a steed made of a tornado rode in. The garbage strewn through the park on the revellers’ quick exit was picked up and whipped into the faces of the bikers surrounding Miguel.

As they covered their eyes, Texas Twister raised both hands and let loose the fury of wind that sent the bikers tumbling across the open field as if they were rolling down a hill.

The chainsaw sputtered to a stop as its wielder was thrown with his posse like trash in the wind.

With the noise level dropped to almost zero, police sirens could be heard in the distance.

“Praetorians,” Texas Twister said, putting his hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “Ya alright, kid?”

Miguel shook the stars from his eyes before answering, “Yeah, I think I’m okay. I tried something new and it took it out of me. Stray shot could have hurt someone. Nice to find something new in your powers, I guess. Hey, what did you call them? ”

“Praetorians. The leader’s name is Chainsaw. They’re a buncha Klansmen who don’t like wearin’ sheets.”

“It’s always someone,” Miguel said in a sombre tone.

“—and sometimes it’s everyone.”

The voice boomed from above the two heroes.

They looked up to see a human pillar of flame descend between them. The being let off a warm glow, instead of the searing heat one would expect.

Miguel recognized him immediately as a former member of the West Coast Avengers. While they never served together, everybody in the hero business knew the first Marvel.

It took Texas Twister a little longer to distinguish the original from the member of Fantastic Four, but when the flames sputtered out and a muscular blond in a red jumpsuit with yellow accents appeared, there was no doubt that the man before them was not a man at all.

It was Colonel Jim Hammond, the original Human Torch!

“Mr. Hammond!” Miguel shouted, pleased to be in the presence of one so distinguished.

“Please, call me Jim when we’re not in action,” he said while looking over to the pile of white supremacists and then to the returning crowd of festival-goers. “You gentlemen did a fine job here.”

“I almost got myself killed. Would have, if not for Texas Twister, here.” Miguel was dejected.

“Don’t make the mistake again,” Human torch said bluntly. The advice was solid, though. Miguel couldn’t disagree with that.

With the police sirens blaring closer to the park, Human Torch continued: “These men are only an example of the forces lined up against decency in this country.”

“What d’ya mean?” Texas Twister asked.

“I mean that there’s something brewing. Something big. And I think I could use your guys’ help with it.”

He looked back at the Praetorians.

“Besides,” Hammond continued, “the police are on their way and those guys better hope they get arrested before those people get to them.”

The massive body of festival-goers were back applauding their saviors and pointing and mocking the Praetorians.

“You said somethin’ ‘bout a threat?” Twister’s hands rested on his hips.

“The skies are darkening, gentlemen. This world is going to need a few points of light.”

LIBERTY NOTES: What is the Human Torch doing? What implications does this have for the future? Check out Liberty Legion to find out!