Thunderstruck [May2015]

Another roadside, another step, just another day in the life. The mountain pass through which he walked was beautiful. But he had ceased to notice such things many years before. The trees bracketing the trail whispered with sweet spring air, a formless sentence, which failed to move him entirely. He had been on the road for fifteen years, never stopping in one place for more than a day, never resting for more than a few hours at a time, just moving, always moving, with nothing to his name bar the bag on his back, and an old raincoat he had purchased from a thrift store, with change he found on the streets. He was driven from place to place, largely by fear, and not of commitment, not of becoming rooted, but of encountering once more the consequences of doing so, the risk of the pain that comes of losing everything. He had been a happy man once...

He had lived just outside a small town, on a small plot of land, in a small house. He had been married, had raised children, two of them. He had poured himself into his family, his home, and his simple working life at the time, as the towns resident handyman, picking up odd jobs here and there, not to mention maintaining the town hall by contract with the local council. He had even had a name.

Idyllic, that was the only word one could use to describe his life, prior to the events which lead him to roam from place to place, restless and cold...

The spring breeze gave way all of a suddenness, to a much stronger wind, and upon its back came great black clouds, obscuring the sun from sight. As the temperature dropped, his gaze never left the scrub underfoot at the side of the road. The heavens opened, rain beating down upon him, and thumping the foliage to a smothered mess beneath the treads of his boots. A flash gouged a crease through the sky, lightning coursing through the atmosphere struck a tree hundreds of meters away, carving its thick trunk in half and setting the remains ablaze...

It had been a hot summers night, and the children had been gambolling about in the fields till a little later than usual, and as a result the sun was already well below the horizon when Hank sunk into his cosy chair on the veranda, having put them to bed. His wife Jean had embraced him as they gazed upon their sleeping children, and as they had walked down the hall, still holding one another, she had kissed him.

She had made her way to the basement after that, where she ran her from home business. Masterful with needle, thread, and sewing machine was she, and she made a decent little pot of money making alterations, and custom garments from scratch, for people in town, and even for movie production houses. Hank, sitting in his comfy chair on the veranda, had popped the lid off a beer, and settled down to watch the stars for a while. His chair was at one end of the veranda, and faced along its length, so he never saw the figure which had crept from the bushes surrounding the property, and stealthily climbed up behind his chair. The first he knew that anything was wrong, was when he was wrenched backward over the edge of the veranda rail, and placed in a chokehold. He struggled, tried to gurgle a warning to his wife and children in vain, and then all was darkness...

Thunder broke seemingly every second, with every step he took along the now drenched mountain road. Every moment lit by an insane strobing, as if the heavens had been purchased by an entertainment company, and turned into an underground nightclub. He did not even flinch, so lost was he in the pain of the past, reminded of that awful night by the scorched tree he had just walked by...

He had awoken with his wrists bound behind him, his ankles tied beneath him, and on his knees, with a knee in his back. He had been faced toward the house, and three figures stood in front of him, between him, and his home, his family. One figure stepped forward. "Well... Looks like you have it MADE bro! Sittin on yer porch, sippin at yer beer, not a care in the whole damned world!" said the figure, who was dressed in a hooded jacket, like his companions, and wearing dark clothes, and black leather gloves. "Now, me an the boys here, we come up here from the city man! We ain't used to folk havin it sooo damn easy, and you know what we got to thinkin? We reckoned we ought to leave you a little memo, a little reminder of what its like to have someone crap on your day!".

The leering figure grinned, teeth flashing in the darkness. He pulled back his hood, revealing short cropped blonde hair, dirty skin, and wild, mad eyes that twitched and flickered from side to side. Those eyes came to focus, and bored right into Hanks in a glare of total loathing. "So... Basically, screw you buddy!" announced the figure in a cheery voice, one at odds with the look on his face. The wild eyed figure stepped back, and picked up a can of fuel which had been hidden behind one of the other thugs.

At this, Hanks eyes had bolted open, and he had begun to struggle, and no sooner had he moved, than an arm shot across his neck once more, and choked off his oxygen, sapping his strength. He did not pass out this time, but at the same time had no motive power to resist the bastards who were doing this to him. He didn't know why they were there, why they had attacked him, but he could not take his eyes off the fuel can as the cap was removed, oh so slowly by the hooded man. "I see you lookin buddy, I see it! I ought to put your mind at rest a little though man. I ain't gonna kill ya with this stuff!" At this, he laughed, a dry sound, like an engine failing to turn over. "No, no, nooo! If you die tonight, it won't mean anything to ya!", he said, turning toward the house, and dousing the veranda with fuel.

Hank had begun to try to stir, but to no avail, the arm at his neck applying just enough pressure to keep him in place, but awake. The bastard with the fuel can had made his way round the house, and come out on the other side, and casting the can aside, he strode back to stand in front of Hank. "I don't envy you this, man... Its a shame! When its over, remember somethin for me ok? Remember this...if you never have anythin, you never have anythin to lose!". Having said this, the hooded man pulled a lighter from his pocket, kindled a flame, and threw the lighter at the house, setting alight everything Hank had ever loved. Hank had once more begun to struggle, despite the lack of oxygen to his muscles. As the flames began to roar and catch all over the front of the house, the hooded figure kicked him in the jaw, knocking him out...

He continued to trudge down the road, lightning breaking everything around him, except his horrific reverie. Bolt after bolt smashed down, and if he had been remotely aware of any of it, he might have thought the furious nature of the storm strange in nature, but he paid it no mind, for he was not present in the moment. He failed also to notice when the frequency of the strikes lessened, and things became still. He did however notice a vast increase in pressure, and looked skyward just as a vast gout of electrostatic energy slammed into him from above...

He had awoken to the sight of his whole home aflame, and despite the fact that the roof had caved in, that there was no way that anyone could have lived through the terrifying heat, he had tried to move forward. It was at this point that he realised that the bonds were gone from his ankles and wrists, and so he stood uncertainly to his feet and half stumbled, half ran toward the burning wreckage of his home. The heat was so intense, that he could feel his clothes begin to singe, his flesh begin to cook, but such was the strength of his desire to be with his family, he could not turn away. Flashing lights began to battle with the flame for dominance over the scene, and burly firemen grasped him and pulled him back, restraining him and retreating to a safe distance, while applying first aid to Hanks scorched flesh. An awful, mournful wail arose from the night, a sound of total sorrow, utter devastation. It was whole minutes before Hank realised that its source was his own, smoke filled throat...

Back on the roadside, that same wail issued forth once more, as the staggering pain of electrical burns coursed across synapses and nerve endings throughout his body, reminding him on a deep primal level, not just as mere morbid reverie, of the night his family died. His body went into spasm, sending him twitching and flailing to the sodden ground.

Gummy, aching eyes opened to unfamiliar surroundings. Suspended ceilings, and fluorescent lighting passing overhead suggested a commercial or public building, and a vague impression of bustle betrayed the presence of figures around the edges of his vision. The gurney he was lying on was being pushed, hurried into an emergency room, and already fluids and pharmaceuticals were being administered via intravenous lines. A face appeared before him, grizzled but kindly, brows knitted in a mixture of concentration and worry.

"Hello? Hello, sir, can you hear me?", asked the doctor, concern colouring his every word. Concern changed to shock as a clear voice responded, "Yes, doctor. I can.". Although muffled by the mask over his face, Hanks words issued forth with clarity. "In fact, I have not felt this grounded for an awfully long time...heh... That's terrible.", he said, wryly. The doctors and nurses surrounding him looked agog at Hank, as if he had just grown an extra foot, somewhere on his head.

He should have been barely conscious, slurring, incapable of sense, and yet he was clearly lucid, and even quipping about the situation in which he found himself. "Uh...are you... Are you in any pain?", stammered the doctor. Hank sat up at this, cracked his neck, and rolled his shoulders (despite nurses and orderlies trying to force him back to the gurney), before replying, "No doctor, I appear to be in no pain what so ever, and before you ask, I can feel sensation all over my body." He then brushed a clutch of nurses and orderlies aside, and swung his legs over the side of the gurney, gaining his feet and standing. "Sir! Sir I have to insist that you sit down! You could go into shock at any moment!", the doctor protested.

"I appreciate your concern doctor, but it have no intention of wasting your time, or mine. I have wasted enough time already. If you will permit me to shower before I leave, I would be very grateful, but I refuse to have you sit here scratching your head over me while some other poor bastard goes without.", Hank stated.
"Look sir, you have been hit by lightning! LIGHTNING , sir! No one walks away from that unharmed in my experience!", proclaimed the doctor, in an indignant tone. Hank replied "In my experience, when someone who has just been struck by lightning is prepared to walk away, the last thing you ought to do is try to stop him." Along with his reply, he gave the doctor a particular look. Determination near gushed from that gaze. The doctor said nothing, merely leaving the room cursing under his breath.

The medical team made as if to follow, and Hank caught the attention of a passing nurse, and asked where he might find a shower he could use. "Well sir," she responded,"we ordinarily do not provide shower facilities to those who are not patients of this hospital, and you have made it pretty clear that you do not need treatment." Her face was initially crumpled by frustration. Clearly she shared he opinion of the duty doctor, that Hank ought to relent and allow further examination of his condition. Upon seeing his face fall however, she took pity on him."Ah hell... You have had a hard enough day already. Come on and follow me."

The shower room turned out to be one which adjoined a private room in the hospital, currently empty of a patient, and therefore available for his use. His backpack had been returned to him by the nurse, and it contained his toiletries, shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste, toothbrush, comb, and a razor. As he unpacked at the sink basin, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was used to the fire scarred visage he usually presented, but the lightning had left its own mark. It was as if it had imprinted upon his face, forks of dark red appeared to mark its passage across his flesh. He quickly stripped down, and sure enough the marks were all over him. Not a single significant part of his body was free of them. Hank wondered at it all, braced against the sink basin, staring down the plughole. He eventually moved to the shower, and cleansed himself of the road muck and sweat of his travels.

After dressing himself, and leaving the hospital, Hank located an ATM, and withdrew some funds. His home had been insured, and so when it had gone up leaving him homeless, his account had eventually been credited with a relatively large amount of money. He had spent little over the last fifteen years having been walking, just walking, and so he still had more than a hundred thousand in the bank. He found a motel, for the first time in fifteen years electing to sleep in a bed, rather than make a shelter in woodland, or curl up in a pile of cardboard behind a store. Having rented a room, he lay on the bed within, and turned on the television on the dresser. The channel which came on was a music channel. An old rock tune came on, one he had listened to before things had become so harrowing. He closed his eyes, and clicked his fingers in time to the rhythm laid down by the drummer.

A strange sensation on his face had his eyes shooting open, and the first thing they saw was the ceiling. He was sure that the ceiling had been smooth, flat, unblemished when he had arrived. A motel this may have been, but it was not a dive. And yet, the ceiling was marked by strange, arching cuts, from which paint chips and dust particles from the ravaged plasterboard beneath, were still falling. He shook his head, to clear both his mind, and his face and hair, and brushed the debris off his clothes. As he did so, he noted a crackling sensation between his fingers, and his shirt. He swept his hand experimentally across the bed sheet, and sure enough, that crackling sensation returned.

He was freaking out a little at this point. He cast his mind back to what had been happening when the cuts appeared in the ceiling. He had been lying down with his eyes closed, and listening to music. So he laid back down on the bed, and listened to the music, this time with his eyes open. The beat of another rock anthem began to blast out from the televisions small speakers, and once again he found his fingers clicking to the beat. For every click of his fingers, a gouge appeared in the ceiling! "Holy CRAP!", he exclaimed. "What... This...What the hell?", he said, as he pondered his situation.

He carefully placed his hands in a steepled shape before him, and looked closely at his fingertips as they began to tingle. He looked next out of the window, and spied the edge of the woods at the back of the car park outside his room. Obviously, he thought to himself, it would be necessary to experiment further with whatever the hell was happening to him, and doing so inside the motel might become ruinously expensive. Having reasoned that far, Hank elected to go into the woods after all for a while, to explore what the heck was going on with his body and these strange sensations and inexplicable projections of force.

Having walked for half an hour, into the depths of the woodland, and considering himself far enough away from sight to be able to operate undetected, he took a breath, looked at a gnarled and broken tree stump about ten feet away, and clicked his fingers at it. A withered root curl received a sudden cut, and the rain which had recently fallen upon it rose as steam from the gash. Emboldened, but none the less dumbfounded by this apparently wilful abuse of all the physical laws that he knew, he tried to see if he could do it again. This time he concentrated on the centre of the stump, and tried to visualise a point just behind the stumps base. He clicked his fingers.

The sound of the stump cracking in two was so loud and sudden in the stillness of the forest, that it could have been mistaken for a shotgun blast, and splinters of dried, dead wood pelted Hanks face and body. The two halves of the stump flew away from one another as if a small explosive charge had gone off inside of it. If he had been any closer to the stump, splinters would have been driven under his skin, such was the ferocity of the failure of its structural integrity. He stumbled backward, falling onto his bottom, and staring at the hole in the ground where the stump had been. Hank was no physicist, but he knew that something deeply off was happening. What he had seen, what he had done, SHOULD have been impossible.

He righted himself, brushed off the seat of his trousers, and tried one more thing. He stepped forward, so as to be nearly in the centre of a cluster of old, thick trees. He rubbed the palms of his hands together, drew them apart, so that his hands were at his sides, and then bought them together in some sort of self five on steroids. The moment his hands came together, a twenty foot wide blast of static and raw concussive force came into being, flattening the trees around him, and setting alight to the outer most branches and leaves. The devastation had not affected him one iota.

It was only at this point, that the enormity of what was happening really hit home. Somehow, by some odd mechanism that he had no understanding of, some force of nature, perhaps related to the lightning strike he had survived, had rendered him capable of wielding some sort of electro-concussive energy! "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?", he shouted at the sky in frustration. "Why this? Why now? Why... Oh what the hell Hank, just cliche yourself into an early grave. Oh and talk to yourself too, because THATS the freaky thing for the day, that's the clincher, not the random and sudden onset of some bizarre super powers...". His eyes glazed over for a moment. "Holy balls!", he exclaimed to himself, "I have super powers!"...

Two weeks of living in the motel, had allowed Hank to put right the damage to the ceiling, without alerting the management of the motel to the fact that the damage had even been done. He had even saved himself some money, by cleaning and maintaining the room himself during his stay, and earned a little by fixing up a few things around the place, for the capable, but elderly manager. He had also been out to the woods, different places every day, to figure out where the outer limits of his abilities might be. The static blast trick he had pulled, flattening the trees to the ground, had a uniform power and effect, no matter what he thought about while performing it, but the cutting technique, that was a different story. He found that thinking about different things while trying it, had different effects on things like penetration power, area of effect, maximum effective range, and several other things besides, including the probability of producing burning debris.

He had also found time to think, just think. It had been a crazy couple of weeks, and he found himself considering the difference between the man he had been before the lightning strike, and after. He concluded that either the experience itself had caused some sort of traumatic response, shaking him out of the fifteen year well of sorrow he had been in, or the electrical interactions between the bolt itself and his brainwaves, had restructured them somehow. All he knew was, that although he never stopped thinking about his family and how they had died, he no longer felt helpless in his sorrow. Hope had entered his life somehow, although he knew not why, or specifically from where.

All he did know, was that it was time to head to the city. He had been watching the television news every night for a fortnight, and there was a face that kept cropping up, a face he knew, a face which came complete with a leering grin, twitching, skittish eyes, and a sneering voice that seemed to give the listener the finger. He had been in the news because his was the largest alleged mob group in the city, and he had gained control over several neighbourhoods, had people selling drugs to kids, beating people to keep others in line, and selling protection to all and sundry. All this, and apparently the bastard was earning a vast amount of money doing it. It had taken all that Hank had in terms of willpower, not to summarily execute the television the first time he saw the leering bastards face, displayed on the screen.

For the first time since he had lost his family, Hank had purpose, drive, and focus. He knew where to go, and he knew what to do, and best of all, he had nothing, and that meant he had nothing to lose...

You are hopefully aware that this is a super mean cliff-hanger?

More! More!! More!!! More!!!!!

Well done!

a reply to: Peeple

Hehe!

It's an origin story of sorts, but I wanted to leave it there for several reasons. First of all, the less I write of the rest of the story, the more readers can engage with their imaginations and sculpt a continuation for themselves. It allows them to put themselves in Hanks shoes, and walk a mile or so in them in their heads, and that is more engaging for the reader I think.

Second of all, there is the factor of time. I wish I had a superpower which allowed me to devote a month or two to this story, and write it from the absolute beginning, right to the very end. But I have neither the time, nor the spare energy either, to get that done, much as I would love to. I COULD have rushed out some hurried, ugly, misshapen continuation, but in my experience, fiddling with something that stands on its own well can ruin it.

Last, but by no means least, there is the issue of quality. When I am writing, and it feels good, and reads well, then I can normally tell when something is working well. When that energy and momentum drops, or things reach a natural break point or end, I have to stop there. The reason for that, is that I do not want to be posting story segments which do not feel right. When I read back what I have written so far, I am happy with it. If I had carried on, stayed up till dawn (rather than just till well past two in the morning) writing more, it would not have been as solid in totality, as what I have on the page now. I hate the idea of lessening the quality of something I have done, out of some sort of misplaced desire to add quantity to it.

I hope leaving it here is not too aggravating

Thanks very much for reading and commenting on my story!

Well done Sir! Well done!!! I could feel the rage when he lost his family, the numbing of his emotional pain as he wandered, the sense of strength and power over his destiny.

Well done! (S&F already accomplished last night after reading a small portion of your story before bed - it was enough to know it was awesome.) The beginning of a new super hero is always interesting, and must be understood before you can fully appreciate his later moves and motivations.

Now, let's hope he goes and gets the nutter, eh? KAAAA-BOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!



- AB

Very detailed and well written story ..... Salute Sir !

a reply to: TrueBrit

7 Stars and a Flag For You True, My Friend!
This is very well written!
( I would expect no less from You anyway...) LOL!!

a reply to: Night Star

The emotional trauma aspect is crucial to any superhero character. You could give a random, relatively un traumatised individual superpowers, and the result would be someone who uses pyrotechnic capabilities to help cook their dinner, and light the gas in their boiler. For a person to be driven to putting themselves on the line for the sake of justice or revenge, as many superheroes do, requires that pain to push their agenda forward.

a reply to: AboveBoard
I certainly hope that he does as well. That might happen at some point, but in order to get to that stage, I think a substantial amount of auxiliary arse might have to get kicked, leading up to any final confrontation between the protagonist, and the antagonist if you get my drift. It is something I could return to and make happen later I suppose!
a reply to: 727Sky
Well! Thank you very much!
a reply to: SyxPak
Heh, cheers Syx!

Thanks to all of you for being so nice about my little story! I am really glad that you have enjoyed it, since I really had fun writing it, despite the fact that it ruined my sleep cycle to stay up and do it!

a reply to: TrueBrit

TrueBrit, S&F for a truly engrossing tale.

Although I would like more, I understand your reasoning for ending it here. This allows us to all finish it in our minds.

Will think of our "hero" next time we have a thunderstorm and hope that he can use this power to bring himself peace.

Love your writings.

Namaste,
YogaGinns

a reply to: YogaGinns

Thank you so much for stopping by the thread!

I am glad you liked it, and that you are up for the journey that you will take with the character within your mind!

May you both walk with harmony either before you, or in your wake!

a reply to: TrueBrit

Nothing to lose is a dangerous mind-set...Wow though, great story. It has an old style, comic book feel with proper baddies, a time for the hero to practise his new skills, a tragic back story.
It has all the ingredients of a perfect tale, and I love your writing style - it's so clear and easy to read.

Loved it, that was excellent.

a reply to: beansidhe

I am glad you enjoyed it beansidhe! I aimed for that comic book atmosphere and I am glad that it showed through!



Thanks very much for reading my story!

Once again a great story! Have another pint for an excellent job!