The Flash: Hocus Pocus Page 11

  “I don’t get it.”

  Cisco gestured to the main monitor, on which was a blown-up image of one of the nanites in Barry’s brain. “I’ve figured out what’s going on in your head. That’s the good news.”

  “What’s the bad news?” A chill ran down Barry’s spine and then back up. He didn’t like the notion of bad news and your brain being in close proximity.

  “Let me get to it,” Cisco said. “The nanites are designed to peter out after a certain period of time. They have a built-in life span. It’s probably a security measure on Pocus’s part, so that if he does some kind of weird whammy on something, it doesn’t linger too long.”

  That made sense; it explained why Caitlin and Cisco and everyone else who had applauded Pocus eventually regained their senses. It also explained why the trees had stopped on their own at the park, for example.

  “Why am I the lucky one? I’m assuming that’s the bad news.”

  “It’s, uh, transitional news. It turns out that when the nanites interact with the Speed Force buzzing through your system, their life span stays the same, but their life cycle accelerates. So they . . .”

  Barry groaned. He got it. “Usually, they die before they can reproduce. But in my body, they reproduce faster than they die.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” Cisco sighed. “You probably have generations of nanites in your brain.”

  “Good thing we’ve been keeping Wally away from him,” Barry muttered.

  “Good thing, indeed!” H.R. chimed in.

  “You’ll get your turn in a minute,” Cisco said darkly, then turned back to the monitor. “So, that’s the good news—we know the basics of why these things are still in your head. The bad news is . . . I still don’t know how to get them out.”

  “Cisco! Come on!” Barry complained. “You’re the tech guy! This is what you do!”

  Cisco threw his hands up in the air, his face twisted into total frustration. “Tell me something I don’t know, fleet-feet! It’s not like we can just open up your head and pluck them out one at a time with a pair of tweezers. These things are a billion times more complicated than anything I’ve ever seen before. I figured out this much just by constant observation, watching the recording of your scans over and over, looking for patterns. I can’t even get inside one to see how it ticks.”

  “Why not?” It was unfair of Barry to expect so much of his friend, he knew, but he was beyond frustrated—he was increasingly desperate. He had to get these things out of his head before Pocus could use him for something truly evil.

  Cisco looked around the room as though an answer was written somewhere on the walls. Finally, he said, “It’s like . . . Imagine if someone asked you to hack a computer. Only there’s no USB port. And no keyboard. And no monitor. And there are no cables going in or out. There’s nowhere to start, you know? You just have this thing sitting there and you can’t get into it at all.”

  “It’s like trying to unlock a door when there’s no lock,” H.R. offered.

  “Very Zen of you,” Cisco said, and flung himself into a chair.

  “So we have nothing.”

  “That’s not fair,” Caitlin told Barry. “We have more than we had before. We need more time.”

  “I’m running out of time,” Barry told them. “CCPD is hunting me, and Pocus’s slowly taking over the city. And we can’t stop him.”

  “This is where I come in!” said H.R., rat-a-tatting a rhythm on the desk before him. “For I have the solution to at least one of your problems.”

  “Are you going to talk the nanites out of my head?” Barry asked.

  “You should actually listen to him,” Cisco said with considerable effort. “He has a good idea.”

  Barry sighed. “I’m sorry. Go ahead, H.R.”

  H.R. stood, beaming. He clacked the drumsticks together, then jammed them into his back pocket and clapped once. “I told you before that you have a public relations problem. I’m going to fix it. Today.” He checked his watch. “In about thirty-seven minutes, to be exact.”

  Barry opened his mouth. Cisco shushed him. “Listen.”

  “You have the people of Central City against you, the cops chasing you. This is a considerable problem. If you could move about more freely, you might be able to confront Hocus Pocus a bit more forcefully. So we need to get the city back on your side and the cops off your back.”

  “Agreed. How do we do that?”

  H.R. shrugged. “You just explain your side of the story.”

  Barry waited. He knew more would come.

  H.R. did not disappoint. “You need to get a huge number of people talking about you and what happened to you. Richard Dawkins—” He paused. “Do you guys have a Richard Dawkins on Earth 1?”

  “We do,” Cisco said wearily. “Please, speed up.”

  “Anyway,” H.R. went on cheerfully, “Dawkins was the first person to define a meme. He called it an idea that spreads through the community in an ‘unplanned and effortless way.’”

  “How does this help me?”

  “We need to make your explanation a meme so that it will spread throughout the city like a cold virus in January,” H.R. said, getting more excited. “Cisco! Show him the . . . the . . . the thing!”

  Cisco tapped some keys, and the main monitor switched to a view of Julius Stadium, where the Central City Diamonds played. (They’d been the Central City Combines until the Flash started arresting people. Then they changed their name.)

  “What does the stadium have to do with convincing people I’m not a bad guy?” Barry asked.

  “In”—H.R. checked his watch again—“thirty-one minutes, the local batball team will start its game against—”

  “Baseball,” Caitlin told him.

  “What?”

  “Baseball. Not batball.”

  “Really?” H.R. seemed incredibly put off by this. “Are you sure? Batball makes so much more—”

  “Guys! Can we please focus?”

  H.R. drew in a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Sure. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

  By the time H.R. finished explaining, Barry had twelve minutes to get to the stadium and put the plan into action. That gave him just enough time to take a quick shower and wash the stench of the sewers off before donning his Flash costume and racing to the ballpark.

  The plan was simple and, Barry had to admit, sensible. They needed a way to explain his side of the story to the people of Central City without interference. There would be a crowd of fifty thousand at Julius Stadium. Barry would go there, and Cisco would hack into the A/V system. Barry would explain what was happening to him to fifty thousand observers on the stadium’s jumbotron.

  “Those people,” H.R. explained giddily, “whether they believe you or not—and many will—will tweet and message and post and snap about what you said. Through the magic of memes and the glorious Internet, your side of the story will be instantly signal-boosted by fifty thousand people. In no time at all, most of Central City will know what you’ve said.”

  “I still think we should just broadcast from here,” Cisco grumbled.

  “People need to see him,” H.R. replied. “They need to know he’s willing to come to them in person, in the flesh. It makes this more than just another video broadcast to the world—it becomes an event.”

  “H.R.’s right,” Barry said. “It needs to be in person. They need to see me and trust me again.”

  It was a solid plan. Barry spent the ten seconds it took for him to get to the stadium rehearsing what he would say. He wanted to keep it simple and short so that it would make an impression.

  And he also didn’t want to delay the game. Who likes the jerk who does that?

  He circled the stadium and ran past security at top speed. Once inside, he navigated the complicated series of ramps and stairways until he emerged on the field.

  “Cisco, talk to me.”

  In his ear, Cisco said, “OK, I’m patched in. Find the nearest cameraman and start yakking.
”

  Barry scanned the field quickly. “The nearest cameraman is a woman, you sexist.”

  “Mea culpa.”

  He ran to the camera operator, who nearly dropped her rig at the surprise of seeing the Flash materialize before her. “Hi, there!” he said. “Sorry to scare you. I just need to borrow you for a sec, OK?”

  Mute with shock, she nodded and kept her camera aimed at him.

  “Central City!” the Flash said, trying not to flinch as his voice suddenly rang out and echoed throughout the stadium. The crowd went insane—a cacophony of overlapping cheers and boos, depending on how people felt about the Flash right then, whether they believed the news or not. Behind him, reflected in the camera lens, was his own image, blown up over a hundred times on the jumbotron.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” he said, vibrating his voice. “I’m a Diamonds fan, too.” That got him some cheers.

  “I know you’ve seen some pretty disturbing stories about me lately. And I want to explain. You see—”

  “HALT!” cried a too-familiar voice that sent shivers down the Flash’s back.

  Barry turned. Hovering a few feet above the field, Hocus Pocus lowered himself to the ground with a grand flourish.

  No! Not now!

  “THERE IS NOTHING TO EXPLAIN!” Pocus boomed. He didn’t need to hack the A/V system to make his voice heard. It shook the stadium. “YOUR HERO IS A HERO NO LONGER. NOW, THANKS TO HOCUS POCUS, YOU SEE HIS TRUE NATURE! HE IS A VILLAIN, THROUGH AND THROUGH!”

  “Like you!” Barry snarled at Pocus. Thanks to Cisco’s hack, everyone in the stadium could hear it.

  Pocus’s lip curled in annoyance. He flicked his wand in the direction of the jumbotron, and it exploded into a massive fireball shot through with lightning bolts. Shards of glass and bits of metal rained down on the crowd seated below it. The air filled with screams and gasps.

  The Flash adjusted his stance, ready to race up the wall beyond the dirt warning track. He would use a combination of arm-spinning wind blasts and Flash-made tornadoes to divert the debris from the innocents below.

  “Not so fast,” Pocus said, tsking. Against his will, Barry found himself frozen again, helpless, only able to watch as the debris rained down . . .

  . . . and suddenly turned into flower petals, showering the crowd with blossoms.

  A surprised and genuine round of applause erupted from the crowd at Julius Stadium. They started chanting Hocus Pocus’s name.

  Barry looked at the magician. He seemed to be moved. For the first time, people were applauding him without his control.

  This is all he wanted.

  “Now I understand,” Pocus whispered. Tears glittered in his eyes as he approached Barry, still motionless. “They love you like this, don’t they? Or, they did.”

  “See, Pocus? You don’t have to force people. If you do good, they’ll naturally . . .”

  Pocus wiped the tears from his eyes and leaned in close, his voice a snarl. “There can be no competition for their affection, do you hear me? None! I won’t let you take it from me!”

  “But—”

  “Kill them,” Pocus ordered. “Kill every single person in the stands. And when I am the one to end your murder spree, this city will worship me forever.”

  No, Barry thought. No!

  He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it!

  He was a hero. Heroes didn’t kill. But beyond that, he was just a good person! You didn’t need superpowers to know that killing was wrong, and he just couldn’t . . .

  But as soon as Pocus said Kill them, Barry knew he would have no choice, no matter how stomach-turning and horrific the notion. The nanites in his brain made him incapable of resisting Pocus’s commands, even one so pernicious and evil as this one. Barry was about to wipe out fifty thousand people, and nothing could stop him.

  Except . . .

  The Flash didn’t just move fast—he could also think fast. Good thing.

  In the nanoseconds after Pocus gave his command, as Barry felt his limbs loosen and freedom of movement return, a thought popped into his head at superspeed.

  Not so fast.

  That’s what Pocus had said when he was about to rescue people from the exploding jumbotron.

  Not so fast.

  And that made him remember—again, in the fractions of a second between the command and the instant he would take off to claim his first victim—his conversation with Madame Xanadu.

  You seek greater speed, she had said. Always running. Always looking for the quickest path to the horizon. And perhaps now is the time to forsake that.

  He hadn’t understood. And do what? he’d asked. Stop trying to be so fast? How does that help? What does that solve?

  She’d exhorted him: Go further. Dig deeper.

  And he, perplexed, had said, You want me to try to . . . be slow?

  The Flash looked into the crowd. Fifty thousand people. He had to start somewhere.

  He picked a woman in the last, highest row at the farthest point of the stadium from where he stood. And he took his first step toward her.

  And then he took his second step toward her.

  He moved very, very slowly. It took him almost ten seconds to walk those two steps.

  “What are you doing?” Hocus Pocus bit into each word like it was overripe fruit, his teeth clenched, his breath hissing in outrage.

  “I’m doing what you told me to do,” the Flash replied. “I’m going to go kill everyone here. I’m starting with her.” He pointed to his chosen victim. He shrugged. “It might take a while.”

  Pocus’s eyebrows shot up, and his expression contorted into sheer fury. “What are you doing?” he ranted. “You’re faster than that!”

  “I’m going to do exactly what you told me to do,” Barry said with easygoing reasonableness. “I’m just getting a slow start, I guess.”

  Pocus stared, discombobulated, unable to move or speak for several more seconds as the Flash very slowly and very casually ambled another few steps toward his target.

  “Go faster!” Pocus screamed.

  Despite himself, Barry grinned. You didn’t say how much faster. At the rate he was going, the people in the stadium would die of old age before he got to them.

  He walked a tiny bit faster, enjoying the look of sheer, uncontrollable rage on Hocus Pocus’s face. The man’s mustache points were quivering. There was a chance, of course, that Pocus would wise up and order Barry to move as fast as he could. But he was relying on his experience with Pocus so far—the man had such power that he didn’t seem to understand strategic thinking. Pocus probably didn’t think he needed to, given his abilities. Barry was betting that the Flash’s apparent denial of an outright order would infuse Pocus with so much ire that the magician wouldn’t be able to think straight.

  Sure enough—and to Barry’s relief—Pocus fell into a rant of unintelligible monosyllables, almost like a toddler’s temper tantrum. Barry allowed himself a silent chuckle as he inched farther and farther across the field. It would take him the rest of the day to get to his first “victim.”

  Better yet, Barry noticed that people were beginning to stream out of the stadium through the exits. Someone somewhere had called an evacuation, and Barry was grateful for it. If he could keep stalling Pocus, they might end up facing an empty stadium, with no victims to be found.

  But just then, Pocus shouted, “You think you’re so smart? You think you’re smarter than me?”

  Smarter than I am, Barry silently corrected.

  “Turn around! Now!”

  When Barry turned, he was facing not just Pocus, but also the camera operator, who was standing only a few feet away, aiming the camera right at him.

  “Tell him who’s watching,” Pocus ordered her.

  “Everyone watching the smaller screens here,” she said automatically. Barry glanced around. The jumbotron had become flowers, but there were about a dozen smaller screens mounted on the balustrades around the park. “And everyone watching the g
ame on the national feed.” She paused. “Millions.”

  “Excellent!” Pocus chortled. “Flash! Take off your mask! Right now!”

  And Barry did.

  20

  In the Star Labs Cortex, Cisco—prompted by a gasp from Caitlin—raised his bleary, bloodshot eyes from his computer monitor. The Diamonds game, on mute, was playing on the big screen overhead, and Cisco watched in horror as the Flash reached up to peel back his mask.

  “Well, this is certainly suboptimal!” H.R. exclaimed.

  In the Detectives’ Squad Room at CCPD, Detective Patterson was streaming the Diamonds game on his computer, as he always did. Half the squad gathered around his desk, jockeying for a better vantage point as the Flash started to pull his mask up and off.

  One of those detectives was Joe West. Oh, God, no! he thought.

  The newsroom at the Central City Picture News had multiple monitors arrayed along the walls of the main writers’ bullpen. One of them—Iris thought of it as the Linda Park Memorial TV—was always tuned to the local sports team. At the moment, it was playing the Diamonds game, and Iris couldn’t care less. She was up against a deadline and trying her best to channel her boyfriend’s speed as she typed away.

  But then Scott Evans, the editor-in-chief of the Picture News, strolled into the bullpen and said, “Oh my. Look at that.”

  Iris looked up just in time to see the Flash, in an extreme close-up, stripping off his mask. Her heart stopped.

  No, she thought. No, no, no, no.

  Between classes at the university, Wally noticed a group of students clustered together on the quad. Curious, he approached them, noticing that they were all gathered around one particular student with a cell phone.

  They were watching a live feed from Julius Stadium.

  And there was Barry, about to remove his mask. On video broadcast over the air and across the Internet. To millions of people all over the world.

  21

  The Flash peeled back his mask and gazed directly into the camera.

  Hocus Pocus . . .

  . . . laughed.

  His laughter echoed throughout the stadium and streamed to millions of televisions, cell phones, tablets, and computer screens. It was a full, robust, genuinely amused laugh.