James Knight: Teenage Superhuman - B2

Book Three Chapter 2

Noah's truck rattled down the cracked street like it was holding on by sheer will. I fixed my eyes on the GPS pinned to the dash, watching the numbers tick closer to the address Mia texted me hours ago.
"This is the place, mate?" Noah asked, easing off the gas as we rolled past a sun-bleached mailbox with the worn-out numbers barely hanging on.
The house appeared to have been abandoned for years. The paint peeled away in long curls, like old wallpaper. The yard was littered with plastic toys; a battered tricycle, missing a wheel, leaned against the porch, and an upside-down kiddie pool sat abandoned in the weeds. The whole place had the vibe of a spot you avoid at dusk.
"Yeah," I said, jaw tight. "This is it."
Noah killed the engine and muttered, "Bloody hell, it looks like a dump."
Heat slammed into us the moment we stepped out of the truck — thick, dry, and layered with the sharp scent of weed. Not subtle, either. It punched the back of my throat.
"The place smells like a dispensary," Noah said, flicking his eyes around.
Before I could even knock, the door swung open.
A woman stepped out. Short and heavyset, with streaks of neon pink and green hair that looked like she lost a fight with a paintbrush. Thick glasses slipped halfway down her nose. She had a joint lazily hanging from her fingers, smoke drifting up in curling wisps.
And she was holding Hunter — my son — on her hip.
Barely a year old. His diaper sagged, one sock missing, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt. His bright blue eyes caught mine instantly.
"Is this yours?" she rasped, voice rough from what smelled like a lifetime of smoking. Then she hacked a cough that nearly sent her glasses tumbling. "He looks like you."
The weight of it hit me like a punch. I stepped forward slowly, arms open. "Yeah. He's mine."
She handed him over like a package with no instructions. The joint bobbed in the corner of her mouth as she muttered, "Your other one's in the house."
I held Hunter close, feeling his warmth press into my chest. His tiny hand curled around my shirt, trusting and soft.
"Come on," I said quietly.
Noah followed, his boots thudding heavily on the cracked porch steps.
Inside, the air was thick and stale — a weird mix of fried food, baby powder, and that unmistakable sharp tang of weed. The TV blared cartoons, and half a dozen kids ran wild, their energy bouncing off the peeling wallpaper like electricity.
Two toddlers played with blocks in the corner, their laughter high-pitched and infectious. A three-year-old gaggle chased each other near a table cluttered with juice boxes and half-eaten snacks. Some sat quietly in oversized beanbags, watching the screen with rapt attention.
Near the back, a little girl barely a year old — Sasha — struggled to stand, clutching a plastic chair for balance—my little girl. Her eyes found mine, and her face brightened like sunrise.
I dropped to my knees, still holding Hunter in one arm, and scooped her up with the other. She pressed her warm cheek to mine, her tiny hands grabbing my face like she needed to ensure I was real.
"I'm your Daddy," I whispered, brushing her hair back. It was a moment of pure gravity — everything else faded.
The woman who'd met us at the door coughed again, dragging on her joint. She glanced toward a crumpled tissue box on the counter. "A few of the little ones are sick," she said, voice rough but matter-of-fact. "Flu's going around. Got one kid home with a fever, and two others coughing up a storm."
I swallowed hard. "Are the babies okay?"
She shrugged, a grim smile tugging at her lips. "They're hanging in there. You're lucky they're the toughest of the lot."
Noah crouched next to me, eyeing Sasha and Hunter with a mixture of amusement and something more profound. "Bloody fighters, eh?"
I nodded, barely able to focus. My kids were here, in the middle of all this chaos — safe, hopefully, but still out of my hands.
Then the noise shifted as two boys, aged eight and nine, spotted us. They nudged each other and then one of them bolted off the couch, phone already in hand.
"Hey! Hey! You're James Knight, right? From the news?" the taller one asked, eyes wide.
Noah grinned. "Looks like we got ourselves some fans, mate."
The boy's voice shook as he asked, "Can we take a picture with you and your friend?"
I glanced at Noah. His smirk said Sure, so I nodded.
I shifted Hunter so he'd be visible, cradling Sasha in my other arm. The boys pressed close, beaming like they'd found a real-life superhero.
The phone clicked a few times. "Thanks so much!" one of them said breathlessly.
"No problem," I said, giving them a tired smile before signaling Noah.
Outside, the heat hit us again as we climbed back into the truck. Hunter's head drooped against my shoulder, fast asleep. Sasha's thumb found her mouth, her eyelids heavy.
Noah started the engine and glanced at me. "Bet those pics will be online before we're halfway down the freeway."
"Make it twenty bucks," I muttered, watching my kids in the rearview.
He laughed. "Bloody worth it."
And for the first time all day, I almost agreed.
The two of us shared a brief look—an unspoken agreement passing between us—before I turned back to Sasha and Hunter, my heart squeezing tight.
The heat outside hit like a furnace blast as we strapped the twins into their seats. Hunter let out a big yawn, tiny fists curling, while Sasha sucked on her thumb, eyes already half-shut like sleep was winning.
Noah slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. For a few seconds, it was nothing but the hum of the AC and the rattle of old vents trying to push air.
Then he broke the silence, voice low but sharp. "You heard what she said, yeah? Flu's goin' around. One kid is homesick, two are coughing their heads off."
"Yeah," I muttered, leaning back hard, staring at the cracked road ahead.
"You think it's the one?" he asked. Tone flat. No small talk.
I dragged in a breath. "Yep."
The strain. The one no one wanted out in the wild. Not a regular virus. This thing rewrote you. Nine percent didn't make it—bodies just burned out like a system overload. But the rest? They came back different. Enhanced. And if it spreads in there? That house would turn into a science experiment gone wrong overnight.
Noah tapped the wheel, tension bleeding through his jawline. "If that strain's in there, and all those kids pull through..."
"They're not just gonna get better," I said quietly.
"They're gonna change," he said, voice firm. "And if she can't even handle your two—imagine seven more of them. Plus those older boys. That's not a daycare. That's a powder keg."
I gave a short, humorless laugh, shaking my head. "Dude, she could barely keep Hunter from eating crayons..."
I stopped myself. The words felt wrong because that wasn't the truth.
Noah noticed. His brows pulled tight. "What?"
I looked at him. My throat felt dry. "She didn't call me because Hunter was eating crayons, man. She called me because..." I let the words hang a second, because saying them out loud felt like ripping the lid off something I'd been trying to bury. "Hunter was floating."
Noah blinked, like he didn't register it at first. "Floating?"
"Yeah." My voice was low now, sharp. "She said he was two feet off the ground, just... hanging there like it was nothing."
Noah's grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn't speak. Didn't have to.
"And Sasha?" I pushed on. "She was lifting a wooden table. With one arm."
His head snapped toward me, eyes wide, controlling Aussie tone cracking for a beat. "You're bloody joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" My voice cut harder than I meant, but the image of that woman holding Hunter—my son—while baked out of her mind, surrounded by kids and a damn virus brewing in the air? It made something cold crawl under my skin. "That's why I came flying over here. Not because she needed a diaper change. Because she saw things no one's supposed to see."
Noah swore under his breath, running a hand down his face. "Bloody hell, James... If those two are already doing that, at barely a year old—"
"Yeah," I muttered, glancing back at the twins in the rearview. Hunter's tiny chest rose and fell, calm like nothing happened. Sasha's little hand clutched her blanket. "Now picture what happens if those other kids in there catch this flu and make it through."
His jaw worked as he processed that, and his knuckles were white on the wheel. "You're talkin' seven more kids like yours. And the older ones? They'd be even stronger."
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight settle in my gut like a stone. "And she has no idea what she's sitting on."