Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (33 page)

Morgan closed the false wall in the rear of the warehouse and turned to face the stacks of crates and rusted industrial shelving. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It was done. All the pieces were in place, bar one, and that one would come to him eventually. Sam was looking even worse this time. It wouldn’t be long now.

He stretched his arms above his head. The level of chatter in the warehouse was low. He could hear Tinderbox in the corner boasting about his part in the prisoner extraction, and by the sound of the laughs, he’d attracted quite a crowd. They deserved time to relax after a hard couple of days. Perhaps he’d skip dinner and get an early night himself. Yes, that’d be just the ticket.

A muffled sound came from the other end of the warehouse. Darkness struck the room like a club.

In an instant, Morgan had formed his blade. He used it like a torch, holding it ahead of him to guide his path in the thick blackness. Shouts echoed around the warehouse.

“Standard units,” he yelled as he ran. “Check your targets before you attack. Tinderbox!”

“My lord.” His flames flickered as he trotted towards Morgan, three other metas in tow.

“The main switch bank is in my office. Get these lights back on.”

Tinderbox nodded. “Come on, you lot. At least try to look fearsome, you sacks of meat.”

This wasn’t a power outage. Navigatron had built generators. Those wouldn’t just break down. Morgan’s heart pounded as he moved.

Two cracks echoed, and he thought he caught a tiny muzzle flash on the upper balcony before the darkness swallowed everything again. His people responded with lightning and fire. Someone heavy—Knuckles, maybe—leapt a full story through the friendly fire towards the attacker. He came crashing down on the catwalk above, his shadow flickering against the steel wall. But the attacker was gone. A moment later, the gun barked again from somewhere else, and Knuckles staggered backwards, slumping against the wall. Lightning crackled again, and purple afterimages blinded Morgan for a moment.

“Obsidian!” he called, before he remembered she was off with Navigatron and O’Connor preparing
Hyperion
.

“Aw, hey now, don’t look so glum,” came a voice from behind him. “All couples fight, but I’m sure she’ll be back before you know it.”

He spun, bringing his blade up to guard. The cloaked man just stood there, his smile half-hidden by shadow, his eyes glowing behind his mask. Morgan returned the smile.

“Too honourable to strike a man while his back’s turned, Carpenter?”

“Not really.”

The corner of something heavy slammed into Morgan’s lower back. An explosion went off in his kidney that matched the one in his head. He stumbled forwards. The Carpenter seemed to flash, bringing his staff streaking towards Morgan’s face.

He got his shield up. Sparks flew as the staff rebounded. Morgan gritted his teeth against the shockwave that rolled through him. He ducked another strike and lunged, but the Carpenter planted his staff and leapt backwards.

The Carpenter’s eyes crackled. Morgan caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He twisted and sliced another flying wooden crate in two before it could strike him. Another two came at him from opposite sides. He slashed at them and dived back. The sliced fragments flew at him, pelting him from every side. He put his reserve energy into his shield and let it take the hits.

The Carpenter grinned at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back even as the wood hammered at his shield. “You’re quick, Carpenter.”

“Cheers. You a fan? Want me to sign that fancy magic sword of yours?”

“You should’ve killed me while my back was turned.”

He shrugged. “Old dogs, old habits, all that.”

“You’ll come to regret that, you know. I told you that on the radio. These aren’t the old days.”

They moved in a lazy circle. Every now and then a gunshot or a shout would punctuate their silence, but back here in the stacks they had a degree of privacy. He could smell the stink of panic in the air. He hadn’t had time to properly train his people on defensive operations. They were warriors, barbarians, not soldiers. No matter. Once the lights came back on, Spook and the Carpenter would be no match for their numbers.

“So, where’s Sam?” the Carpenter said.

Morgan let his smile grow. “And here I thought you came to stop me taking over the world.”

“Nah, that’s the B-plot. Give us the kid, maybe we’ll put in a good word for you when you get arrested.”

Morgan laughed, and he didn’t even have to fake it. “I’m sure your Metahuman Division will appreciate your earnest testimony.”

The Carpenter jabbed high. His staff sizzled when Morgan batted it away with his shield. In return Morgan feinted left, sweeping right at the last second. The Carpenter darted back, sending another three crates flying to block his retreat. Morgan cut them from the air. Stillness returned.

“Carpenter,” came another voice from up above. Morgan sidestepped away from the voice to bring the speaker into view without putting his back to the Carpenter.

“Yeah, mate?” the Carpenter said.

Morgan spotted her now. She crouched atop a crate, her trench coat draped around her like a crow’s wings.

“I’ve searched every bloody room,” she said. “Nothing.”

A twitch of the Carpenter’s mouth was the only expression he gave, but it was amusing nonetheless. “Ah,” Morgan said, “the esteemed Spook. But you don’t mind if I call you Niobe, do you?”

In the glow of his blade, he could see the Carpenter’s eyes widening behind his mask. Morgan shifted his feet slightly, preparing for the Carpenter to lunge. Spook disappeared and reappeared on the ground. Her goggles gleamed in the light.

“Not at all, Morgan.”

His throat closed up for a moment, and the muscles in his cheek froze. Then he laughed. There was nothing else he could do. “Oh, you two are good. This is more fun than I could ever have anticipated.”

Spook raised her gun and fired. His shield was up, but there were no sparks.
She missed at this range?
Then he heard the choked cry of one of his people collapsing behind him. She turned the gun on him.

“There’s a secret room,” she said. “A trapdoor. Something like that. Where?”

“Are you going to shoot me, Spook?”

Car tyres screeched outside.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

Doors slammed, and he heard someone trying to wrench open the loading bay’s roller doors. His people wouldn’t stop shouting.

“Mate, we gotta go,” the Carpenter said.

“You invited your friends?” Morgan asked. “I thought we were going to keep this personal.”

The Carpenter took a step back and glanced at her. “Spook.”

“Not without Sam.” Her gun hand never trembled. “Where is he?”

Morgan smiled at her.

“We can’t find him if we’re banged up,” the Carpenter said. “We’ll come back when the coppers are gone. We’ll find him. But we gotta get lost, and it’s gotta be now.”

“Where is he?” she screamed.

Sam pressed his ear to the door of his cell. It had gone quiet. There had been banging. Shouting. Then nothing.

“Help!” he hollered, his throat raw and aching. He hammered on the steel again and again.

Pain. He hurt everywhere. His hands were streaked with blood. It was the only way to get the blackness out. It stuck to him; it was everywhere, in his veins, in his flesh, in his soul. He no longer noticed the taste of blood when he gnawed through his skin.

He was so alone. He’d always been alone. He couldn’t remember what was outside anymore, but he had to get there. Something deep inside told him that. Maybe it was a hallucination. He had those a lot. Maybe this whole room was a hallucination. Maybe
he
was a hallucination.

“Help,” he said again, but his voice was quieter now. Who was he calling to? He couldn’t remember. But the noises outside meant something. Outside. Yes, outside. There was sunlight, he knew. Sunlight that smelled like sweat and salt and wind. And there were people there. Family. His uncle, yes. And people he could meet. Pretty girls swimming in the ocean.

Remember. Remember Dantès. Remember your father.

Something deep in his chest shifted. It spread through him like boiling water.
The energy
. He shivered. Dimly, he recalled a tale about his father. No one came to save his father when he was trapped and dying. But he’d wanted to see his family again. So he’d concentrated on the energy running through him, the energy given to him by the weapon he’d created.

A far-away wrenching sound shattered the silence. Boots stomped somewhere above his head. They wouldn’t find him. He was somewhere hidden, that much was obvious. Some of the fog began to clear from his mind.

He stepped back from the door and let the energy drip through him, just like his father had. He could feel it in his skin, in his fingers, warm and tingling and electric. With a little push, it began to flow inwards, towards his chest. It began to build, slowly filling him up drip by drip.

The pain faded as the warmth grew. It almost made him sleepy. When was the last time he truly slept? But no, he couldn’t sleep now. Not now. He had one chance to get out of this hole, to see the world again. One chance. The energy filled him to the brim. And it kept flowing.

The pressure built in his chest.
No, wait. Stop
. It was too much. He couldn’t handle it. He felt like he was swelling, expanding. The energy needed to escape. It should be pouring out his eyes and ears and mouth.
No. I can’t take more
. He tried to stop the energy flowing, tried to push it back out to his extremities. But it was like trying to turn back a river with a teaspoon. Shivers ran down his spine, through every inch of him. The world swayed, and he was on his knees. Too much. It’s too much.
I can’t take it!

The energy exploded inside him. He was on fire, burning, burning forever. He was a pile of embers, he was ash.

He lived.

His skin parted in a thousand places, but there was no pain. Just power. Through the cuts in his skin came sheets of shining metal, gleaming beneath the fluorescent light. The extra bulk shredded his shirt and coated his skin, forming a layer of interlocking scales. Strength rippled through him. He knew what to do. Someone had shown him.

The metal plates in his cheeks clinked together as he smiled.

His fist struck the steel door with the heat of a thousand suns. It screamed, glowing red, and flew off its hinges, shattering the concrete of the opposite wall. The building groaned. His mind had been murky as the sea, but not now. Now he could see.

He stepped out of the cell. No, he didn’t move; the world moved beneath him. He was invincible. Shouts and movement came from upstairs, but there was no hurry. He was going to see his uncle again, and the sun, and the sea. He was Dantès. He was free.

Spindly fingers wrapped around his throat. Something sharp drove itself between the plates in his side and kept driving. The metal scales screeched and retreated into his skin. His back arched as the strength slipped away from him.
No. Oh God, no!

“Did it forget me, hmmm?”

Doll Face’s stench filled Sam’s nostrils. His hands went to his throat, trying to pry away the fingers.
Please.
He groped for the energy, but it was gone. Something worm-like crawled along his cheek and touched the corner of his mouth.

“They’re taking the Pretty Man away. It’s just Doll Face and the boy, now.” The creature giggled, and Sam’s vision blurred.

More worms on his face, in his mouth. As one, they began to slide down his throat. He gagged, eyes stinging, but he couldn’t move.

“Did it hear that? Nothing to stop Doll Face now. Doll Face will enjoy the cutting.”

Somewhere deep in Sam’s mind, something cracked. His eyes rolled back in his head.

21: Always in the Last Place You Look

It’s easy to condemn when you’ve never been through the same thing yourself. I’d just buried my husband and my daughter. Or I would have, if there’d been anything left to bury after Magnon shrunk them down and crushed them. So yeah, I tracked Magnon down, and yeah, I killed him. And now you’re asking me how I got through all his henchmen and took down the supercriminal himself when I’m just a normal? I’ll tell you how. I hit them harder and faster than anyone else had. I was willing to go further than any hero. I had no time for mercy.

—Court transcript from the trial of Pamela Jenkins (aka the Lioness), 1958