I, Superhero Read online

  I, Superhero

  a novel by

  David Atchison

  Text © 2017 by David Atchison

  Cover Illustration by Paulo Kevin Duelli, Maple Estudio

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781973441205

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional, and claiming otherwise will lead others to believe that you’re likely under the control of a villain using mind control. You’ve been warned.

  First edition printing, December 2017.

  For Alex. And Griffin. And Jen.

  Contents

  Part One - 1

  Featuring a deeply uncomfortable job interview, a house that blows up with a kid trapped inside, and worst of all, an embarrassed teenager.

  Part Two - 67

  Wherein a superhero confronts retirement, chooses a successor, earns the unyielding ire of his kids, faces both deep regret and a new supervillain, at which point things really begin taking a turn for the worse.

  Part Three – 213

  During which the new supervillain reveals his master plan, two teen kids refuse to listen to their parents (yet again!), many humans are injured, killed, and saved, several people end up with new careers, and loose ends are more or less tied up while a superhero does yardwork.

  We love our superheroes because they refuse to give up on us. We can analyze them out of existence, kill them, ban them, mock them, and still they return, patiently reminding us of who we are and what we wish we could be.

  -- Grant Morrison. Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us About Being Human

  Superheroes were born in the minds of people desperate to be rescued.

  -- Jodi Picoult. The Tenth Circle

  Part One

  One

  Present day

  O f all the many things Ernest Smith figured might kill him over the years—the bus explosion, being trapped at the bottom of a pool, parenting teenagers—this job interview would’ve once ranked fairly low.

  Not anymore.

  So after hearing the latest question, he stalls. Rubs the bridge of his nose. Wonders if he should reach for the leather penholder, retrieve a ballpoint, and tap it against his cheek, as though trying to unravel the secrets of the Universe.

  And then shove the pen into his eye.

  Maybe that would salvage this interview. At the very least, it might impress the woman—check that, a girl—more than his previous answers about employee engagement and flexible methodologies and user-centric solutions and so on. He’s trying. Truly, he is.

  Oh, but what a great trick it’d be. Ernest imagines how she’d stare in horrified silence, giving him plenty of time to go back and rework his previous answers.

  You asked about my contribution to the culture of this firm? Glad you mentioned it, he’d begin, blood dripping onto his grey suit. For starters, there’s that. He’d gesture casually to the Rollerball. As you can see, I’m impervious to pain. Almost. Anyway, it’s lots of fun on a slow Wednesday afternoon. And get this: it’s not even my superpower. This thing, he’d continue, watching her face turn the color of his suit, is actually a work-related injury. From my previous employer. Interfacing with my previous set of, uh, colleagues.

  Or maybe he doesn’t need the stunt with the pen. Maybe he can just stop the interview. Is that even allowed?

  Maybe he can just explain how badly he needs the job.

  He can explain how he feels lost without his old job. That the old job was dangerous, sure, but it also made him feel alive. That some days now he drives around for hours, making long loops around the city, hoping that perhaps his phone will ring once more. That the struggle isn’t over; it’s just against a different villain now. That his afternoon drives inexorably pull him to the same place every time: a patch of gravel overlooking the mighty river cutting through his city, as it does through the entire country. That from this patch of gravel he’ll stare down at the small boat dock, and at the tin shed behind it, and the memories will steal his breath. That he’ll relive every second of that day where so much changed forever. And that through the act of remembering, those events are still part of his present. That his shoulders will shake while he sobs, head against the steering wheel, and whether that sobbing is because of guilt or pride or relief or shame or gratitude or fear of what might still be ahead he’s unable to say. That maybe he drives around waiting for some moment of clarity when he’ll know what he’s supposed to feel, process that feeling, and then move on with his life. That his wife knows what he’s up to most afternoons, and won’t say that she knows. She only asks if he wants to talk, and he tells her, not really, and to his relief she doesn’t press the issue. That he’s slowly driving his wife insane.

  So maybe he can just stop the interview. Maybe he can explain. Truly, he’d try.

  Ernest fidgets. He pulls at a crease in his shirt, weighs his options. The checked-blue oxford has puckered between the 6th and 7th button, revealing button 6.5—Ernest’s belly button, framed by soft, fish-belly white skin. Shouldn’t superheroes have six-pack abs? His are more those of a six-pack drinker now. He glances up. Judging from the frozen smile on his interviewer’s face—her name is Megan—the pause is becoming awkward.

  He searches Megan’s round face, her large brown eyes behind the chunky eyeglasses. Light catches a small gold cross framed by the collar of a white blouse. Childless, if the vacation pictures behind her desk are any indication. Does this woman know they wouldn’t be meeting if it weren’t for him? Does she know that without him, the St. Louis Arch would have been sucked into a black hole two summers ago? Does she know how many gambits he’s stopped from villains like Xanatos and The Annihilator? That he’s saved the city from a contaminated water supply, a robot army, countless muggings, mass mind control, and, that one time, Scientologists?

  How can this Megan woman possibly understand? Ernest wonders. Does she know the trauma of comforting an injured child? Does she know the suffering his family has endured? That without him, this whole office complex would reside under 30 feet of Missouri River?

  Would she appreciate the irony? Him needing her to survive?

  Since she’s closer to his kids’ age than his own, and since there isn’t a Smartphone app for irony, then no, Ernest concludes. She wouldn’t.

  Dr. Strang? Now that’s a different story.

  Whatever else he was—classical music fan, cardiologist, tormented soul, longtime nemesis—Strang was a man of action, not reaction. And he was never one to waste irony.

  Megan glances at her laptop, no doubt checking the time of her next appointment while Ernest Smith wastes yet another afternoon battling nothing more than his thoughts, deciding whether or not to jam a pen into his eyeball before heading out for his afternoon drive.

  And so the superhero dressed in a business suit, but nowhere as polished as Bruce Wayne or Steve Rogers or Tony Stark, glances at the cluster of pens once more. He then decides to risk everything, just like he did at the boat dock. He leans forward i
n his chair, grabs one of the pens, and responds to Megan’s question with something rather unbelievable.

  The truth.

  Two

  10 years ago

  Dr. Thaddeus Strang signals and takes a right off of Ladue.

  Ladue Parkway cuts east/west through the heart of Clayton, MO, an old bedroom community established in the early 1900s by and for St. Louis’s top-hat and monocle set - giant brick and stone houses, mostly Tudors, commissioned by bankers, lawyers, city alderman, and the like. After driving his yellow Volkswagen Beetle another half a mile past gated driveways and manicured lawns, Strang arrives at the address he verified thanks to the street view in this brand-new thing called Google Maps, which even showed his target’s convertible Bentley in the driveway. Hooray, technology.

  Strang parks the Beetle curbside, kills the engine. He extracts his lanky frame from the car, checks his watch, then looks up, appreciating the deep, vibrant blue of the afternoon. He’s about 30 seconds early. That’s fine; a bit of extra time to make sure things are in place.

  In most similar instances, he’d pop the trunk and retrieve a firearm or Molotov cocktail or mind control device, but on this occasion the Volkswagen’s trunk is bare. For jobs like these, Strang already hauls around most of what he needs every day: a burning thirst for revenge.

  From here on out, he considers, others perform most of the work, even if they don’t know it yet. A cardiologist with countless hours spent in a surgical suite, Strang is well-accustomed to assistants. Long ago, he learned that acts of planning and precision, no matter their ultimate purpose, require at least one capable aide.

  In short: for every scheme, there’s a henchman.

  Strang inhales deeply. The afternoon smells like freshly washed hair. Old, sturdy trees of oak and sycamore abut a wrought-iron security fence. Behind the fence, a security kiosk of light grey stucco hugs the driveway. Beyond that, a starchitect mansion; Strang recognizes conflicting influences of Michael Graves and Charles Eames. Clean lines, white stucco, paneled glass interrupted by splashes of color and curve; a jazz band with one instrument out of tune. If a bit confused about its design, the house does at the very least make one pronouncement at the top of its lungs: new money.

  Strang glances once more at his watch, then scans the foliage above. There. Hanging from a thick branch of an ancient Oak, Strang spots a man’s shoe and then the outline of a leg. Perfect. Everyone should be in place now.

  Empty-handed, Strang approaches the gate—more wrought iron topped with rather cruel-looking spindles. A careless climber could easily pike themselves on one of those things. He’d prefer a death with a bit more purpose. And less pain. Which is why he’s not going over.

  He’s going through.

  After pressing the right button, he clears his throat. As carefully as he’s planned everything else, he hasn’t actually given this part much thought. ‘Uh, yes. Delivery,’ he says when someone on the other end picks up.

  Strang listens, annoyed at himself. The response arrives over a hiss of static. ‘Uh, I don’t see a delivery scheduled.’

  ‘Actually, you’re right. I just have a quick question for the occupant of the home. Can you ask Mr. Wallace if he likes to eat?’ Strang asks.’

  ‘Huh? If he likes to eat?’

  Strang runs both hands through the stubble of thick, dark hair. A swatch of grey just behind his temples. Nearing 50 years of age, he won’t be styling it in a comb-over anytime soon. Instead, Strang wears the kind of haircut gotten at Walgreen’s with $15 dollars for electric clippers, and 5 spare minutes in the store restroom.

  ‘Because sooner or later, you and I will all sit down to dine on a banquet of consequences, as the saying goes, and so you can tell Mr. Wallace that Dr. Strang has arrived,’ he says, enunciating every syllable. ‘And that he comes bearing a veritable feast.’

  Static crackles again. ‘Who the hell is this?’

  This should have given his man in the tree more than enough time. Strang combs a bushy goatee with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Listen. I’d love to continue our chat, but I do have another question,’ he says. ‘Is there a red dot on your chest right now?’

  ‘And I asked you… what the—‘

  Strang holds his hands in front of him, palms open, as though trying to calm the call box rather than the man on its other end. ‘OK, listen. Listen to me, young man. Do not duck out of sight, and do not pick up the phone. Whatever future you’re dreaming of while the hours tick by in that tiny little prison of your own making—a wife, a child, a job of purpose and meaning you can be proud of—none of that will come to pass if you don’t do as I say. My business is with the occupant of the home. OK?’

  Strang waits. For several moments, he doesn’t get one. He hopes the security guard isn’t a fan of action movies, and won’t try anything foolish. He doesn’t want to have to hurt this man, too.

  ‘Now will you open the gate. Please?’

  An electrical buzz cuts the silence. The iron gate swings open.

  ‘Smartly done.’ Strang says. ‘See what happens when we use the magic word?’

  And so Dr. Thaddeus Strang, genius and madman and magician, crosses the threshold of the Austin Wallace residence, and begins a casual stroll up the driveway. He begins whistling Wagner’s Gotterdammerung, a tune that puts him in the perfect frame of mind.

  Perfect for a man ready to kill. Or, if necessary, to die.

  Three

  Having grown bored and cynical with the rerun of Dora the Explorer (he can’t really control that girl’s backpack; the show is just a giant scam), young Dana Wallace loiters at the foot of an acrylic staircase.

  His father can be quick to anger when Dana ruins dinners prepared by the private chef, the one who seems to be over all the time. In fact, she even comes over in her pajamas some mornings to make breakfast. (Daddy always seems to be a good mood on those mornings.) So, when Dana hears his dad thundering down the stairs, he braces for the worst. Hiding bowls of ice cream is problematic on clear plastic staircases, after all. To make matters doubly difficult, he’s now wearing much of the chocolaty evidence down the front of his favorite pajamas, the ones with the big Superman “S” on the chest.

  ‘Playroom! Now!’ shouts Austin Wallace.

  Dana looks up from his perch. Playroom? Not so bad after all.

  Except he wishes dad’s voice sounded a bit different. Dana Wallace, serial dinner ruin-er, is all too accustomed to hearing Dad use The Voice. But something feels different about today’s tone. Maybe the chef is mad, too? No, that can’t be it; daddy gave her the day off.

  ‘I said NOW!’

  Frightened, Dana makes no attempt to hide his crime. Spoon clatters in the bowl. ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’

  Austin Wallace then does something that, for him, is quite unusual. He squats at the bottom step, speaking at eye level to his five-year-old son. Sweat has begun to darken the collar of a turquoise workout shirt. But by the end of his Dad’s workouts, the shirts are usually soaked through, which is smelly and gross. Daddy ended his workout early, Dana thinks. Something is definitely wrong.

  ‘Son, listen to me. I want you to go downstairs and use the pretend phone, OK? Just pick it up and wait for someone to answer. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Who will pick up?’

  ‘The, uh, League of Justice, son.’ Austin Wallace hasn’t blinked.

  ‘The pretend phone calls the League of Justice?’

  ‘Yes. Now go.’

  ‘Will Superman answer?’

  Austin Wallace gives his son a pat on the shoulder. ‘Yes! That’s it. Ask for Superman. Now go. Run!’

  Dana nods, then scampers away. In the hallway of the Wallace mansion, he stops when he arrives at a thermostat dial. When he slides the switch to the “off” position, a panel opens, the entryway brilliantly disguised by a vertical strip of white molding. Dana slips behind the hidden door. When he shoves it closed, the latch catches with a sturdy, metallic ker-chunk. In short order, D
ana is resting once again at the bottom of a staircase.

  He scans the playroom. He’s never really enjoyed it down here, preferring his bedroom to this claustrophobic and windowless space. Plus, he left all of his good toys upstairs. Not unless you count the phone that’s the color of the mustard Dana likes on his hot dogs – the phone that’s attached to the wall.

  Dana recalls his father’s emphatic words. As he reaches for the phone, he considers the chances that his father is fibbing about the pretend phone, just like he fibbed about Santa. And the Tooth Fairy. And how Dora the Explorer fibs about controlling the backpack.

  On the second ring, someone picks up.

  The voice Dana hears is a soothing baritone. Unlike his father’s voice, this one immediately puts the boy at ease.

  ‘Hello there. Is this Dana?’

  ‘Yes. Are you Superman?’

  ‘No. My name is Ryland. But I sent a super man.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. He’s already on the way.’

  Dana hopes his own words don’t tremble the way Dad’s did. That he sounds brave, just like his favorite superhero. ‘I think someone is mad at Daddy.’ Dana looks at the ceiling, tears welling in his eyes. He hears a muffled commotion from above. He guesses that Dad is rummaging through the kitchen, looking for something, and in a hurry to find it, too.

  ‘Once the super man gets there, everything will be OK.’

  Dana hesitates, exhaling heavily into the phone’s perforated mouthpiece. He considers hanging up to go check on Daddy.

  But he’s scared of monsters, and he’s pretty sure one just entered his house. So he whispers. ‘When will Superman get here?’