by Nick Svolos
I was still making the rounds, my sense that something very strange was happening growing stronger with each interview, when Richardson stepped up onto the bandstand. The crowd began to settle down as she walked confidently up to the microphone.
“First off, let me thank you all for coming out to make our voices heard!” She shouted the last few words and the crowd erupted into cheers. She gave them a minute before continuing in a softer tone. “People, this is a time of crisis. It really is. Immensely powerful beings, living weapons, really, live amongst us. They put us all in danger. Some are visible. They scoff at our laws, flaunting their power as if putting on a fancy costume puts them above the law. And those are the honest ones. There are others who hide. They conceal what they are, how dangerous they can be. They might be working in our businesses. Living on our streets. Going to our schools. Hiding the destruction they can cause. Hiding in plain sight!”
I wasn’t so sure about the talent of her speechwriter, but her delivery was amazing. She had the crowd hanging on her every word. Hell, she had me hanging on her every word. “Yes, this is a time of crisis,” she continued and rose to a shout once again. “But it is also a time for action!”
The crowd went nuts, and I joined them in shouting my approval. Who did these supers think they were, anyways? As the thought angrily crossed my mind, it shocked me, and the urge to cheer immediately faded, like a collapsing house of cards. I unclenched my upraised fist as the elation I felt a moment ago was replaced by confusion and then by the cold hand of fear working its way up my spinal column. Someone, probably Richardson, had just manipulated me at a primal level. If you want a technical term, let’s go with: “She put a whammy on me.” I could still feel a dark urge gnawing at something between my ears, calling me to join the crowd in their anger, but knowing what was happening, I could resist it.
She continued on, sobering her approach to get through the major points of her argument before ratcheting up the emotion of her speech to whip the crowd into a near frenzy before dropping things back down to repeat the process. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to get out of there. I started to work my way out of the crowd. It was impossible. In their passion, the mass of bodies were pressing forward, and I wasn’t able to make any progress. In fact, I was being forced closer to the bandstand.
The press of the mob was claustrophobic. I couldn’t move my arms. The mass of bodies squeezed tighter around me, and I was almost lifted off the ground as the throng carried me closer to the stage. Through it all, the buzzing in my head urged me to join them. I realized I was on the verge of panicking, and forced it down with a few deep breaths. This was no place to lose my cool. I was trapped, but nothing was going to happen to me here. All I had to do was wait for it to be over.
Now that I was calm, well, calmer, I began to follow Richardson’s harangue again.
“But for all the dangers these people threaten us with, there’s an even greater threat.” She nodded as if she were breaking bad news to a young child. “Yes, there is. There are those among us who support these people who poison our society. They would have us passively sit on our hands while our cities are leveled. They would have us ignore our peril while we are destroyed!”
More shouts, but these were angrier. “One of these rats is here today, hiding in your midst! He’s standing right there!” The crowd parted in a rough circle around me, and when she pointed, there was no doubt who she was pointing at.
Oh, shit.
“Yes! That’s him! Right there! Reuben Conway, the reporter who defends these monsters! He’s a traitor to his own kind!”
I heard a shriek from behind me. “Traitor!” I spun to see a woman running at me with her fingernails extended like claws. By reflex, I managed to duck out of her way, but just barely. As she passed I recognized her as the woman I’d been joking with earlier. I quickly got my feet centered under me, like Three Dollar Bill had taught me, in time to spot a burly guy coming at me with murder in his eyes. He threw a punch at my head with a fist the size of a drive-in movie screen. I shifted to my right and the Judo training paid off as I guided his momentum past me. Lunging and off balance, he crashed into the crowd.
I didn’t have time to celebrate these victories, though. Something hit me in the back of the head and my vision got all whirly. The ground rushed up to slam my face. I tried to get back to my feet as a steel-toed boot hit me in the left side. A spike of grinding pain erupted in my chest and I think a couple of ribs broke. It suddenly got very hard to breathe and I collapsed back to the ground. I curled up on the grass and tried to protect my head with my arms. Fists and feet hit me from every angle. I felt bones break and as everything went black, my final thoughts were on how embarrassing it was going to be to go down in history as the only man ever to be beaten to death by San Francisco hippies in Golden Gate Park.
V
I awoke without pain. In fact, I felt pretty good. I was pretty sure I was dead, but so far, it wasn’t all that bad. Hardly worth all the fuss we made over it. My eyes were closed, and I felt a light shining through my eyelids, red-tinted darkness. I decided to open them and get my first look at What Comes After.
Apparently, the Afterlife includes ceiling fans, because that’s the first thing I saw. It was a nice fan, but it looked like the kind you’d get at one of those do-it-yourself warehouse stores. It had a slight wobble as the fan blades rotated around their axis. Not really the sort of ceiling fan you’d expect to find in a celestial waystation.
“Welcome back,” a woman’s voice said. I turned my head towards the voice, and felt a warm, gentle hand on my chest. “Don’t try to get up just yet,” she said.
The woman the hand was attached to had a kind, nurturing face, framed by long grey hair and partially obscured with one of those domino masks that obscured the area around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. It was green. I think they call that particular shade “Sea Foam Green”, but what do I know? It was pretty. Just leave it at that. It nicely matched the housedress she wore. I let her hand press me back into the softness of the bed. I realized I was naked and covered with a sheet.
“So, I’m guessing I’m not dead?” I asked.
She chuckled. “No, Mr. Conway, you’re alive and well.”
Another voice, this one male, added proudly, “It was touch and go there, Conway, but my girl here is quite the miracle worker.” I saw the speaker step into view behind the woman, a man wearing a bright blue tie-dyed hood that revealed only his eyes and mouth, making him look a bit like a hippie luchador. I recognized the hood and things started to make a bit more sense.
“Shibboleth,” I said. “And that means you’re Moonchild?” I asked the woman in the green mask. Moonchild and Shibboleth were part of the turbulent counterculture scene of the late sixties and early seventies. The pair spent most of their time back then protecting the protesters from infiltration by outsiders trying to turn the movement violent, but they put away their share of supervillains in their day. If you have fond memories of the Summer of Love, you have them to thank. They pretty much retired after the Vietnam war and the Nixon years ended. Nowadays, they only put on their old costumes when some supervillain came to town looking for easy pickings. That, and saving the lives of idiot reporters.
I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure, young man. Now you just rest a bit. I’ll get you some soup.” As she got up and left the room, she looked tired. I wondered how much healing my injuries had cost her.
I shifted a bit so I could sit up a little, leaning back against the headboard. “I owe you guys my life. Thank you. Not to sound ungrateful, but did my gear make it through all that?”
“The way you were hanging on to it?” the wizard of San Francisco chuckled. “Yeah, it all came with us. It’s over there on the dresser. I checked it out while you were sleeping. Looks like it all still works. Hope you don’t mind me snooping. That woman at the rally seemed to know you, and I thought there might be a clue or two.”
“Considering the circumstance, I can’t complain. Any insights?”
Shibboleth moved over and sat heavily down in the chair beside the bed. “Woo,” he exhaled, “I’ve forgotten how much this superheroing can take out a fella. To answer your question, not much, beyond that she’s working under an alias and this isn’t the first town she’s hit. I was hoping you could fill in some of the blanks. I take it personal when people start trouble like that in my town.” His eyes took on a hard cast, sending a clear message. He was itching for a crack at Shirley Richardson.
“Sure. Suppose I owe you that much.” I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what I’d learned so far. “After that, well, I suppose you know more about it than I do. Mind telling me what happened after the lights went out?”
“Not much to tell. Once I figured out what was going on, I pulled on the mask and cast a shield spell on you. Then I portaled us here. You looked pretty bad, kid, and Moon’s way better than those Emergency Room doctors.”
“I’ll say.” I looked at Shibboleth and saw he was wearing a faded denim shirt and tan slacks rather than his full costume. “You always carry your mask with you?”
“Yeah. Old habit. Never know when you’re gonna be needed.” He laughed. “Or maybe I’m just hoping I’ll be needed.”
I nodded. “I get that.” It must be hard for a guy like him to leave the Life. Not many made it to retirement.
I remembered how many of the protesters had no idea how they came to be there and asked, “So, how did you know to be there? Nostalgia for the old days?”
“A little bit of planning, a little bit of luck. I normally take a walk in the park in the afternoon. The doctor says it’s good for the ol’ ticker. I mostly stick to the east side, but I saw all those people heading deeper into the park. Seemed odd, for that time of day, so I followed ‘em. At first I thought somebody was putting on a concert or something, but then I heard some people talking about the demonstration. Naturally, that got my interest. We’ve been having some trouble with outsiders coming to these things and starting trouble. Throwing bricks, starting fires, agitating the fuzz, that kind of stuff. I figured it would be a good idea to keep an eye on things. Once that gal on the stage started in, though, I knew something entirely different was up. She’s got some power in her.”
Moonchild returned with a tray laden with three steaming bowls. “Alright boys, that’s enough shop talk for now,” she said as she set up a bamboo breakfast tray on the bed and put one of the bowls on it. “I’ve got your clothes in the dryer, Mr. Conway. They’re a bit beat up, but they should be good enough for you to wear home.”
“Thank you, and please, it’s Reuben, ma’am.”
She smiled and said, “Only if you knock off that ‘ma’am’ crap, Reuben.”
“Deal,” I agreed and tried a bit of the very tasty, rich, vegetable soup. It felt good going down, and my belly rumbled in approval. The three of us ate in silence for a little bit before the questions bouncing around my head got the better of me. I could see the tension was eating at Shibboleth, too, so I decided to break the silence.
“So, did Richardson stick around to finish the rally?”
Moonchild shook her head, “Nope. She split the scene right after she turned the mob loose on you.”
Surprised, I asked, “Were you there too?”
“Oh, no. I saw it on the news. When the attack started, they cut into the show I had on.”
Uh oh. “Wait. That whole thing was televised?”
She nodded. “Mmhmm. All the channels.” She added with a smile, “You’re famous, Reuben.”
Oh, dear sweet Lord, why couldn’t I just have died? I set the spoon down. “Uh, I think I better check my phone.”
Shibboleth sighed. “You kids and your phones.” He walked over to a dresser and returned with my phone. It had fared better than its owner. The screen was cracked, but other than that, seemed to be working. I thumbed through the notifications and sure enough, there were a half dozen missed calls from Helen, another three from my boss and even a couple from my Dad.
“Lovely. I got a bunch of people freaking out. Not the least of which is my girlfriend.”
Moonchild smiled. “You better call her, then. I’ll see if your clothes are dry. Come on, Shib, let’s give the boy some privacy,” she said as she got up and headed for the door.
“I still have questions,” Shibboleth protested.
Moonchild gave him a look. “And they’ll be answered. Later. Now, scoot!” Shibboleth begrudgingly obeyed. I guess he knew when he was up against a foe he couldn’t beat. As I pressed redial to call Helen, I knew how he felt.
She answered on the first ring. “Reuben?”
“Yup,” I answered cheerfully. “It’s me, and I’m fine.”
I heard her breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God!” She paused for a second and asked, “Where are you? We’re on our way up. Should be there in twenty minutes.”
Oh, good grief. “What? Babe, really, I’m fine. Moonchild fixed me up. I don’t even have a decent bruise. I have plenty of time to make my flight home.”
“Really? Are you sure? It looked like half the city wanted to kill you. What happened?”
“Long story short, it looks like Protest Girl is a super. I think she was using some sort of emotion manipulating mojo. Got the crowd all worked up and sicked ‘em on me. Shibboleth was there and pulled me out before it was too late.”
“Thank God for that. Why’d she want to kill you?”
“I’m guessing she’s not a fan. I interviewed her and she must have thought I was getting close to something. Maybe she panicked and decided to get rid of me.”
“All the more reason for us to come get you. What if she decides to give it another try?”
“Naw, I’m pretty sure she’s already long gone or in hiding. She took her shot and missed. Besides, killing me now won’t get her anywhere.”
“I don’t understand. You’re saying she doesn’t mind you poking around looking for her secrets now?”
“More like she’s gotta know it won’t do any good. She overplayed her hand. This all ended up on television, right? She wasn’t wearing a mask. So, now there’s almost a million pairs of eyes in this town just itching to snap a picture of her and post it online for their fifteen minutes of fame. She’ll have to get out of town or find a place to hide until this blows over. Not to mention, I’m not the only reporter looking into this, now.”
“Oh, right. I guess there’ll be a lot of you guys chasing this story now.”
“Yup, that’s how it works. I would have liked to find out who she’s working for before breaking the story, but I’ve got enough to publish what I have and still be ahead of everyone else.”
She chuckled. “Another victory for Reuben Conway and the Beacon, huh?”
“Yeah. Truth, Justice and the First Amendment. That’s us.”
“OK, hon. You sure you don’t want us to give you a ride home?”
“You want to answer the questions you’ll get about why Herculene came all the way up here to pick up a humble reporter?” I whispered.
She went silent for a moment as she searched for a way around my logic. “Dammit, why do you always have to be so sensible?”
“You love my sensibleness.”
“Among other things,” she said, giggling.
I promised to call her when I got safely back to town, and we ended the call with just a little bit of mushiness. Just in time, too, because no sooner had I hung up than Moonchild returned with my clothes, fresh from the dryer. She left me alone, and while I got dressed, I called my Dad and Harry to let them know I was fine. My Dad was worried, but once I told him I was alright, he was more interested in talking about how the parts for my car still hadn’t arrived. Harry, of course, just wanted to make sure I’d make that day’s deadline with the story.
I examined my gear, pleased to confirm Shibboleth’s determination that it had all survived my misadventure. Even the camera looked like
it had held together. It was a ruggedized Nikon that I’d partially paid for with the insurance money from the destruction of my previous camera. I picked it up on the advice of a war correspondent friend of mine, and it turned out to be well worth the investment.
Shibboleth knocked and entered the room as I was replacing my stuff in my pockets. He was in his full costume now, a padded Kevlar suit of long johns, tie-dyed to match his hood. They didn’t have skinsuits back in his day. “What time’s your flight?”
I checked my watch. “I got about two hours. Wanna walk me to the Muni? We can talk on the way.”
He chuckled. “I’ll go ya one better. Come on out and sit a spell. I’ll portal you there in plenty of time.”
“Sure beats the bus.” I followed him out into the living room. I half hoped it would be filled with beanbag chairs and a well-used bong, and was a little disappointed to find that it was just the sort of apartment you’d expect a retired couple to live in. Tidy, clean and filled with the sort of things two people accumulate over a long time together. No trophies of their many victories. Not even a psychedelic poster from the Fillmore Auditorium. Rather than being the lair of two costumed adventurers, it looked like grandparents lived here. The only thing I noticed out of place was that all of the picture frames had been placed face-down, and the shades were drawn over the windows. I guessed that they didn’t want me to see the faces of their friends and family, or get a clue to where they lived. Seemed reasonable. They didn’t know me from Adam and they had to protect their IDs and the people in their lives. Shibboleth had a bit of a reputation for paranoia.
I saw Moonchild was suited up, too, her green Kevlar suit sporting a gold crescent moon on her chest. “Looks like you two are ready to go out and dispense some justice,” I observed.
“Naw, it’s just date night,” Shibboleth joked. “It’s ‘Dress Like an Idiot’ night at our favorite restaurant, and we like to hit the Early Bird special. Seriously, though, if that gal’s still in town, someone needs to bring her in before she pulls another stunt like she did today. So, what can you tell us about her?”
