A Hero By Any Other Name

by Stackpole, Michael A.

  “Ahhhh. That’s nice. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you.”

  As Deathscape moved off the vehicle, Meryl caught a glimpse of the frozen face of the now-dead driver. The strength left his legs, dropping him to his knees.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Meryl. It’s time for you to pay the price for your disobedience. I allowed you to live before because you kept the decaying part of this city alive in my absence. And now…”

  Deathscape stopped a few feet from Meryl, and sent out one seeking tendril of darkness.

  A dark blur rushed in from the corner of Meryl’s right eye and impacted in the center of Deathscape’s mass, knocking it back a few feet.

  Meryl looked up at the form that now stood between himself and Deathscape. He’d looked up at that form many times, but never with this much joy.

  Defender.

  “I don’t know who, or what, you are, but this is my city to defend. You will leave it now.” Defender finished pushing himself to his feet, brushing one hand against the other. There was an uncharacteristic look of uneasiness on his face. Clearly, the contact with Deathscape was something other than what he had expected.

  A dry chuckle rang through the street, chilling all of the citizens watching the confrontation unfold.

  “So you are the champion the Spirit has chosen. Pitiful boy. Did the Spirit tell you what has happened to the other champions?”

  Deathscape’s form hovered in the middle of the street, tendrils of his darkness constantly seeking outward.

  Meryl saw a look of confusion on Defender’s face, and it matched his own. Deathscape did not seem at all bothered by Defender’s strike. In fact, he was amused.

  “Time to die, now, Defender. Don’t worry, though. I hold the souls of your predecessors. You will be joining them soon.”

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Deathscape pounced on Defender, engulfing him as he had once done to Meryl. Defender was trying to fight back, his fists causing Deathscape’s form to bulge as they struck from the inside.

  Over the seconds, the bulges became smaller, and less frequent.

  Incongruently, the high-pitched squeal of the train whistle attached to a bar called The Whistle Stop rang through the air.

  Deathscape’s form flickered just as Defender made a valiant last-ditch effort to strike him.

  This time, though, when Defender struck, Deathscape reeled, withdrawing himself from around Defender in surprise.

  With a rush, Deathscape disappeared into the nearest shadow, leaving Defender crumpled in the middle of the street.

  “Owww.”

  “Hey, careful, you don’t want to sit up too quickly.”

  Meryl helped Defender sit up on the thin mattress of a flophouse bed.

  “Where… where am I?”

  “You’re safe for now, Defender, that’s all that matters.”

  Meryl watched Defender’s face as he came to his senses.

  “Sonic Force? Man, you look horrible!”

  He was glad he’d had the sense to go grab his costume and his mask from where he’d stashed it. Still, he looked like he’d been living on the street and in flophouses for a week.

  “Well, you don’t look so great yourself, Defender.”

  “Wait, what’s going on here?” Defender’s eyes roamed around the room, taking in the thin light coming through the dirty brown curtains, the cheap linoleum and fiberboard table, the ancient television, and came back to rest on Meryl. “Why are you helping me?”

  He was fully cognizant now, and his eyes drilled into Meryl, who shifted from one foot to another as he tried to come up with a response.

  “You know, I’ve been a criminal for years now. I started out just wanting to find a way to fund my science after the establishment rejected me. I was sure I could make the world a better place, and it seemed like a little petty crime was a small price to pay for all of the good I would do.” Meryl’s once-studied movements were gone, and his arms flailed in an attempt to help emphasize his statements.

  “You’re not going to give me the ‘hooker with a heart of gold’ routine, are you?” Defender crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his full lips into a half frown.

  “No, no. It’s just, well, I lost myself somewhere in there.” Meryl turned around and dragged his fingers through his unkempt blond hair. “The crime became the important thing, and not the science. It wasn’t until Deathscape came along and took everything from me that I realized how far I had fallen.”

  “Deathscape ... wait, you mean that thing I fought today?” Defender straightened, completely focused on Sonic’s words.

  “Yes, that thing. Anyway, today, as I looked at the faces of the people of this city, I felt pity for them. I wanted to help them.” Meryl looked into Defender’s eyes and saw disbelief and, more disheartening, defeat.

  “Listen, man, even if that’s true, and I really doubt that it is, there’s nothing that can be done. I faced that thing today, and nothing I did even phased it. I can’t beat it. I’ll go out and face it again, because I promised that I would defend this city. But you need to resign yourself to the fact that it’s going to eat my lunch.” Defender flopped back against his pillow and sighed. “I have. I don’t know what the Spirit was thinking.”

  Meryl waved his hands in the air as if waving off Defender’s point. “I grant you that, on your own, you cannot defeat Deathscape. I saw something out there today, though, that gives me hope. A chink in the armor, if you will.”

  Defender looked at him, his irritation evident in down-curled lips and furrowed brow.

  “Sonic, I’m really getting tired of people speaking in riddles to me. You really don’t want to treat me like I’m stupid right now. If you’ve got something to say, say it straight.”

  Meryl took in Defender’s fists, curled into tight balls, and saw the veins standing out. Perhaps now was not the time to let his normal condescending personality have free reign.

  “Right you are.” Meryl paced the room in agitated excitement. “Today, when all seemed lost, a high-pitched whistle sounded just as you were about to strike Deathscape. The frequency of that whistle somehow slightly disrupted his protection and allowed you to make contact with a very corporeal being within.”

  “Okay…”

  Meryl sighed. These heroes… very high-minded, but not often very broad-minded. “Defender, what’s my specialty?”

  “The use of sound waves to…” Defender sat up, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Ohhh, I get it!”

  “Precisely my muscle bound, friend.” Meryl paused in his pacing and pinched his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I will get into my lab and get my gear, and then we can go find Deathscape. When we find him, I will disrupt his defense, while you attack him.”

  “Yeah!” Defender punched the air with a fist. “That could work.”

  “Yes, yes, clearly. Here’s the tricky part, though. You will have to let him surround you before I can disrupt his defense. I think you can only defeat him from within.”

  Now Defender looked skeptical again. Given their past, Meryl didn’t blame him.

  Meryl pressed on before Defender could voice his concerns. “The real question, though, is where to find him. I have no idea where he keeps himself when he’s not out terrorizing.”

  “Well, the Spirit said something about ‘where only the dead reside’.” Defender shrugged. “But I haven’t been able to figure out what that means.”

  Meryl pinched the bridge of his nose again, while muttering “idiot” under his breath. “Defender, you do realize that New Orleans is famous for its above-ground cemeteries, right?”

  “Yeah, so?” Defender gave him a blank look.

  “So… perhaps you’ve been to St. Louis Cemetery?”

  Finally, the light appeared to dawn in Defender’s eyes. “Okay, Sonic, go get your stuff. We’re gonna do this. I’ll meet you at the cemetery in two hours.”

  Meryl turned toward the door, a smile spreading across his face.

&nb
sp; “And, Sonic?”

  Meryl looked back, smile gone.

  Defender was staring intently at him.

  “Don’t even think of double-crossing me.”

  Defender easily launched himself over the gate of the cemetery, Meryl tucked under his arm.

  “Okay, Sonic, you’re the brain here. Where do you think we’ll find him?”

  Meryl rolled his eyes. “We’re in his domain now. He’ll find us soon enough.”

  They walked deeper into the rows of stone crypts. It was a bright night, a full moon casting long shadows and highlighting leprous growths of lichen on the ancient stone surrounding them.

  Defender pointed at a crypt on their left.

  “You know who’s grave that is?”

  There were bottle of booze crowded in front of the crypt, and all kinds of little trinkets.

  “No. Do you think this is the best time for a tour?”

  “You can’t come to St. Louis Cemetery and not recognize Marie Laveau’s grave, my man.” Defender paused for a moment and looked at the crypt appreciatively. “Most famous witch in New Orleans.”

  Meryl looked down, and a shiver ran up his spine. “Great, just what we need. More black magic.” He looked back up at Defender. “Can we get back to our task now?”

  “Sure thing, lil’ man.”

  Soon, they reached the fence at the opposite end of the cemetery.

  “Sonic, are you sure we’re on the right track here? Should we be looking at one of the other cemeteries?”

  “All of the cemeteries are mine. Surely you did not think to come into my domain and not be greeted. What a poor host you must think me to be.”

  Defender and Meryl back toward the front of the cemetery.

  The shadows along the path they had walked were coalescing into the form of Deathscape.

  “How heartening. Former enemies working together for a common good. It would warm my heart…if I had one.” That familiar, oily chuckle bounced off the surrounding crypts.

  Meryl and Defender glanced at each other.

  “Sonic, I gotta tell you, I always hated the way you talked, but this second-rate horror film reject makes you almost sound cool. You ready to do this?”

  Meryl flexed his fingers, charging his sound pulses. “Ready when you are.”

  Nodding, and giving his new sidekick a quick thumbs up, Defender sprang forward, headed straight for the center of Deathscape’s dark form. Once again, Deathscape engulfed him.

  Meryl paused a moment and watched as the Defender pounded uselessly at Deathscape from the inside.

  The creature’s hooded head lifted as the hits became weaker and the burning eyes stared at Meryl, whose stomach lurched in response, sending a taste of acid into his mouth.

  “You’re next, Meryl.”

  Sonic Force steadied himself, flipped a switch and lifted his hands, pointing them at Deathscape. He took a deep breath. “It’s Sonic Force, you bastard.”

  He initiated the sound pulse.

  Deathscape shrieked in inhuman agony as his cowl was stripped away.

  Now visible, Defender, though weakened, was unbeaten. Seeing his opportunity, he struck solidly between Deathscape’s burning eyes.

  A crack of light formed where Defender’s fist had struck. It pulsed, then exploded outward, throwing Defender to his back.

  The light pulled back in upon itself, and the blackness that was Deathscape followed it. A horrible screech filled the air. As he was pulled inward, Deathscape sent out tendrils of darkness to grab at anything solid. They dug into crypts and mausoleums and the corner of cobblestones. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he might escape. The light pulsed brighter, and with one last shriek, Deathscape lost his hold on this world and disappeared into the light.

  All was calm.

  Sonic Force walked up to where Defender lay.

  The hero slowly lifted his masked head, staring at Sonic Force with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “I thought you’d double-crossed me there for a minute.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Sonic blinked placidly.

  “Well, Sonic, you make a good sidekick. I think I’m gonna like the good you.”

  “Yes, about that…”

  Sonic Force lifted his hands, pointing his palms at Defender, and shrugged. “I’d apologize, but you and I both know it is my nature.”

  He initiated the sound pulse… and found himself flat on the ground. Defender stood above him.

  “You ain’t never gonna learn, are you, Sonic?”

  As Defender tucked Sonic Force under his arm for yet another trip to a New Orleans jail cell, the villain’s lips curled up in a satisfied smile.

  Everything was back to normal.

  About the Author

  Ron Garner grew up in Vicksburg, Mississippi, but has spent the past thirteen years of his life moving around the country in various billets as an officer in the United States Marine Corps. He holds an undergraduate degree in Computer Science and a Juris Doctorate from UNC-Chapel Hill. He spends way too much of his time running foot races around the country and building things that are of questionable use. Ron currently resides in Washington, D.C. with his wife and his frighteningly confident teenage daughter.

  About the Story

  I was born in Louisiana, and raised in Mississippi. Like many young men from my area of the country, I misspent a great deal of time in New Orleans from the age of eighteen to about the age of twenty-six. I have a great affinity for that city, and am constantly amazed at the lack of superheroes from there. I sought here to remedy that deficiency in some minor way. Every city has a soul. While I was writing this story, it struck me that New Orleans’ soul is pretty bipolar. What I’ve written is in many ways an attempt to capture that duality.

  Mortar’s Ovation

  Jean Rabe

  The house lights dimmed and a clarinet moaned soft and low. An English horn joined the seductive melody. As the music swelled, the curtains parted, and a single light shone on Clara.

  Riotous cheers competed with the pulsating rhythm as she glided forward. Her lips edged upward in a sly smile, and her manicured hands, pale and flawless, clutched a rosary and smoothed at the silky white dress that clung to her hips and pooled at her feet.

  “Evening gentlemen,” she cooed huskily. “It's hot in Toole’s tonight. And I am going to make it even hotter.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip, threw back her head, and the first several lines of her song were drowned out by the wild applause. As the clamor ebbed, the lanky singer rocked gently back and forth on her heels and crooned.

  “Nelly Bly! Nelly Bly! Bring de broom along,

  “We'll sweep de kitchen clean, my dear, and hab a little song.

  “Poke de wood, my lady lub, and make de fire burn,

  “And while I take de banjo down, just gib de mush a turn.”

  The song had not meant to be sung so slowly, nor delivered with an erotic grind. Stephen Foster had certainly not intended his lyrics sensual. Rather, when it was published thirteen years past in the United States, it had been performed black-faced, as a woman’s delightful look at a new marriage. But Clara always twisted a song, her rendition incongruous to a piece’s original aim. It was all new to the London audience.

  Her voice rose as she stepped toward the edge of the stage. Tonight she wore her raven hair piled in loose ringlets atop her head. Her long neck was circled by a thick gold chain, a gift from an admirer who usually sat in the third row. He was here tonight.

  “Heigh! Nelly, Ho! Nelly, listen lub, to me,

  “I'll sing for you, play for you, a dulcem melody.

  “Heigh! Nelly, Ho! Nelly, listen lub, to me,

  “I'll sing for you, play for you, a dulcem melody.”

  Clara's liquid brown eyes scanned the crowd as she finished the clarinet took over. She breathed deep, pulling the heady scents of the place–the rum and tobacco and sweat–into her lungs. The light was hot and it followed her across the stage like a dutiful disciple. A man in the front
row lit up a cigar; she’d not seen him here before. She'd die for a good smoke right now, she thought, as she slowly ran her index finger down her throat to her chest and stared into the man's mud-colored eyes. She spotted Theron, the prop man; he stood next to the footlights and mutely stared at her.

  Clara shut her eyes and hummed the chorus, and the clarinet performed a sad, haunting rift as her voice faded. The light folded in on itself, and the shadows of the stage reached up and swallowed her.

  “Beautiful!” beamed Robert Barston. The tall, balding man who ran stage operations for Toole’s Theatre roughly patted Clara on the rump as she slid past him. “Nobody leaves them wanting for more.”

  The musicians were playing again, a fast dance number. Clara pressed herself against the wall as the chorus line hurried by––all dressed in gaudy orange and green, with beads, ribbons, and feathers everywhere. Vesta Tilley was in the wings, too, looking dashing and especially handsome in a black suit and high hat, starched white shirt and perfect collar. Clara knew the crowd was there for Vesta, too. Clara made her way down a twisting corridor filled with clothes racks and lined with dressing rooms.

  “They loved you,” said a thickset woman emerging from the room across the hall. “But they always love you.” The woman was a dancer, or more precisely was trying to be–with her blend of raucous bump-and-grind and ribald songs. She didn't have the body for it, cramming too many pounds into a slinky red dress that screamed at the seams.

  “Yeah, Gertrude. I thrilled them. You can thrill them, too.”

  Clara had about half an hour before her next number. She grabbed her handbag and slipped out the back door. The alley's sweltering summer night air washed over her. She squatted and groped for the brick, her insurance against getting locked out. There was no handle on the alley side, and Robert would be furious if she shut herself out again and had to go around to the front.