by Marv Wolfman
Suddenly, a candle flame erupted, illuminating two black-as-pitch eyes set deep into a tattooed skull.
Diablo stared at the flame. It wasn’t rising from some store-bought candle, but freely floating just above his open hand.
His head was pounding, sharp daggers thrust into his brain, but he kept staring as the flames flickered back and forth…
…and ever so slowly, they took on the undulating shape of a woman, moving, swaying. He had brought her to life again, and she was beautiful. As always. Mesmerizing. As always. And so hypnotic he almost forgot his was a soul in constant pain.
As he blew out the flame, and tears streaked the terrible story told on his face, all he could do was quietly whisper.
“I am so, so sorry.”
The woman disappeared into the smoke.
As always.
TWELVE
The real work of Washington, D.C., didn’t take place in the light of day, but in a quiet back room, behind the leather-cushioned and mahogany-stained walls of the tried-and-true Washingtonian Steakhouse.
The important people still went there to sip fine wine and cut into a juicy filet while negotiating treaties and bills that would otherwise never see the light of day. Opened in the early 1940s, still months away from the U.S. entering the Second Great War, it was one of the very few reminders that, unlike the rest of this youth-obsessed world, some things still aged well.
Amanda Waller took another sip of her Pinot noir, then continued talking. With her in this soundproof chamber were Dexter Tolliver, the president’s national security advisor, and Vice Admiral Olsen, commander of SOCOM, the United States Special Operations Command.
“It’s taken some work, but I have them,” she announced. “Well, most of them. The worst of the worst.”
Olsen opened a bottle of the 2014 Malbec and poured a glass. Argentinian wines were his favorites.
“There are rumors, Amanda, that some of them have, ummm, abilities?”
Waller nodded. “Yes. Heard about the pyrokinetic homeboy? Some LA gangbanger gets jumped in a prison riot and incinerates half the yard.” She handed Olsen her smart phone, already set for playback. “The security videos are incredible. Thirty-three dead. Filled every burn unit in So Cal. He released enough thermal energy in three seconds to melt an engine block.”
She grinned as she bit into her salmon, cedar-plank barbecued with a rosemary and Dijon mustard rub.
“I have him now.”
Olsen looked impressed, and handed the phone for Tolliver to watch.
“Where?”
Waller smiled as she wiped her lips with a napkin. “Let’s just say I put him in a hole, and threw away the hole. We chased away our ancient fears with the light of science.”
“Which means?”
“It means that maybe Superman was some kind of beacon for the rest of them to feel safe enough they could creep back from the shadows.” She took the phone from Tolliver and slipped it back into its holster, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Heard about the witch?”
“The witch?” Olsen repeated. “Really?”
Waller raised her glass and took another sip, letting the silence add to her drama.
“I’m talking textbook witch. A flying, spell-casting, making-crap-disappear witch.” She lowered her voice even more, and added, “I’ve seen things.”
“And where is this witch?” Olsen asked, not expecting her to answer. He wasn’t disappointed.
“In my pocket,” Waller said.
Tolliver didn’t look convinced. “And what’s to stop her from turning you into a frog,” he said skeptically, as if going along with a joke.
Waller wasn’t laughing. “There’s intel in our legends, says witches have a secret buried heart. Whoever finds it can control the witch, or kill it.”
“You do realize what this all sounds like, Amanda?” Olsen said. “‘A heart that can be removed, yet its owner still lives?’ Dexter, you’re talking Harry Potter stuff, and it’s preposterous.”
Waller just smiled. She expected there’d be pushback and she had come prepared.
“It used to be that we believed we were the only intelligent life form in the entire universe. Remember? And nobody ever thought that aliens actually existed, or that they could have powers far beyond those of, well, us. And then Superman showed up. He sort of screwed the very concept of conventional wisdom.”
Before anyone could reply, she put a large black Pelican case on the table. The case was made of black injection-molded waterproof and crushproof plastic, and was sealed with a biometric fingerprint lock.
“So we searched the cave where she turned up, and found this,” Waller added.
“Her heart’s in there?” Tolliver said incredulously. “Really?” He frowned.
Waller nodded. “Here, Dexter, see for yourself.”
Waller swiped the fingerprint lock and the case opened. Enchantress’s mummified heart, decorated with bear claws and bits of gold, rested in a chamber to the right of the case. In the left-hand chamber was Waller’s fail-safe bomb. Given any excuse, she would press a button and it would explode, disintegrating the heart instantly.
Tolliver turned away, looking vaguely sick. He was, she knew, far more comfortable with the intricacies of state and the duplicity of politics than supernatural mumbo-jumbo.
“Don’t worry.” Waller closed the case lid and smiled again at him. “You’re safe, Dexter. As long as I have this, she’ll do anything I ask.”
“So what is it you’re asking for, Amanda?” Admiral Olsen asked.
Waller didn’t have to think about an answer. She knew exactly why she’d come here.
“I want to assemble a task force of the most dangerous people on the planet—something I call Task Force X.”
“They’re bad guys?” Olsen said, looking doubtful.
“Exactly. The worst of the worst, and if anything goes wrong, we blame them. We’ve got built-in deniability.”
Olsen shook his head. “Amanda, let’s say we’re with you on this—but these people, they’re villains. What makes you think you can control them?”
Waller leaned back in her plush leather chair and took another sip from her glass.
“This wine is excellent,” she responded. “I’ll have to order a case and have it shipped to my home.”
“Amanda, please. No games.”
“All right. Fine. Getting people to act against their own self-interest, for the national security of the United States, is what I do for a living, and you know how good I am at it.”
“I do,” Olsen replied. “But I just don’t know if I’m buying this. Witches. Fire-starters. It begs the imagination. I’m pretty much a meat and potatoes guy.”
Tolliver interrupted.
“And yet we might not have much of a choice. Again, Superman. Amanda, if we want to make this happen, what we’d have to do is sell it downtown. I’ll convene a stakeholder’s meeting with Defense and Intelligence. You get the nod from the Chairman, and you can do anything you want.” He turned to Olsen and continued. “Ever since the alien… Well, it’s a whole new world out there, my friend.”
“Okay, Dexter,” Olsen said.” If you can sell it to the boys downtown, I’ll sign off on it.”
Waller smiled, poured herself another glass, and silently toasted her own victory.
THIRTEEN
She knew her Puddin’ would come. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, or even the month after, but when he realized how much he missed her—and he would—he’d definitely haul ass and rescue her.
So until then she was just biding her time. She was back in her Belle Reve cage, chained to a black plastic restraint chair. A spit guard was strapped tightly to her mouth. Her forehead was belted back so she couldn’t move it.
It hurt like all kinds of hell, but that didn’t matter. Her Puddin’ was coming. She most certainly knew that.
Any time now.
Any time now.
The prison nurse hovered over her and snaked a f
eeding tube into her nostril. She was unable to turn her head, but then another figure stepped into view, and she saw Griggs holding up three cans of liquid nutrition. He was smiling at her.
“Looky-looky, lil’ mama. Tonight it’s your choice. Chocolate crap, strawberry crap, or vanilla crap.”
Whistle. Whistle. Any time now, Mr. J. I’m waiting. Harley stared daggers at Griggs. When she was free, her first order of business would be payback. Right now, though, clenched teeth and a dirty look would have to do.
Griggs leaned closer and caressed her thigh. “Why is it always a fight with you?” he asked. “I could make it nice in here. Really nice.”
Any time now, Mr. J.
Nurse Wretched, or whatever the hell her name was, connected a large syringe of the liquid nutrient to the feeding tube. She tightened its connection then squeezed the plunger. Harley shook with rage. Bubbles foamed out of her nose. She scowled at Griggs with a look so angry he involuntarily took a step back.
Any time now, Mr. J.
* * *
Floyd Lawton was trying to sleep. The nightly screams of hundreds of crazies blared through the air ducts and directly into his cell, it seemed.
Unable to sleep, he stood and paced the cell. Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn. Five steps… Back and forth. Back and forth. He thought about Zoe, and that he might never see her again, and he wanted to join in on the screaming. He knew better, however, than to surrender to madness. In here it was catching.
It was raining outside.
Floyd knew he wasn’t crazy. He was a stone-cold killer, but only for hire. He never thought his victims were sending messages to him through his teeth, or that the only way the voices would stop was if he wore an aluminum foil headpiece. Besides, he never even heard voices, unless they came from flesh-and-blood people.
Maybe others did, but not him.
His kills were for money. Lots of money. There was nothing personal in any of them. It was just a job—at least when he wasn’t spending his days and nights behind bars.
He watched the rain drip past his cell window. He thought of Zoe as much as he could. He worried, tossed in here, away from the world, that his memories would fade like a bad dream, but he didn’t want to forget his daughter.
* * *
Captain Griggs and his posse of guards sauntered along Belle Reve’s pipe-lined basement corridor. Dixon, his chief tough guy, kicked a food cart aside and exposed a manhole cover beneath it. Griggs gestured toward it and two of his flunkies unscrewed the bolts which held it in place, then pulled it loose.
Griggs carried a carbine with a well-worn night-vision scope. He used it to peer into the black hole.
Two evil, glowing eyes stared back.
Dixon leaned in. “Is it true he chewed a dude’s hand off?”
Gerry Moench, standing behind Dixon, waved his prosthetic hand. Dixon pulled back and looked to Griggs for help, but Griggs wasn’t the helping kind.
“Time for his dinner,” the captain said. “You know what to do.”
Dixon sucked in air, held his breath, and grabbed a goat carcass from the cart. As he tossed it down into the hole, he let the air whoosh out.
“This garbage smells like crap,” he said.
* * *
Below, in the sewer, the huge figure was locked behind bars and barbed wire. He watched the goat drop just outside the cage, into the dirty water that was flowing through the tunnel.
A large shrine made of animal bones sat to one side. A ratty couch, with rat bones scattered over it, was directly behind him. The fluorescent lights, old and flickering, barely lit this hellhole, but he didn’t care.
What was there to look at, anyway?
He reached through the bars to grab the carcass and pull it toward him. He looked at the dead head, knowing he could either eat it or starve to death. So he took a bite.
Croc was close to six-and-a-half feet tall, and he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His skin was cracked and mottled, covered over with scales that made him look as if evolution had worked its way backward, creating the perfect hybrid of man and dinosaur. Though he looked as if he should be raging, roaring like a beast, he was calm, and quiet, and even reflective.
He had his dinner. It tasted raw and bloody, the way he liked it, so as far as he was concerned, life was good.
He took another bite, gnawed through the goat’s skull, and whistled a happy tune.
FOURTEEN
June had never been to Washington, D.C. before, let alone brought into the White House Situation Room.
Yet that was where she found herself, and she was duly impressed. The room—all 5,525 square feet of it—sat in the basement of the West Wing. It had been created by President Kennedy back in 1961, to deal with then-growing Soviet threat. Overseen by the National Security Council, it was where the president and his advisors met to discuss all crises, domestic or international.
The room was narrow, but long. Its walls were embedded with large flat-screen monitors that provided secure video communications with contacts across the globe. A massive conference table filled the center of the room, from front to back. Plush leather chairs surrounded the table. The group that occupied them had come to discuss what was fast becoming a crisis that would make the Cold War seem like a kindergarten time-out.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat at the head of the table, focused on his smart phone, trying to figure out how to send a text. His aide explained it to him at least a dozen times. Rick Flag sat next to Amanda Waller, uncomfortable and fidgeting because he had been forced to dress up for this meeting. Waller’s case lay closed on the table.
June Moone sat next to him as well, wearing glasses, looking shy and just a bit mousey, yet he found her distracting. Under any other circumstances…
Dexter Tolliver stood, and his eyes swept across the assembled group. Finally his gaze locked on the chairman, and he cleared his throat.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began. “Do you remember al-Qaeda? A few of you might not. We certainly threw enough sigint, linguists, analysts, and drones at them. It took time, but… problem solved.”
June leaned close to Flag. “Sigint?”
“Signal intelligence,” he whispered back. “It’s data gathering by interception of electronic signals.” Tolliver continued, and he fell silent again.
“Now we have a new problem,” the national security advisor stated, and he waved a hand upward, toward the ceiling. “Suppose Superman decided to rip the president out of the Oval office. Who could stop him? We have contingency plans for North Korean nukes, anthrax in our mail, fluoride in our water—but what do we do about a Kryptonian?
“Now, thus far Superman has showed himself to be a rescue-cats-from-trees kind of hero,” he added. “It might be an act, but just for grins let’s say he’s what he says he is. What do we do if the next one turns out to be a jihadist? Then what?”
He paused for effect, then turned. “Fortunately for us, Ms. Waller has a plan. Amanda?” He gestured for her to take over.
The chairman acknowledged her with a nod. “Alright, Amanda,” he said. “Who do you want us to kill?” He laughed at his own joke, and a few others joined in, if half-heartedly.
* * *
Waller gave a quick smile and stood.
“We’ve all heard the stories, of Samson leveling a temple with a single push—and we know of the Philistine weapon of mass destruction they called Goliath—but were they scripture, or fact?”
She paused, and scanned the room. No one spoke. None of them wanted to give voice to views that might come back and haunt them. Especially not theories that were biblical in nature. No, they didn’t have the answer, but she did.
She continued.
“The question is, how did ancient societies deal with these exceptional individuals? In general, by appeasement, by coercion, and often cooperation. But this isn’t the ancient world. In this day and age, what should we do?”
Their expressions remained blank. Aman
da preferred it that way. First, explain the problem. Let them stew in it, then provide them with the answer. She was leading them by the nose.
“I want to build a team,” she explained, “of very bad people who I think can do some good—like fight our next war, or defeat the next Superman.”
The chairman crossed his arms. His body language said he wasn’t buying it.
Before Waller was done, he would. She was certain of it.
“Not on my watch, Amanda,” he replied. “I read your list. You’re not putting these monsters back on the streets. Certainly not in our name.” If he had planned to discourage her, though, he was going to be disappointed.
“General, under my plan we run them covertly,” she said. “Non-attributed, strictly need to know, and if they get caught, we throw them under the bus.” She looked from face to face. “Whether we want to accept it or not, the next war will be fought with these… meta-humans.”
That made them pay attention. Wars were something they all understood. They wanted the best soldiers on their side, and that meant meta-humans. It was bound to happen someday. Better to get ahead of it.
“Those meta-soldiers will be ours—” she said firmly, “—or the advantage will be theirs. We’re not the only ones kicking over rocks, looking for these extraordinary people. You must know that. And ours isn’t the only belief system they’d fight for.”
“But you can’t control them,” the chairman protested. “Nobody can.” He sounded adamant, but his voice was low. He was teetering. She had him. Yet she didn’t answer directly. Instead, she turned to the only one in the room who could prove her case.
“Doctor Moone.” The young woman looked anxious. Waller nodded to her. “Now, Doctor.”
June stood and took off her glasses. She placed her hands on the table, gulped anxiously, then whispered one word. Softly, and to herself.
“Enchantress.”
It took three long seconds.
New fingers sprouted from her wrist as her old ones were sucked back into the skin. The top of her hand became her palm, then spun back into a normal hand again, only now tattooed. Her torso twisted around itself as parts of her face bulged out, while other parts sunk inward.
