Suicide Squad

by Marv Wolfman

  The Squad followed behind, staring at the horrifying devastation that was everywhere. Buildings had collapsed—once tall and mighty, now headstones for the thousands buried beneath.

  They were killers, all of them, unshaken by violent death that often came at their own hands. But this was more than any of them had ever seen before. More… and worse.

  Katana followed closely, her hand close to her sword. She was ready to collect their souls if even one of them tried to step out of line.

  * * *

  Harley slowed down and paced alongside Katana.

  “I’m thinking the good guys probably pay better than my guy. So, what does a superhero make, anyway?”

  Silent, Katana kept walking.

  “Oh, c’mon, K. It’s not a big deal,” Harley persisted. “You getting a grand a week? Two? Five? Don’t tell me you get more?”

  Katana glared at her. “Move, or my sword will take your soul.”

  “Well, K, you’re out of freakin’ luck. I lost my soul along with my virginity. Look, we’re both babes, right? On the same side, chromosomally speaking. I thought maybe…”

  “You thought wrong. We’re not on the same side. We’ll never be on the same side.”

  “Mr. J used to say the same thing. Now we’re closer than nipples on a pig. You and me, it could still happen. So give me a ballpark. They pay you by the fight, or you under contract? What about medical? I gotta say, this job isn’t that good on the ol’ skull and bones.”

  Katana stopped in her tracks and grabbed Harley by the throat.

  “One does not get paid to do what is right.” She pushed Harley back to the road. “Now shut up and walk, or I’ll see to it you won’t have any feet to walk on.”

  “Hey, no problem, K. I get it. You’re embarrassed they don’t pay you. But I understand. Mr. J doesn’t pay me, either. So, between us chicks, you think that’s ’cause we’re minions, or is it the girl thing?”

  Katana removed her sword and stared at Harley, who gave a big smile and hurried to catch up to the others.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m zipping it.”

  “Nice talk. Let’s not do it again.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Boomerang saw Slipknot standing behind him. It was time for a little rabble rousing, and the Knot was just the guy he wanted to rouse. He slowed down as Slipknot caught up to him.

  “You know, it’s mind games.”

  Slipknot didn’t reply.

  “It really is, friend. All mind games.”

  “What’s that?”

  He had him. “This bomb in the neck crap. It ain’t real, mate.”

  “You’re saying the bombs in our necks aren’t real?”

  “You believed Flag? A nanite bomb the size of a grain of rice? That tech is still years away, and I should know. My ’rangs are tricked out like a 1950s pimp. ’Sides, what’s a nanite bomb anyway? The thing is all made up.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question, mate. See, they trap us with our own minds. They make us think we’ll all go boom so we don’t resist, but look around you. We’re free. No bars here. We can run for it, you and me.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I know. It’s all a con and I’m the king of cons. Anyway, we get to the corner, I’m ducking out. I’m gone. I’ve got a life to live. You coming?”

  “Why ask me? We just met.”

  Boomer laughed. “That’s the reason, mate. They’d never suspect the two of us working side by side. But you know, even without the bomb being real, they do have guns, and all I got are a bunch of pimped-out boomerangs. If I want to make this work I’m going to need a partner. So whadda ya say?”

  Slipknot looked around. Everyone was calmly walking ahead into battle. Even Flag and the ninja. The timing couldn’t have been better, but he had a better thought. Boomer could be his distraction.

  He smiled innocently. “Yeah. Sure. When?”

  “On three. One… Two…”

  Slipknot got his ropes ready. When Katana stopped to argue with Quinn, he tossed a grapple up to a balcony. Boomer pulled one of his boomerangs from his inside jacket pocket, ready to move.

  “Three,” he whispered.

  Slipknot activated his rope ratchet and launched himself upward. Boomer threw a boomerang at Katana’s legs—but she jumped like a cat and it flew off, missing her completely.

  Slipknot was partially up the wall when he fired a second grapple to the roof, then smoothly transferred to that rope. Once he made it to the top he could disappear into the city. He was almost home free.

  Katana’s sword found Boomerang’s throat. He knew if he moved she’d sever his head from the rest of his body. He raised his hands in surrender.

  “You got me,” he said. “Sorry about the ’rang. Please don’t kill me.”

  Another moment passed and his boomerang suddenly returned to his hands. He dropped it instantly and smiled at her.

  “It’s what they do.”

  * * *

  Flag watched Slipknot scramble over the edge of the rooftop. Idiot. He tapped his cell phone until Slipknot’s mugshot filled the screen; the red “fire” button glowed below it. He was about a block away. Flag wanted to make sure nobody else was in the immediate area.

  Once he was sure, he casually tapped the button. There was a sharp explosion, and something the size of a large melon came flying down from above, landing on a pile of garbage. It was Slipknot’s head. His eyes were wide with surprise. Harley turned to Deadshot and laughed.

  “Now that’s a killer app.”

  Flag found the others staring at him. He showed them his cell phone. Their mug shots were there on the screen, a red button under each of them.

  “I wasn’t bluffing,” he said. “I never do. So if you wanna keep playing the Hollywood Squares version of ‘I’ll blow your frikkin’ head off,’ I’m ready. Who’s next? You, Deadshot?”

  Lawton’s pistol was in his hand before Flag knew it. It was aimed at Flag’s face. Flag’s thumb hovered over the button.

  The Squad stepped back. They wanted nothing to do with whatever the hell was going on, but they were content watching it unfold. It was a Mexican standoff.

  Flag sneered. “You wanted to shoot me, you wouldn’t have waited for me to call up your picture.”

  Deadshot nodded. “And you would have blown off my head before I got the chance to shoot.”

  Flag slowly holstered his phone. Deadshot followed suit, and stared at the colonel.

  “Next time, don’t threaten me. Just do what you think you need to do.”

  Flag nodded to Katana, who released Boomerang. She sheathed her sword as he eyed the rest of the Squad.

  “Do we all believe now?”

  Harley looked around at the rest of the Belle Reve inmates. “Yeah,” she said. “We don’t push your buttons, you don’t push ours.”

  * * *

  Deadshot was quiet as he stared at Slipknot’s head. Harley sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.

  “He’ll kill us all. One by one.”

  “Not going to give him the chance. I can drop him, the ninja, maybe five or six military guys. After that I’m in trouble, but if we move together, we got them. You down?”

  Harley grinned. “Always. But what about the crap in our necks? I mean, even if Flag’s at half mast, Waller’s watching us like we’re the Super Bowl.”

  Deadshot leaned in closer. “Something tells me your friend is gonna figure that out for us, right?” He gave her the I know you’re up to something look, then started to walk off. He stopped and turned back for a second.

  “Stay evil, Dollface. Spread the word.” She watched him head in Croc’s direction, then walked over to Boomer and threw an arm around his shoulder.

  “Nice play with the Knot,” she said. “You weren’t going to run. Not then. You just wanted to see if we’d go boom.”

  Boomerang gave her a confused look.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Harley. I’m as innocent
as the plague.”

  “Whatever, Down Under—but now we know, and now we can plan. You wanna hear a story?”

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  “Depends if you say yes or no.”

  * * *

  Diablo sat alone, looking down to the ground. His hands were pressed to the sides of his temples. Nobody was around and he preferred it that way. No friends. No ties. No guilt. But then Boomerang sat down next to him. He didn’t say anything for a while, which suited Diablo. Yet he knew it wouldn’t last, so he spoke first.

  “You should go.”

  “Mate, I’m thinking no. The thing of it is, I was speaking with the group. We need your help.”

  “Anything you’d want is anathema to my needs. I’m not interested. So again. You should go.”

  “No. You’re not getting it. We need you to slam Flag with a fireball when the time’s right. He’ll be too busy burning to death to have a go at us with that phone of doom.”

  “Then what?” Diablo asked.

  “We get out of this place. What do you think?”

  “And once we do, then what?”

  Boomer stood and stared at Diablo. “What are you, bloody Socrates with all the questions? I’m talking freedom, man. Freedom. You remember that, don’t you?”

  Diablo shook his head. “We’re criminals.”

  Boomerang was quickly losing his patience. “Yeah. I know. Being evil is great. Who else besides super-villains and fortune five hundred companies can get away with not paying taxes? C’mon. Do the bastard.”

  Completely uninterested, Diablo stared silently. Boomerang finally got the message, and started toward Croc.

  “Careful,” Diablo added. “He eats people.”

  “Sorry, Mother Superior. He what?”

  Diablo laughed to himself. He hadn’t done that in years. It felt good.

  “He eats people. For meals. He’s a cannibal.”

  “Are you shitting me, man?” Boomer said. “Eats people. Right. You almost got me.” He headed over to Croc, still laughing.

  “Your funeral. His dessert.” He watched Boomer walk up to Croc. Then Harley suddenly sat down next to him.

  What now?

  “No,” he said, miles ahead of her. “Already told your pen pal. Not interested. Go away.”

  * * *

  Harley frowned and gave Deadshot a thumbs down. Down the road Croc pushed Boomerang into a parked car, denting it. She hopped up and joined them.

  “So. What did you say to him?” she asked.

  Boomerang felt his side. “It hurts like hell and the bruise is gonna last for at least a week. Hey. Just kidding. I was just having a laugh. He’s in.”

  Harley looked at Croc. The monster gave her a thumbs up and grinned, baring two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

  If that don’t beat all…

  THIRTY-THREE

  Twenty-six hours earlier, everyone in Midway City got up and left. Nearly two million people drove or walked across the bridges before the missiles knocked them down, or they crowded onto city transit then transferred to trains that would take them to Gateway City, across the bay.

  Thousands of others boarded ferries they prayed would not be sunk before they, too, made it to Gateway—or even better, Central City, a hundred plus miles south. Many survived the short mile-long trip.

  Most didn’t. Nearly a million and a half men, women, and children died in the first wave of attacks.

  A series of underground gas explosions had rippled through the area. Even would-be thieves, believing the city was theirs to loot, soon found themselves hunkered indoors, praying they were safe behind locked doors.

  They weren’t.

  There were no more trains. No more busses. No way to leave. Nobody was walking the sidewalks of the Fifth Street Promenade, the city’s major shopping district extending from Ostrander at the north end to Grell at the south.

  Something dreadful was out there, and it was killing everyone it found.

  Nobody could fight it.

  Nobody was safe. Whoever remained in Midway City was going to die in Midway City.

  * * *

  “Unbelievable,” Deadshot said, looking at an ambulance, overturned and on fire. It had been looted for whatever drugs it had carried. “I don’t spook easy, but I never seen anything like this.” He was wearing his headpiece, with a monocle that acted as a scope.

  Harley hurried up to Flag’s side and looked back toward Diablo.

  “You know he’s a loose cannon. These quiet guys. You gotta watch them.”

  “Ignore him. What you said. He’s good.”

  She looked back again. The skull-faced man was in tears, staring at the devastation.

  “Nuh-uh,” she pressed. “Look at him. He’s found God or something. That’s never good.”

  “Maybe you need to find something to believe in.”

  “I already have.” Harley reached into her pocket and put her hand on her cell phone screen, knowing Mister J’s face was smiling out at her. “First-time worshipper, long-time believer.”

  They turned left and headed around the Tenth Street circle, then took the third outlet to Mooney Drive. Their target, mostly hidden by the smoke, was only five blocks away.

  They moved carefully through the city wreckage. Out of earshot, Boomer wondered aloud why Flag wouldn’t tell them who they were supposed to fight. Did that mean he didn’t know either, or that whatever was out there was so bad he was afraid to tell them? The Aussie shuddered.

  “If that’s the case,” he murmured, “heaven help us all, ’cause nothing else can.”

  Croc suddenly stopped. “This isn’t good,” he said. “You see them?”

  “See what, Crusty?” Harley said.

  “The dead.”

  Then he saw it. Mooney Drive was littered with corpses. Piles of them tossed aside like garbage. Flag gestured for them to stop as he stepped closer.

  “Now that’s weird,” Harley suddenly said. She stepped up, right behind Flag.

  “What’s weird?” he asked.

  She kneeled down as if to touch one of the corpses, but then pulled back. It was an old man, probably in his eighties.

  “No one here’s young,” she said. “Or strong. These guys are all older, or crippled.” She pointed to a walker, lying on its side, bent out of shape. “Like they were rejected and tossed away.”

  “Rejected for what?” Deadshot asked.

  “Yeah. What you said,” Harley responded.

  Flag’s radio beeped. GQ’s voice could be heard through the static.

  “Jefe. We got people up here.”

  “Roger. Coming to you,” Flag responded.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Grey checked their ammunition supply, but even with nearly fifteen thousand rounds, he wasn’t sure they had enough.

  What if, he worried, it was like Superman, and bullets bounced off them? Or they could melt the metal with heat vision, or something equally alien? Planet Earth would be royally screwed.

  Flag stared through his scope and scanned the next street. A half-dozen cars were overturned and on fire. A school bus had crashed into a clothing store window, its front half inside, its back half gone as if torn off and thrown away. As far as Flag could tell, nobody was inside.

  He slowly panned the gun sight, then abruptly stopped. He could just about make out three shadowy figures skittering in the dark.

  Silhouettes.

  Flag lowered his weapon and grabbed GQ by the arm.

  “We’re diverting. Bump out second squad two blocks east,” he whispered. “Once they’re set, we’ll pass through you and continue north.”

  GQ nodded, then got Kowalski on the comm frequency. In his mid-thirties, Kowalski was GQ’s go-to guy, as he had been since basic, which right now felt like many centuries ago. Anything GQ needed doing, Kowalski was the man who’d get it done. No questions asked.

  “Post up your peeps two majors east,” he said into the mic. “We’ll leapfrog through you once you roger o
ut. Initiate your peel.”

  “Roger that,” the SEAL snapped back. He took his comm and forwarded the orders. “Okay, second squad. We’re leapfrogging to the next intersection. Peel. Go!”

  The SEALs took off in three-man fire teams. Weapons ready, they made their way to the adjacent street.

  * * *

  Deadshot watched them intently. Boomer, too. Both were impressed by the SEALs’ efficiency as they moved away from Flag and company.

  “I’m now liking the odds, mate,” Boomerang said. “Just say when.”

  Deadshot gestured for Boomer to stay in place. “Hold your mud, big guy. We whack out Flag now, his lady boss will cut our strings.”

  “So what?” Boomer was edgy, anxious. Adrenaline was pumping at full force. “I’m going out swinging. On my feet. Make the call.”

  Deadshot overruled him. “You got balls, but no brains.” He glanced at Harley. When was her special friend going to figure out how to dismantle their neck bombs? She saw him staring at her and blew an air-kiss his way.

  If our lives depend on that fruitcake, we are in serious, serious trouble. Still, Harley was ready to move, too, once Deadshot said yes. She was crazy, but she could kill with the best of them.

  He checked out the monster. Croc could rip off all their heads and boil them in a stew without thinking twice about it. Lucky he, or it, was firmly on their side. Croc would make his move as soon as Deadshot directed him to.

  “Everyone be cool for a minute,” Lawton whispered.

  “Why?” Harley asked. “We’re ready now.”

  “Because, my dear Doctor Quinzel, Flag and these cats are scared—and guys like them don’t get scared. Before we make our move, I want to know why. We may still need them, even if it’s only as diversions.” He saw Flag on the radio. “Be right back. Don’t do anything stupid.” Deadshot made his way over to the colonel and waited for him to finish his call.

  “What?” Flag asked.

  Lawton didn’t waste any time. “Why’s everyone here tripping?”

  Flag nodded toward a vehicle parked a short distance up the street. Moving shadows crouched behind it. Deadshot lowered his monocle into place, and raised his carbine for a closer look. His crosshairs swept the vehicle, then landed on a figure hiding behind it. For a moment he thought it was one of Midway’s police or firefighters—tall, powerful, and dressed in the tatters of what had once been a uniform. He’d been through the grinder.