Heroes Lost and Found

by Sheryl Nantus

  “I have a home.” I nodded towards Harris. “I have friends and a team.”

  The muscle under Dykovski’s left eye twitched once as his face hardened, signaling the end of the good-guy game.

  “You have nothing,” Dykovski snapped. He stood up straight, throwing off the casual friend persona. He sliced the air with his hand, the chopping motion perilously close to my neck. “You have only what I choose to give you. You want to eat? You want to wear clothing? You want to sleep? I decide where and when and how much. That’s what a Guardian is supposed to do, control every aspect of his super’s life.” A sneer twisted his face. “You’ve been spoiled by those two misfits, those lazy bastards.”

  I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to slap him into next Tuesday. “Mike was a good man who gave his life for his country.”

  “Bah.” Dykovski spat on the floor, inches from the cage. “He was a military misfit who got into the Guardian program because his daddy was a high-ranking officer. He spoiled you, Surf. Treated you like an equal, played with you, screwed you when you needed to get laid.” His mouth spun into a wide grin. “You ever think he was just playing with you? Fucking with your mind to keep you easy, pliable to go and do what they wanted?”

  The seeds of doubt got no traction in my mind.

  “Obviously you don’t know me as well as you thought.” I let out a sharp laugh. “And you didn’t know Mike at all. He was solid.” I paused, remembering the gentle giant. “More of a man than you were or ever could be.”

  Dykovski didn’t flinch. “He followed the rules, played his part. And in the end it got him nothing but a smoking crater in New York City while you ran and hid like the little girl you are, the coward he raised who left him to die.” He pointed his index finger at me. “You left him. He died alone and afraid, crying and pissing himself in his metal suit as the numbers counted down. He was a hero.” He sneered. “What does that make you?”

  Tears rose and threatened to blind me as I held back, digging my nails into my palms to keep control.

  “And Dillon, don’t get me going on that pussy. Gets hooked up with an old lady who’s too stupid to know when to die. Agency should have locked them both up, kept her training and ready to go off like a cannon when she was needed. Instead he’s prancing around with her in the background, trying to keep her safe and sound until she grows a pair and dies like a warrior, doing what she was called to do.” Dykovski stepped forward, thrusting his shaking finger right in my face. “You were supposed to die, Surf. You ran and lived and got lucky. But that stops here and now. You lead my team and live, or I’ll make you regret the day you ever got your powers.”

  “Give it your best shot,” I growled, my patience done and gone. “And go fuck yourself, while I’m thinking about it.”

  Dykovski drew his hand back. “I’ll give you to the boys, and then we’ll see how mouthy you—” Suddenly his face contorted into a yelp, a scream replacing his curse. He looked down, his slap frozen in midair.

  Harris squeezed his leg again, just above the top of his right boot. The dark green fabric smoked and burned as he interlaced his fingers, forming a locked circle around the limb.

  “You little…” Dykovski brought his fist down hard and broke the super’s hold with a single sharp punch on the exposed fingers.

  Harris withdrew into the cage as far as he could from Dykovski’s rage, already putting his hands up.

  “Fuckin’…” Dykovski inspected his leg, yanking the cloth up to study the damage. The burns weren’t bad, the pants taking the brunt of the attack. The bright red spots looked painful, small scarlet ovals dotting his ghost-white skin.

  The cage rocked as Dykovski kicked it, his rage deflected away from me for the moment.

  “Stupid.” Dykovski shot another boot to the cage, this one catching Harris’s right shoulder.

  Harris recoiled to one side, tucking his fingers under his armpits.

  “What has Surf ever done for you?” Dykovski yelled. “She played the hero. You played the villain. A few months ago she’d have beaten your ass down if you met on the playing field. What has she ever done to earn this?”

  Harris sat up straight, the confidence in his voice growing with each word. “We saved the world together. She’s a Protector. And so am I. She’s my team leader.” He looked at me with a sad smile. “And her name is Jo.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was going to burst from pride or from fear as Dykovski turned back to me, red with rage.

  “She’s your… She’s your…” He huffed, gasping for air. “She’s nothing but a stupid woman.” His hands curled into fists. “A stupid woman.”

  The hard punch sent me flying across the room. The wall broke my fall, allowing me to sit down and give the ringing in my ears time to leave.

  I looked up to see Dykovski standing over me, panting as he visibly shook from head to foot, the rage threatening to take full control.

  “You are a super. I am a Guardian. You do what I say or you do nothing at all.” He pointed his left hand at me, displaying the wristband. “I will save this world from itself and from freaks like you. Freaks who don’t deserve to live and sure as hell don’t deserve to be treated as equals.”

  “You’re nuts.” I coughed. “The world needs saving from you.”

  “And you’re going to do it?” He laughed, drawing his leg back for a kick. “When I finish with you, you’re going to beg for death, Surf.”

  Harris yelled, straining against the bars in a futile attempt to draw the crazed man away from me. His fingers stretched out as far as they could and still fell short.

  I closed my eyes, pulling myself into a ball to try and protect against the upcoming beating. There wouldn’t be any bars to temper Dykovski’s rage this time.

  A loud noise crashed into me, temporarily deafening me. I clapped my hands over my ears to try and shut it out.

  The same siren had gone off when Kit broke in.

  Right now it sounded like a chorus of angels. If I was lucky, the cavalry had just arrived.

  If I wasn’t, then heaven had damned loud welcoming trumpets.

  The low drone began as a wail, growing into a screech.

  I opened my eyes to see the black boot hovering in midair, Dykovski’s expression shifting from rage to fear. The fluorescent lights flickered and went out, the red emergency lights kicking on both inside Harris’s room and in the corridor.

  Dykovski pulled back, digging in his pockets. A set of keys fell out, and he kicked them towards the cage in a strange nervous dance.

  “Just burn yourself out,” he yelled at Harris. “Get out.”

  Harris didn’t need to be told twice. His hands landed on the padlock and turned the shiny metal to a dripping liquid pooling on the ground. The U-part snapped in two a few seconds later.

  He scrabbled his way out of the cage and ran over to me, his hands outstretched.

  I gripped his forearms and got to my feet, resisting the urge to cry.

  Thrasher and Hot Foot skidded into the room as a couple, almost wedging themselves in the doorway in a comedy routine. I hiccupped, trying not to laugh.

  “Leave her alone and get in line.” Dykovski caught Harris by the back of his shirt and pulled him away from me. I staggered to one side before regaining my balance.

  Harris fell into line with the two thugs, scowling at Dykovski.

  “You three, get into the corridor and stay ahead of us.” Dykovski advanced on me, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare move.”

  He seized my forearm, his short nails digging into my skin. “You, you’re staying with me. You’re my get-out-of-jail-free card.” With his other hand he dug in one pocket and came up with a small piece of paper. It was covered in numbers. I didn’t need to guess at what they were for.

  He stared at the paper for a second before stuffing it back in his pocket. We headed for the door, Dykovski keeping a firm grip on me.

  The three supers ran ahead of us, Harris pacing himself to be behind the other two.
I couldn’t blame him. I sure wouldn’t want to be in the front lines for this particular battle.

  “They’re coming in the east entrance.” Thrasher stopped in front of an alarm panel, the layout of the bunker clearly noted with flashing lights. Sweat poured off his face, a nervous tic making his right eye twitch. “Same as Inferno. Guess our repairs weren’t good enough.” His gaze darted to Dykovski’s and then to the ground, and he winced from an invisible slap. “Sorry.”

  Dykovski didn’t say anything.

  “Bastards have to bust the barricades first. Slow going.” Hot Foot tapped the glass panel. “Lots of crap for them to work through before they get to us.” He laughed, an almost maniacal giggle. “Going to be fun smacking their asses down.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” I said under my breath. Dykovski’s nails dug in deeper, gouging into a fresh bruise.

  I studied the diagram, finding the room I’d been kept in and where Kit’s body lay. Two entrances, east and west. The complex wasn’t that large, only a handful of rooms connected by tunnels and hallways. This was going to be a close-combat fight, no chance for long-distance attacks.

  “It’ll take a few minutes for them to break through the second set of steel doors and get to this section. The armory’s down here. Follow me.” Dykovski dragged me down the corridor to another room. His free hand dug into his pockets, scraping around inside.

  “Fuck the keys. Thrasher, kick it in.”

  The super obliged, turning to stone and punting the wooden door into the room with ease.

  The fluorescent lights flickered for a second before coming on full, adding an unworldly tinge to the strange weapons scattered around the room. Some of them I recognized as straight-up pistols and shotguns, nothing odd about that, but others seemed like prop extras from a science-fiction movie.

  I spotted the weapon Dykovski had used on Kit. The nozzle still held a bit of dark residue on the end, the thick, tarry substance partially blocking the hole. It lay on the table, waiting.

  “What do we get?” Thrasher looked over the shelves, reaching out to tap one of the peculiar weapons. His eyes gleamed as his fingers caressed a long silver barrel attached to some type of rifle.

  Dykovski turned to him. For a second I saw fear in Dykovski’s eyes, naked fear.

  He slapped Thrasher’s hand away from the weapons. “Nothing. You’re supers. Do what you do.” Dykovski threw me to the floor and walked over to a large cabinet. “You go beat them the fuck down. Remember our briefing? Do I have to tell you everything fifty fucking times over before you get it through your thick skulls?”

  Thrasher opened his mouth and then closed it with a loud snap, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He moved to stand by the door and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for orders.

  Hot Foot followed after giving a greedy look to the ammunition belts layered one atop the other on the bottom shelf.

  I tried not to show my relief. At least the team wouldn’t be facing rogues armed to the teeth. Dykovski didn’t trust supers with more than what they came with. It wasn’t a lot, but I’d take it.

  My fingers itched as I spotted a row of grenades within easy reach.

  The problem was what I would do with them.

  We had to keep Dykovski alive and conscious until we neutralized the damned wristband. If we killed him or knocked him out, at least four supers would die, including me.

  If we let him continue, he’d rack up more codes and be able to control and terrorize more supers and by proxy, civilians.

  It was a losing scenario no matter how you played it out. All I could hope was that my lucky charm was somewhere nearby with a solution that kept my head on my shoulders.

  “It’s showtime,” Dykovski whispered to himself. His lips parted in an almost sexual sigh.

  He threw the doors open with a flourish, letting out a low chuckle as gears whined and motors sputtered up to full speed.

  The shiny metal armor blinded me for a second, taking my attention away from the nearby firearms.

  It was like looking into a giant toolbox, the humming engines shifting and flexing as metal pieces tilted from side to side and opened up a large body-sized gap, just big enough for a human to fit into.

  Dykovski stood in front of the oversized wardrobe, grinning like a kid on Christmas Day. He spun around and backed into the empty space.

  I watched as the automated systems initiated their routines, wrapping bulletproof metal around his arms and legs, the breastplate sliding out from behind his back and riveting to his torso with short, drilling noises.

  Slick and professional from start to finish, but I’d expect nothing less from Agency-issue hardware. The fat metal shoulder pads extended out beyond the thick arms with extra plating around all arm and leg joints, reminding me of a football player with both his equipment and his body on steroids. If I were rioting and saw this coming at me, I’d have second thoughts.

  Right now my first thoughts were getting the hell out of here and back to Hunter.

  “Remember the plan,” Dykovski admonished the thugs. “Grab the jammers and get back to me. Draw them further into the complex, try to get behind and herd them towards me. That way I’ll be able to grab the codes. Beat them down but don’t kill them, not until I have the codes. Then we’ll see who’s calling the shots.”

  I must have appeared stupider than usual because he chortled as he watched me.

  Headgear reminding me of a light motorcycle helmet settled on his shoulders, leaving his face open and visible. “What, you thought I wasn’t prepared for your buddies to come and save you? Surf, that’s been the plan all along, ever since Meltdown contacted me. Take out the opposition or, better, make them my own team. The Agency will have to listen to me then, along with the government.” He chuckled. “Just think about all the damage your boys can do with a good leader behind them, urging them on.” His voice dropped a notch into evil-villain territory. “The Protectors will be working for me. And we’re going to take over the world.”

  The room spun around me for a second before I gathered myself and tried to put a poker face back on. Harris shook his head and closed his eyes.

  The humming stopped.

  Dykovski took a step forward, the vibrations rolling through the floor. He moved clear of the equipment closet and swung his armored arms like a man testing out a new shirt.

  “I like.”

  On his left wrist a panel flipped up and down, allowing him access to his wristband. I studied the power armor, trying to commit as much as I could to memory. Outrager might have given Jessie the stats, but this was hard, fast evidence of what it could and couldn’t do. Pushing the fear to the back of my mind, I took stock of what this monstrosity displayed.

  Flamethrower on left arm, hooked up to the backpack. Power source far, far inside and not within easy reach.

  That was on purpose. This suit had been designed to control and contain supers, not allow them easy access to shut it down.

  Trigger for the flamethrower down by his index finger. A twitch and super flambé.

  Right arm and hand open and available to carry and use handheld weapons. The Agency thought of everything.

  Except for how to deal with crazed ex-Guardians with delusions of grandeur.

  Dykovski picked up the black tar weapon from earlier, snapping it onto his right forearm. It locked with a click, secure in its new home. The trigger lay by his thumb so he could fire without losing the ability to use his fingers for other mundane tasks.

  Perfect for typing in plug codes, in other words.

  I studied the goop gun, as I called it in my mind. I knew what that could do. Added to the flamethrower, it was a potent duo of death and incapacitation. Exactly what the Agency designed the suit for—to control and dominate supers along with anyone else who was unfortunate enough to get in the way.

  Outrager and his buddies might be assholes, but they were darned competent assholes.

  “Yes, I like.” He strode across the room, his arm
ored head almost scraping the ceiling. His arms swept back and forth in a military march. “So how does it compare to Metal Mike’s?” Dykovski swung the goop gun up, propping his free hand on his waist in a macho pose.

  A lump caught in my throat as I remembered Mike in his suit, the polished armor plating resembling a knight’s armor. He’d loved the public relations visits, letting the kids climb all over him and helping a few to sit on his shoulders, high above the crowd.

  Metal Mike and his suit had come to stand for the good guys, one of the friendlier heroes out there. He never swore in battle and always had time to play—officially and unofficially.

  The warped horror in front of me had nothing in common with Mike. Including humanity.

  “Bastard,” I whispered.

  Dykovski grinned at me. “Oh, baby. You’re going to learn to love me, one way or another.” He gestured at the three men standing near us. “What, didn’t I make myself clear? Get your asses out there and get them.” The edge of his mouth tweaked up. “Your new teammates are waiting.”

  The two thugs charged out the door, leaving Harris behind. He looked from me to Dykovski and back again.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry about all this.”

  “Don’t apologize to her,” Dykovski yelled. “If you want to live, go help the other two take ’em down.”

  Harris shook his head, crossing his arms in front of him. “No.”

  “What?” Dykovski advanced on the super, eyes blazing. “What?”

  “I’m tired of this. I’m not your goddamn boy toy, I’m a human being with rights.” Harris glanced at me for a second before continuing. “Kill me if you want, but I’m not going to go out there and fight my friends.”

  “They’re not your friends.” He laughed. “They don’t give a shit about you, Meltdown. They came to save Surf, the cute widdle girl who gets the pinups and poses with the babies. You, you’re just the guy in the back holding the spear.”