Attack of the Alien Horde

by Robert Venditti

  Somehow, Miles convinced his legs to stand him up. Clutching his knotted stomach, he looked around and found a bathroom behind him. “Wait here,” he said, wincing.

  Confused, Craig turned to Dude the Teammate for advice. Dude the Teammate shrugged.

  “You got it,” Craig said, offering Miles a nod. “Sixty seconds.”

  Bent over with his stomach still balling, Miles stumbled through the bathroom door. He kneaded the knots from his stomach and straightened himself upright, frowning at himself in the mirror. How could he be so dumb? Toting the cape in his backpack didn’t make him Gilded. Wearing it did.

  The bathroom was empty. Miles dropped his backpack on the floor and reached inside. He felt the soft hum of the cape’s fabric, and the sting of Craig’s punch melted away.

  Sure, Miles had made a life-threatening error by confronting the Jammer without the cape, but now he was downright giddy, relishing the revenge to come. He started making a mental list of all the different things he was going to do to Craig. Starting off with a punch to the gut was a no-brainer, just to even the score. After that, maybe Miles would drag Craig to the nearest football field and spike him in the end zone a dozen or so times. The possibilities were endless. And the best part? Miles wouldn’t even get in trouble for any of it because Gilded would be the one doing it all. What was Mr. Harangue going to do—send a superhero to detention?

  Enough relishing. It was time to get down to business. Miles tossed the cape over his shoulders and threw open the bathroom door with a—

  WHAM!

  Miles stood in the doorway, basking in the amazement of his fellow students. He scanned the crowd, searching for the one person he wanted more than anyone to see him. There, with her friends gaping and gawking around her, he found Josie.

  She was stunned. Incredulous. She truly had no idea what she was seeing. The sight of Gilded emerging from the boys’ room had understandably made quite an impression. Maybe after he made short work of Craig, Miles would fly her home. No more cramped bus rides for Josie. She was Gilded’s girl now.

  “Surprised?” Miles announced cockily. “Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

  Miles leveled a steely gaze at Craig, who was as stunned as everyone else. At least for once there was a reason for him to have a stupid expression.

  “Get ready, Jammer! You’re about to get . . . jammed!”

  Okay, as far as superhero catchphrases went, it needed work, but that wasn’t important right now. The important thing was Craig was finally going to get what was coming to him. And then some.

  Miles marched toward Craig, his foot stomps echoing in the hushed hallway. He tilted his head back and glared straight up into Craig’s . . .

  Wait.

  Why was Miles still looking up at Craig? Shouldn’t he be looking down? Craig was big, but nowhere near as tall as Gilded. And why wasn’t Craig scared? When Mr. Collins had come face-to-face with Gilded, he’d been terrified. Craig wasn’t even stunned anymore. If anything, he was smug.

  Miles looked down at himself, and to his horror he discovered that he wasn’t Gilded at all. No superhero costume. No muscles or strong hands, and probably no steely gaze, either. He was regular old Miles Taylor, with a goofy golden cape thrown in to boot. He reached up for the clasp and felt its two halves hanging loosely. In his hurry to pummel Craig, Miles hadn’t noticed that the clasp hadn’t connected properly. No wonder everyone was staring. The cape slid off Miles’s shoulders and fell silently to the floor.

  There was a snicker. Then the crowd erupted. “The new kid thinks he’s Gilded!” someone squawked.

  “Du-u-u-de,” Dude the Teammate guffawed.

  Miles wouldn’t have blamed Josie if she were laughing, too. Instead she nudged one of her giggling friends with an elbow. “Don’t be mean,” she said.

  Humiliated, Miles scooped up the cape and dashed back into the bathroom. The last thing he heard was Craig’s roaring laughter. “Catch you later, superzero!”

  Alone in the bathroom, Miles threw the cape onto his shoulders again. He tried pushing the clasp together, but it was no use. It wouldn’t fuse into one piece the way it had that morning.

  Was it possible it hadn’t recharged yet? How could that be? Even if the battle against the alien had used up a lot of juice, hadn’t Gilded spent an entire day building sandbag dams and helping stranded drivers when a rainstorm had flooded downtown last April? All Miles was asking for was a few seconds to mop up a bully.

  floosh

  The latch on one of the stalls slid back. Miles held his breath, wondering who was inside. The way his luck had turned, it was probably some new bully he hadn’t met yet. Just what he needed.

  The flusher stepped out of the stall, and Miles whispered a silent prayer of thanks. It was only the kid from detention—the one with the overlarge glasses and too-short pants. Clearly, he wasn’t a threat to anyone. In fact, he was looking at Miles with complete awe. Honest-to-goodness awe, like he really was impressed by what he saw.

  “Wow.” The kid gaped, adjusting the strap on his shoulder bag. “Awesome cape.”

  Miles checked his reflection in the mirror, wondering if the cape had started working. Nope. He waited for the kid to yell “Gotcha!” and bust out laughing, but he kept looking Miles over appreciatively.

  Miles couldn’t take the awkward silence any longer. “You really think so?” he asked.

  “Totally,” the kid gushed. “Best replica Gilded cape I’ve ever seen.” He washed his hands at the sink and then turned to Miles. “Where’d you buy it?”

  “I—”

  “Right,” the kid interrupted, as though he already knew the answer to his question. “There aren’t any capes this nice on the market. I’ve looked. So you made it yourself? I’ve made my own tons of times. You know what the hardest part is?”

  “I—”

  “Of course you know. Duh. It’s the stitching. Everybody forgets Gilded’s costume doesn’t have any stitching. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been that close to him or anything—I’ve never even seen him in person—but I’ve studied enough photos and TV footage to know. I have a theory that it’s made from some crazy material that doesn’t need stitches. Can I touch it?”

  “I—”

  The kid snatched up the corner of the cape and rubbed it between his fingers, raising it to his glasses for closer inspection. “Is this satin? No. It isn’t satin. Silk? What’d it cost you per foot?”

  Miles had never seen anyone so excited. It was like the kid was experiencing Christmas, his birthday, and the last day of school all at the same time. Miles had not the foggiest clue how to answer any of the questions, so he steered the conversation in another direction. “Detention. You were the kid with the comic book.”

  The kid let go of the cape and grinned. “Gilded Age number 452. Mr. Constant caught me reading it during class. What’s the big deal? I’d already taught myself the day’s lesson.” The kid shrugged. “Oh, well. Coach Lineman runs a quiet ship. Great reading environment. What’s your name anyway?”

  “Miles.”

  The kid jutted out a hand. “Henry Matte. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miles.”

  Pleased to make your acquaintance? Did he think he was applying for a job?

  Miles shook the kid’s hand. “Right. Same here.” Miles tried to muster some enthusiasm of his own, but it wasn’t easy, given the fact he was hiding in a bathroom and wearing a cape on the fritz. “So . . . I guess you’re a pretty big Gilded fan,” he offered.

  “Try the biggest. I know everything there is to know about the Golden Great. Ask me something. Go on. Anything. I’ll know the answer.”

  Come to think of it, maybe Miles had a job opening after all. “Henry?” he said, smiling.

  Henry narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, preparing himself for Miles’s toughest bit of Gilded trivia. “Shoot,” he dared.

  “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  CHAPTER

  7

>   MAYBE IT WAS RUDE FOR Miles to invite himself over to Henry’s house after school, but he didn’t have much choice. He needed answers about the cape, and Henry was his best way of getting them. Even if Henry turned out not to be the walking Gilded-pedia he claimed to be, there was no doubt he knew more than Miles. Gilded’s costume didn’t have any stitching? Who noticed things like that? Miles had spent more time with the Gilded cape than anyone—well, anyone except the old man who gave it to him—and the thought of checking the stitching never crossed his mind. He just hoped Henry’s knowledge extended to more than tailoring.

  As they walked to Henry’s, Miles kept looking around for the Jammer and his herd in case they wanted to finish their earlier conversation. If Henry worried about such things, it didn’t show.

  “You don’t have any of that fabric left, do you?” he asked. “Where’d you buy it, anyway? I bet it was a special order. Ever notice how the real Gilded cape never shows any damage? I know. Right? Fires, gunfights, you name it. Can you imagine what fabric like that would mean for the poor? A single pair of pants would last forever!” Henry went on and on, lost in his one-man question-and-answer session.

  When they turned the corner into Henry’s neighborhood, Miles stopped cold. He gazed up at the entrance monolith, a huge manmade waterfall cascading across a waterwheel. The wheel spun lazily in the sun, dipping in and out of a crystal-clear pool that was scattered with enough loose change to pay a month’s rent at the Taylor household. At the base of the monolith, wrought iron bent into cursive lettering spelled out the subdivision’s name: ESTATES AT OAK GLEN.

  “You live here?” Miles gasped.

  Henry walked a few more steps before noticing Miles was no longer beside him. He broke off his Gilded reverie and turned around. “You say something?”

  “You live here?” Miles repeated. “This is the Christmas neighborhood.”

  Henry arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “This is where the houses go crazy with the lights and animatronic snowmen.” Everyone knew about this neighborhood. It was a regular December feature in the local news. While some people paid by the carload for the privilege of inching through a traffic jam to see the lights at parks or botanical gardens, local families knew they could get better holiday displays for free right here. “Didn’t one of the roofs have a life-sized Santa sleigh with all nine reindeer a couple of years ago?”

  “Oh, that.” Henry shrugged. “Sure. Mr. Snollygoster had to file a permit to install the fog machine.”

  Coming from anyone else, Henry’s nonchalance would’ve rang false, like he was trying to act humble when really he was bragging. Miles had hung around the mall enough—seen enough Southern belles with their big diamonds and cooing accents—to spot a phony. But Henry struck Miles as the type of kid who honestly didn’t realize how much money his parents had to earn to live in a neighborhood with the word “estates” in the title. Henry was an odd duck, but he was innocent. He didn’t seem pretentious or judgmental. Miles liked him.

  Miles was a long way from Cedar Lake Apartments, but he didn’t realize how long until he saw the houses up close. Impressive as they were when lit up at night, they were even more impressive in the daytime. Some had white columns out front, others wraparound porches with fireplaces overlooking infinity pools. One had a barn-shaped garage topped with a copper roof and a rooster weathervane. As if there were any livestock inside. More like Porsches and Cadillacs.

  Then there were the yards. Great green swaths separated the houses from one another by enough space to drop another house in between. Brick driveways stretched for fifty yards or more.

  “How do you trick-or-treat in a place like this?” Miles wondered.

  “Golf carts,” Henry replied matter-of-factly.

  Tired of walking, Miles wanted to ask Henry to fetch one of those golf carts and come back for him.

  At last they reached the Matte home. The massive structure’s three levels sat atop an exposed basement with its own parking area and side entry. Walking up the driveway, Miles admired the stacked stone facade and the two-tiered porch supported by thick, wooden beams. The front yard was large enough to include a pond—Miles had never known anyone who owned a body of water—complete with a paddleboat moored to a fishing dock. Everything was situated behind a copse of oak trees whose leaves were just beginning to fall. Miles wasn’t sure if the trees were intended to offer privacy, but a flagpole would’ve had an easier time trying to hide a hippopotamus.

  Henry slid his key into the doorknob, pushed the door inward, and stepped aside. “After you,” he said, gesturing with a sweeping hand.

  Miles crossed the threshold and caught his breath. He wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but the house actually looked bigger on the inside. A line of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the backyard, which sloped gently downward before disappearing into a forest of dogwoods and pines. Between the foyer and the windows was a great room decorated in leather furniture and floored with enough polished hardwood to scrimmage a roller derby team.

  Everything was . . . immaculate. That was the word. Immaculate. There wasn’t a speck of dust or trace of dirt to be found, not even the red Georgia clay that was the bane of clean houses everywhere. And everything matched, too, the chairs and sofa complementing the lamps and wall hangings. It was like stepping into the cover of one of those interior design magazines his mom used to leave lying around the house. Miles thought he heard angels singing.

  “What do your parents do?” he asked.

  “Dad’s an engineer, which is a fancy way of saying he builds stuff. Mom does a bunch of volunteer work. I think she’s at the food bank today. What about yours?”

  Miles shifted his feet. “My dad works in construction, too. My mom is . . .” He searched for the right word. “Gone.”

  Henry’s face dropped. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Miles could tell from the way Henry said it that he thought Miles’s mom had died. Miles didn’t see a need to correct him. It was better than explaining that she’d decided not to hang around.

  Henry perked up suddenly. “So, you ready to see the Gilded Cage?” Henry’s hands shot up, and he wiggled his fingers as though he’d uttered some magic phrase. It wasn’t a question so much as an announcement.

  “Is that where you keep your dogs?” Miles cringed. “You didn’t name your dog Gilded, did you?” Miles imagined a fluffy Pomeranian with a tiny golden cape.

  “I would if I had a dog. I’d train it to fight crime, too.” Henry’s voice trailed off as he pondered the possibilities. Then he shook his head, snapping himself out of his daydream. “The Gilded Cage is what I call my bedroom. It’s my headquarters. My secret lair.”

  “But I thought a gilded cage was a bad thing. A prison that you don’t realize is a prison.”

  Henry huffed. “I’d like to see you come up with a cool hideout name that somehow incorporates ‘gilded.’ Do you want to see it, or not?”

  “Sounds awesome. Lead the way.”

  They climbed the curved staircase up to the third-story landing, where there stood a single closed door. A sign taped to the door read, PRIVATE.

  Henry grinned. “When Dad helped the architect design the house, he planned for this to be his den. I convinced him it’d make a better . . . Fortress of Gilded-tude!” He punctuated the declaration with another bout of dancing fingers. Seeing the new name elicit no response from Miles, he dropped his hands and sighed. “You’re right. Too derivative. Just come on.”

  If the immaculateness of the rest of the house was a cause for angels to sing, then the condition of Henry’s bedroom would surely make them weep. Newspaper clippings, computer printouts, and back issues of Gilded Age were strewn everywhere. The room was a mishmash of odds and ends—screwdrivers and other hand tools mixed in with swatches of gold fabric and knockoff Gilded merchandise. Dirty laundry covered the floor. Miles stood frozen in the room’s only clean spot, a half circle of carpet that had been swept bare by the o
pening of the door.

  “You don’t have friends over very often, do you?” Miles asked.

  “Friends are overrated. I have interests. If people aren’t as enthusiastic about them as I am, then so be it.”

  Henry spoke without an ounce of resentment. While every other kid at Chapman—Miles included—judged themselves by their friend count, Henry didn’t seem to care. How someone who looked like the poster child for a teen makeover show could be so confident was beyond Miles’s comprehension. But he admired it.

  “Have a seat,” Henry beckoned. “I’ll show you where I do all my work.”

  Sit where? And what kind of work could he be doing in here—growing mold? Then Miles realized the room wasn’t full of just junk. It held a lot of equipment, too. A laptop was buried under the papers on the desk. The coatrack by the window was actually a telescope, and from the size of it, probably an expensive one. What appeared to be a trucker’s CB radio sat on the nightstand. Miles thought he spied a metal detector next to some doodad that looked like a toy gun, but with a mini satellite dish on the end of the barrel.

  A map of the greater Atlanta area had been taped to the far wall, and hundreds of dots had been drawn on it with red marker. Miles stepped into the room for a closer look.

  squish

  Miles lifted his shoe to find the sole smeared with purple ooze. “Sorry,” he offered.

  “My jelly doughnut!” Henry said cheerily. “I was looking for that!”

  “Glad to help.” Miles picked up a paper towel from the floor and cleaned his shoe. He nodded at the map. “What’s that?”

  Henry concentrated on the myriad red dots. “All the known Gilded sightings from the past two years. If I collect enough data on his response time to emergencies, I might be able to track him back to his hideout.” Henry furrowed his brow. “The calculations would be easier if I knew his maximum airspeed, but no one has been able to clock him.”