Prepare to Die!

by Paul Tobin

  There’s nothing wrong with wanting cake.

  Adele said, “I know it’s not your birthday.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything. I was afraid you’d take the cake away.”

  “I’m not that cruel. And I figured that I’ve missed so many of your birthdays that I can plan a makeup birthday party whenever I want. Now, can we have a talk?”

  I thought about saying, “We are talking,” but that wouldn’t have been clever, or meaningful, or anything but stalling. I looked over to Laura, and to Apple (Laura was putting balloons into both of their shirts and exclaiming how big their boobs were) and I thought some thoughts, and I decided that it would be okay to have a talk with Adele. Or, at least, I decided it was impossible to avoid having a talk with her.

  I said, “Okay. Let’s talk. Here? Where?”

  Instead of answering my question, Adele told Laura, “Sis, Steve and I are going for a walk. Back soon, okay?”

  Apple, surprised, said, “Leaving the party? But look how big our boobs are!”

  Laura, covering her girlfriend’s mouth with a hand, said, “You two go have fun. If you come back anytime soon, best knock on my bedroom door before you come in. In fact, best knock on the kitchen door before you come in. Frankly, you better yell from the sidewalk or something. And… take condoms with you. And, if you’re gone for more than an hour, Apple and I are going to straight up eat this cake.”

  Adele and I walked out the door. We were holding hands. It felt nice (unbelievable, a miracle) that someone (a good someone) would trust her hand in mine.

  “What are we going to talk about?” I asked.

  “Don’t be an ass, Steve Clarke. You’re going to stop hiding whatever it is that you’re hiding. You’re going to kiss me. You’re going to tell me your secrets.”

  She waited for me to say something.

  I didn’t.

  She said, “Let’s go to the park.”

  ***

  On the way to the park, Adele and I stopped off at the Mighty Convenient convenience store. We didn’t talk, yet, of anything of any immediate import. We talked of how it had been the two of us, together, at that very store, watching the breaking news of Warp, the first of the superhumans. We talked about how odd it was, the two of us watching that report, not knowing that destiny was standing outside the door, peering inside through the window at me, making its plans. We talked of caramel crab cakes, the local delicacy, made by Grace Shanahan and distributed at stores around the region. We picked up some of those. Some bottled water. When she opened the door to the standing cooler I noticed she glanced at the beer, but it was only a glance, and she didn’t grab any of them or look back at them after taking the water, the way an alcoholic would do, always, every time, so it seemed like she was truly and honestly recovered from the problems of her past. It was comforting to know that such things as full recoveries can take place. She handed me the waters and the caramel crab cakes and said (I was still the only millionaire around) that it was my job to buy them. She wouldn’t let me buy anything else because it would have spoiled my appetite for birthday cake. I said that nothing spoils my appetite. She asked if that was because I’m superhuman. I said that it was because I like cake. No more than that.

  And we walked to the park to have our talk.

  ***

  “It hasn’t changed much,” I said. It was true. It was still the same park. Charles Park. Still the same log cabin. A few added names in the rafters. I’d heard that the annual summer book sale was larger now, and while it was managed in the same way as when I was a kid (there were haywagons full of books, subdivided by genres, with history, and fiction, and romance, and gardening, and science, and so on) there was now always a stand for new books, books about superhumans, books written by local authors, because several locals had taken advantage of living in the town that gave birth to Warp, that gave birth to Reaver, and that was home to the SRD base. It was a cottage industry of people who lived close to the origins of superhumans. I had no doubt that it would only grow (explode, even) when word got out (which it most assuredly would) that Paladin had been Greg Barrows, another Greenway resident. I had no doubt that, somewhere, close by, probably in several somewheres, there were people writing stories about how Tempest had been born (created, anyway) in Greenway, and she had died (squished, as it were) in a Greenway parking lot.

  Adele might write one such book herself. I didn’t think, in her case, that such a book would have been living off the luck (good and bad) of the land; she had more right than any of the others. She had made me cake.

  Adele led me to a picnic bench. It was only ten feet from the log cabin. I wondered if there was anybody in there, anybody right now, making history or marking it down.

  The wind was fluttering at the wax paper that had been wrapped around the caramel crab cakes. I was toying with putting one in my mouth. I was uncommitted.

  Adele said, “The list. I need to talk to you about your list.” I put a caramel crab cake in my mouth. Felt bad about it.

  “Your list sounds like… it sounds… it sounds like you’re going to…” She paused. I was chewing very carefully. I felt like I could accidentally break the entire conversation.

  She said, “Steve Clarke, do you think you’re going to die?”

  “We’re all going to die.” I regretted it the second I said it. What a total ass.

  “Don’t fuck with me. I’ve waited a long time. I know you weren’t asking me to wait. But I did. I didn’t even really know that I was waiting. Laura knew. And she told me. But I didn’t believe her. I do now. I waited. Don’t fuck with me. Do you think you’re going to die?”

  The wax paper was still flapping in the wind. I spent some time wondering about the wind. The mystery of the wind. What I can do, is I can heal. I can lift a lot of weight. I can take a lot of damage. I can’t do anything of the weird powers. Not the truly strange ones. Not reading minds. Not talking with animals. Not controlling the weather. I always wanted to ask Tempest about the weather. Had she controlled the weather by picking it up, moving it from place to place, the way we all do with objects, with tools? Or had she asked the weather to do what she wanted, commanded it to do things in the same manner that Mistress Mary makes a person do what she says? How did Tempest control the weather? I always wanted to ask her that. But she was a killer. A cold insanity. The question was unanswered. Unasked. So I didn’t know if the breeze that was moving the wax paper was intelligent or not. Didn’t know if it meant to do it, or if it was just something that happened. I suddenly felt like I didn’t know anything.

  While almost looking at Adele, I said, “In the last fight, with Octagon, with Eleventh Hour, they had me down. Octagon had me down and I was going to die. I asked him if I could have a couple weeks to do a last few things. I don’t know why I asked him that. But I did. I don’t know why he granted the request. But he did. Maybe it amused him. Maybe he’s like a cat, loving how he’s getting to bat around his favorite mouse for a last couple of weeks. Anyway… I made a promise. So, yes… I’m going to die.”

  Adele said, “You stupid son of a bitch.”

  I said, “Yes.” I wasn’t going to argue that point. I felt differently about it. But I also felt, from her viewpoint, that she was right.

  She repeated it. She said, “You stupid son of a bitch.” This time, she reached out and tried to slap me. I easily avoided it, because I move at different speeds. So… I made her miss. I made her miss because she would have hurt her hand, not because I didn’t deserve the slap. She overbalanced for a moment. Glared at me. Sat back down.

  The wind was still moving the wax paper. I decided that there was no intelligence behind it. That it was as dumb as I was.

  “Your list,” Adele said. The wax paper flapped. I put a finger down on it. Held it in place.

  “Your list,” Adele repeated, after a time. I hadn’t said anything in between. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to have another caramel crab cake, because that would give me an exc
use to move my mouth. Maybe that would kick-start things. Maybe I could gain momentum that way. There were two caramel crab cakes left. If I picked up one, it might reduce the weight on the wax paper enough that the wind would carry it away. I considered the ramifications of such an event. They seemed momentous. I knew that my brain wasn’t working.

  “You brought the list to Greenway,” Adele said. “You made it. You brought it. In it, you were supposed to be with me again. And you talked with Greg’s parents, and you talked, almost, with Judy. Have you made a will? Don’t put me in it. Don’t do that. Goddamn you; don’t put me in it.” She was starting to cry. I was the worst villain in all of creation. I was worse than Octagon. I was worse than Macabre. I was the bottom of the barrel. I was sitting with Adele Layton and I was making her cry.

  I took a big long breath.

  I said, “I have to tell you something. Will you… will you write it down, for afterwards? Can you do that?”

  Adele didn’t answer. Nothing beyond sniffles and a whisper that I was a son of a bitch. I should have bought tissues at the Mighty Convenient convenience store. I should have done that. Why wasn’t I thinking?

  There was a rock garden around the log cabin. I stood, picked up a rock about the size of a pineapple, faced away from Adele (to protect her from any flying shards) and snapped the rock in half. It sounded like a gunshot and Adele gasped. I should have warned her what I was doing. I still wasn’t thinking. The interior of the rock had sparkly bits, shiny bits, sections of bright gray, the way that gray can be only if it hasn’t seen the sun in a few thousand years.

  I brought half the rock back to the picnic table, and I sat down across from Adele, and I used the sharp edge of the rock to slice open my arm.

  Even though the rock was, of course, as hard as a rock, and even though the edge was sharp from the fresh break, it was still difficult to cut my nearly invulnerable skin. It took a good deal of my considerable strength to get the job done. Adele watched me with the sort of revulsion that a woman would give to a man strangling a dog.

  But this was something that someone needed to see.

  This was something that needed to be recorded.

  This was a memorial.

  This was something I’d never told anyone.

  Not Paladin. Not Mistress Mary. Not even Siren.

  My blood oozed out.

  The wound trembled and began to glow with the bright green color.

  The wound began to heal. To close.

  Adele was trying to look away but I very much needed her to see what was happening. I couldn’t die without sharing the knowledge. Without giving the truth. It wouldn’t have been right. It would have been selfish.

  I said, “Look at this.” I pointed to the green glow. Adele wasn’t looking, not much. She was trying to look, but was turning away. I suppose I would have done the same thing if she’d grabbed a knife and cut herself open. But I couldn’t let her aversion stand. She needed to look.

  I yelled, “Look at this!” in a voice that was much louder than I’d meant it to be, but it was fueled by nearly a decade of bottling up the sentence.

  Softer, I said, “Adele, please look.” She turned her head, and she looked at the green glow around the edges of my rapidly closing wound. She nodded, as if in affirmation that she was looking.

  I said, “This green glow,” and that was as far as I got before the words stuck in me, a little. I needed to stop, to breathe. Mostly, I needed to look up and see that I was talking to Adele Layton. She made it all seem okay.

  I said, “This green glow. This is Tom. This is my brother, Tom.”

  ***

  The car was in flames. It had been twisted by impact with the tanker, crunched and shattered and compressed. I was frantically trying to push open the door, kicking at it with legs that were being washed by the chemicals pouring from the tanker truck, chemicals that were flowing in through the shattered windshield and cascading through the car, sizzling with exposure to heat and flame, and the door wouldn’t give and the door wouldn’t give and the door would not give because it has been caught in an accordion vise by the compression of the car. I was screaming for Tom. I guess that’s important.

  I was screaming for Tom.

  When the car exploded, Officer Horwitz (half dead already, with the steering column having previously punched into his chest during the collision) had been looking back to me, clinging to life, advising me on the door, not telling me anything useful, but instead saying not to roll down the window until the car had sank beneath the waves. He must have thought we had gone into the river. He must have thought we were sinking. Who knows what the hell he’d been thinking? The explosion tore him in half and he died. The explosion kicked us both clear from the car, popping it open like a sardine can and spilling the little fish onto the road.

  I was dead.

  Or, no… I was only dying. I was seconds from death, and not long seconds, either. They were short, impatient seconds. I was yelling Tom’s name.

  Yes. That’s important.

  My feelings, my thoughts, pieced together later, are that Tom, who had been in the front seat, had been the first to go under the wave of chemicals that came from the ruptured tanker truck. These chemicals began filling the car, quickly spilling out from the police car into the ditch, and during these moments Tom became the first of the children of the spill. He grew power. He grew tremendous power.

  He was a healer.

  Like Greg Barrows became.

  Like people think I am.

  But I’m not.

  The green glow is Tom. My brother.

  The chemicals dissolved him. They killed him. The chemicals took his mind, his life, took what he had been, and in his dying moments he heard me calling his name, and of course Tom, Tom, Tom…

  … Tom was my brother.

  And he came to me. Even then.

  Because I was his kid brother. And Tom was a hero.

  He saved me. Healed me. Even as he died.

  I felt his life pour into me, into what was, then, my shattered and charred near-carcass, and I felt Tom bonding with me even as he died.

  My wounds closed.

  He’s been here, in me, ever since.

  But his life vanished. It’s just… what’s left, the green glow, it’s not Tom, it’s only what Tom wanted in his final moments.

  He wanted to protect his kid brother.

  And he did.

  I felt him go away.

  I felt him, in a manner of speaking, stay.

  The car’s explosion had cast me partially in the ditch, somewhat on the road. Greg Barrows was staggering around, going nowhere, covered in blood, missing an arm.

  My brother was already gone.

  ***

  When I finished with the story, Adele was barely breathing. There was a pause between each breath, a length of time long enough for her lungs to crawl up into her throat, kicking a bit, reminding her of an important job.

  Her breaths had longs seconds in between. Then her breaths stretched for long seconds, themselves. She was looking at my arm, where I had cut myself. The wound was completely healed. The green glow was gone. Receded back within me.

  Adele reached out and touched my arm where the wound had been. There was an amount of crusted blood. She flaked it away with her fingers. Some of it got beneath her fingernails. When she was done, there wasn’t anything but an unmarked arm.

  She said, “Every time you fight… every time you get… hurt. Every time that happens. Every time you heal? That’s… Tom?”

  “More or less.”

  “You must feel so guilty.”

  It felt like I’d been punched. All the tabloids. All the special reports. All the chatter going back and forth between news reporters. Every post in the comments sections of every blog. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone thinks they have insight. Everyone thinks they can peer into my mind. But Adele was the only one to get it right.

  So I started to cry. How the tabloids would have loved t
o snap a photo of that. Reaver, the man who had killed Tempest. The man who had killed Macabre. Crying. Like a baby.

  Adele came around to my side of the picnic table. Sat beside me. Held me. There wasn’t another person in the world who could have held me right then. She talked to me about Tom, about memories of him, about the way he ran through every girl in Greenway, every girl of his age, every girl a bit older, a few girls who were much older. She mentioned, hurriedly, that he’d never made any move on her. She mentioned that he’d once punched out a couple Bolton boys (I’d never known this) who had said a few things about her ass, and what might fit in it.

  Adele talked about how, one night, she and Laura had smoked some marijuana (she called it crazy grass) that Tom had given her in return for having helped tutor him on calculus the day before a test. The crazy grass had been good. It was the night when Laura had first brought home a girl to meet her parents, the last people in Greenway to know that she was a lesbian. The girl had gone home (Laura had fingered her in the upstairs hallway, with Adele reluctantly keeping watch on the stairs) and the two sisters had afterwards smoked the marijuana that Tom had given them, and Adele said that after a time she could see stars on the ceiling of her bedroom.

  “They whispered,” she said.

  I was still leaking tears. Still amazed that someone on Earth knew about Tom. About his final moments. It felt good to know that I’d given him, in some ways, an extension of his life. Or at least his memory.

  Adele talked to me about that hallway finger-bang, about how Laura wanted to write the girl’s name (Sally, an old-fashioned name, though the girl in question was one of those teenage emo-lesbians-of-the-moment) on the rafter of the log cabin.

  Adele pointed to the log cabin. I looked up at it. I could visualize the rafter. The whole thing really and truly should have been enshrined.

  I asked, “Did she do it?”

  “Not at first. She said that the log cabin was heterosexual. Something about logs equaling penises.”