Six Superhero Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  So he gets a call and shows up at the apartment, expecting a bout--only there's no bout. Dumb son of a bitch missed the action, and now he's square in the frame.

  I lower the gun. "Which promoter was it?"

  Chimpanzero swallows hard. "Fizz Dixon down at Punch-'Em-Ups."

  Shit. I hate that guy. "And who ordered the bout? Who's the money?"

  "I don't know." Chimpanzero shakes his head. "You'll have to ask Dixon."

  "Who?" Hericane rattles him around some. "Who paid Dixon to hire you?"

  The monkey's just limp at this point, like a sack of tapioca. He stares at the floor with his bloodshot eyes, looking miserable. "Please, I'm begging you..."

  Then, suddenly, a gunshot blasts through the basement.

  And one red hole pops into being on Chimpanzero's forehead, dead center between his eyes.

  *****

  I bring the .45 up as I whirl and crouch, instantly looking for a shooter. But the damn green gas is still too thick for me to see further than ten feet away.

  "Hericane!" Even as the word leaves my lips, the red beams of three laser gun-sights zip over and land on my chest.

  A man's voice booms from across the room. "Nobody move!" He's a smart guy, targeting me instead of bulletproof Hericane. Now he's got all the leverage he needs.

  "Don't worry, Bonnie." I hear Hericane drop the dead chimp behind me. "I got this."

  One of the laser sights hops off my chest, and a warning shot blows past my left ear. "I repeat, do not move!" says the same guy as before.

  At which point, I recognize his voice. "Watt?" And I can't believe it.

  Booted feet scuff toward us, and three dark figures come into view through the green gas. Three men in head-to-toe black bodysuits and goggles--first class stealth gear, plus some serious effing rifles.

  And the one in the middle, the leader, I know all too well. When he peels back his goggles and hood, I see the same bald head and long, angular features I've seen almost every day for the past five years.

  Because the son of a bitch is my boss.

  "Bonnie." He nods once and lowers his rifle--but the other two guys don't. "Are you all right?"

  "Other than almost getting shot by you?" I intentionally take a step toward him. "Fine and dandy."

  Watt raises his hand, and the other two laser sights flick away from me. "We got word Chimpanzero was hiding out here. When we arrived, we saw he was about to kill you."

  He's so full of shit, I'm surprised he said it with a straight face. But I'm sensing I'm up to my ass in alligators here, so I play the game. The mere fact that Watt McBride, director of the Internal Affairs Division of the Superhuman Protectorate, just marched in and assassinated a suspect right in front of me, tells me I'm in over my head or close enough.

  "Thanks for the backup." That's what I say to him. "Doesn't take much for a situation to get out of hand."

  I'm hoping Hericane takes my cue and dummies up, too. So far, so good; she isn't saying a word.

  Watt gestures, and one of his men runs over and leans down to examine the dead chimp. He comes up with a thin, silver blade, about four inches long.

  Which I'm sure he brought with him and only pretended to find on the body.

  "That's what he was going to use on you," says Watt. "He could've cut you up good, Bonnie."

  "Son of a gun." I stare at the blade, then meet Hericane's eyes. She looks calm and in control, thank God.

  "So what brought you here, exactly?" Watt raises his eyebrows. "I thought you were working the Mardi Gras case."

  "I was, until I got the tip for this one." I look down at the dead chimp on the floor.

  "What about you?" He casts his gaze at Hericane. "I thought you'd be helping the cops with the Mardi Gras investigation by now."

  "She agreed to help with this first." I keep doing the talking for both of us. "We had reason to believe Chimpanzero was holding hostages, and time was running out."

  "Which it wasn't." Watt nods. "You say this tip was anonymous?"

  "Something like that," I tell him. Good thing he doesn't have a lie-detecting power. He's in the Protectorate, so he's superhuman, but his power's limited to controlling the growth of fungi. "Maybe the same tipster called us both. Plenty of folks aren't fans of the rescue parish."

  "So what did he say to you?" asks Watt. "Did Chimpanzero give you any intel before he died?"

  "Zero," I tell him. "Absolutely nothing."

  Watt watches me carefully, taking my measure. Then, he shakes his head. "Maybe it's just as well. That chimp was a notorious liar."

  I nod once and slip the .45 back in my shoulder holster. "Nothing worse than a liar, sir."

  *****

  It takes a while to get clear of Watt and his men. At least we don't have to sweat Father Obregon; Watt answers his threats and demands by locking him in a confessional.

  When Watt insists on taking me back to the Protectorate offices, I make up an excuse about having to escort Hericane to the police station.

  "The most powerful woman on the planet needs an escort?" That's what the asshole says to me.

  "She needs a shoulder," I tell him. "Now that the action's over, things are starting to catch up to her."

  And so we get a pass--mostly because Hericane is the most powerful woman on the planet. We get in my car and drive off in the direction of the police station, as if we have any intention of going there.

  As if we aren't going to double back and head straight for Fizz Dixon the promoter's place instead.

  What do we talk about on the way? It sure ain't the weather, let me tell ya.

  "Holy shit." My hands are shaking on the wheel. "My own people are in on this. The Superhuman Protectorate's covering this up."

  "Why would they do that?" Hericane frowns from the passenger seat. "It doesn't make any sense."

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady my hands. "It has to." Another deep breath. "Maybe we'll see the connection after we talk to Dixon."

  Hericane's frown deepens. "You think the SP took Mardi?"

  Her denial continues. I'll let it go a little longer. "I don't know what's going on anymore. All I know is, my world just turned upside-down."

  Hericane watches me for a moment, then looks out the window. "I know the feeling."

  *****

  I half-expect to find Fizz Dixon dead. Things seem to be heading in that direction.

  But he's alive and kicking and burning the midnight oil in his storefront office down on Claremont Street. He doesn't look up when we walk in, but that's not because he's dead; it's because he's sitting behind his big, red desk hunched over his smartphone, texting like a lunatic with his mangled fingers.

  "Fizz?" I weave around the boxes of memorabilia stacked all over the floor. Dixon's got a hot sideline selling souvenirs online from the bouts he promotes--bullets that have bounced off chests, gun barrels twisted into pretzels, that sort of thing. When it comes to super-heroes, he's got all the angles figured out.

  Which he should. Because ol' Fizz Dixon used to be a hero himself before the accident.

  "Be right with ya." He's got a Southern drawl, as you might expect from a guy who used to dress in a Confederate flag costume and call himself Dixieman. He was the premiere super-hero of the Deep South, based in Birmingham, till he overestimated his indestructibility and got chewed up by an out-of-control power plant turbine he was trying to stop from exploding. "All right then." His fingers make one last flurry over the onscreen keyboard, and then he drops the phone in his lap and smiles up at me with his disfigured features. "What can I do you for?"

  "I'm Bonnie Taggart with the Protectorate." I nod politely, then gesture at my companion. "This is Hericane."

  Dixon turns his wheelchair and slides a wider smile in Hericane's direction. "Of course I know you, Ms. Hericane." His face is a mess of gnarled scars and lumps, like the knobby surface of a glazed fritter. He wasn't indestructible enough to escape damage from a power plant turbine, but his
hide was too tough for plastic surgeons to repair with conventional instruments or even lasers. "Does this mean my wildest dreams have come to pass? Would you consent to be recruited for one of my bouts?"

  "No, thanks," says Hericane.

  "Maybe you'll change your mind." Dixon's features twist around in what might be his version of a wink. A bubbled eyelid drifts halfway down over his one visible eye, then pops back up. One thing's for sure: there's a wicked glint in that eye of his. "Just think of all the money you'd make."

  Hericane shrugs. "If I want money, I can just compress some coal into diamonds."

  "Another business venture I'd very much like to discuss with you, ma'am," says Dixon.

  Enough with the pleasantries. "We're hoping you can provide some information, Mr. Dixon. Information about one of your clients."

  "Wish I could, Bonnie." His features roll into an expression that's either a smirk or a grim frown. Hard to tell with all that scar tissue. "But that'd be covered by a li'l somethin' called promoter-client privilege."

  There's no such thing, but I'm not going to argue about it. "I hope you'll make an exception," I say. "Seeing as how one of your palookas got framed for murder because of you."

  His smirk or frown changes, shifting into a look like a fist clenched around one dirty eyeball. "Which palooka?" His voice is more serious all of a sudden.

  "Chimpanzero," I tell him. "You made the call that set him up. When he got to the site of the bout, he found himself in the middle of a murder scene."

  "Shit." He reaches down for the big wheels on either side of his chair, then slowly rolls out from behind the desk. "Where's the monkey now?"

  "Dead." Hericane says it tonelessly.

  While that sinks in, I step over and stand in front of Dixon's chair, blocking him. "So you see why you might want to help us?"

  I can't read his expressions too well, but I'm guessing he's racing through the mental math in record time. If they killed Chimpanzero to shut him up, how long till they come for him, too?

  Dixon's eye slides from me to Hericane and back. "I don't know anything. I swear to God."

  I raise my palms in front of me and shake my head. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help. We want to stop these people before they go any further."

  Dixon burps softly--from nerves, maybe? His eye locks on me, flicking up and down in its socket. "I meant what I said. I don't know who hired Chimpanzero. It was all done anonymously, by e-mail."

  I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. "Somebody paid you, didn't they?"

  Dixon burps again. I think he farts a little, too. "The funds were wired from an offshore account."

  Shit. I don't think he's lying. "You're telling me you've had no direct contact with the client?"

  Dixon shakes his head. "Nope. I get an e-mail saying there's a need for an opponent on such and such a day at such and such a place at such and such a time. I set up the fighter, and the money's wired to my account."

  "Wait a minute." I frown. "Sounds like you're saying this has happened more than once."

  Dixon shrugs. "Well, twice. Second time happened just before you got here, in fact."

  So maybe this isn't such a dead end, after all. "A second request came in from the same e-mail account?"

  "Yes, ma'am," says Dixon. "Client wants an opponent for a job one hour from now, in fact. I haven't gotten back to him yet."

  I turn and look at Hericane, who's standing silently with hands on her hips. "Mr. Dixon, you're in luck. My friend here might be interested in a bout, after all."

  Hericane scowls. "I would?"

  "Hot dog!" says Dixon. "Hericane working a contract bout for me? My business will go through the roof!"

  I shake my head and place an index finger against my lips. "No names, Mr. Dixon. Just say you've got someone lined up. Give a fake name if they press you."

  "Whatever you say." Dixon makes with the maybe-it's-a-wink again. "Everyone'll still know who it was after the fact. They'll know Hericane is working for me."

  I sigh and point at the phone in his lap. "Just answer the e-mail and tell us when and where, Mr. Dixon." Then hide in a very deep hole till this is all over, I should tell him. If we found you, the Protectorate can't be too far behind.

  But I think he already knows all that.

  *****

  Hericane and I drive to the location Dixon gives us--the downtown construction site where the new sports stadium is being built. We park a few blocks away, and then she flies us in over the high fence bordering the property.

  We land around back, in the shadows away from the security lights. I check my watch and see we're twenty minutes early. The bout's due to begin at 1AM sharp.

  And that is all we know--the when, the where, but not the who or how or anything else. We're coming in blind, and we've got no backup. If one of us wasn't the most powerful woman on the planet, I'd be seriously sweating right now.

  Even so, I know this is risky. Last time Dixon arranged a bout on behalf of an anonymous player, the fighter-for-hire ended up neck-deep in a bullshit murder frame-up.

  I keep wondering what the surprise is gonna be this time.

  "All right." I draw my .45 and check the clip. "You ready?"

  Hericane nods. She's been pretty quiet since we left Dixon's place. I'll bet the reality of Mardi's death is finally setting in...and with it, the grief she's been delaying.

  Or not. "Do you think we'll find Mardi in time?" She looks vulnerable as she tucks her long, blonde hair behind her ears. "Do you think we'll be able to save her?"

  What the hell do I say to that? I need the girl fired up big time, but if I manage to force her to see the truth, will it push her over the edge?

  Frankly, I'm kind'a stunned that she still doesn't get it after what we've been through. How many more times does she have to hear people talk about the murder before she finally figures out it's for real?

  Or is there another reason for her prolonged denial? Her father suffered from extreme dementia. For the first time, I wonder if maybe she's got a touch of it, too.

  If she does, it won't do any good to try to shock her out of it just now. "We're trying our best." I reach out and give her arm a squeeze. "That's all we can do."

  Hericane shakes her head and stares off into space. "I tried to get her to quit, you know. To give up crimefighting. Shepherd's Pie and Do Si Do nearly killed her last month. Did you know that?"

  "Yes." The case came through the Internal Affairs Division of the Protectorate, though I wasn't the one who caught it. "I know Overtime saved her."

  "I should've been there." She clenches her jaw. "I should've done something."

  Does she mean she should've been there a month ago, or earlier today? "No one can be everywhere at once," I tell her. "Not even you." I give her arm another squeeze.

  "I just want to see her one more time." She brushes a tear from her cheek. "I want one more chance to show her how much I love her."

  The clock is ticking. I need to snap her out of it. "You want to help Mardi? You want to do right by her?" I wave the gun at the skeletal bulk of the vast stadium towering over us. "Then get out there and take down whoever shows up for this fight. Get 'em to tell us what they know about the people who got Mardi."

  Hericane brushes aside another tear. "Will do."

  I check my watch and give her the nod. "Time to rock 'n' roll. Time to do what you do best."

  She bobs her head from side to side. "Bad guys." A flash of a smile flickers across her face. "Kicking the asses of."

  "Go get 'em," I tell her, and then she leaps up into the sky and vaults over the lofty walls, heading for the heart of the stadium.

  *****

  With my .45 firmly in hand, and all my senses focused intently on my surroundings, I jog along the cement concourse leading under the stands. I see no one in the broad beams of the security lights arranged along the curving concourse to either side of me. It's Friday night, so work's stopped for the weekend; whatever guards are
ranging around, they're nowhere nearby. That saves me some inconvenience.

  I cast quick glimpses all around as I follow the concourse, aiming for the field. Three months from now, this place will be finished and thrumming with life--people moving in all directions, vendors hawking beers, lights flashing, food cooking. The blast of a rock band performing a concert, the crack of a baseball bat on the field. I can practically hear them now.

  And then I do hear a blast from the field, a loud, echoing crack that rattles the bare metal beams around me.

  Game on.

  Tightening my grip on the gun, I break into a run. There's an access point up ahead, on my left, and I charge full-tilt toward the opening.

  As I run, light flares from the opening, illuminating the concourse--then fading. Who showed up, I wonder? Who is it out there, on the field, fighting Hericane?

  When I get the answer, I don't like it.

  Bolting left, I dash through the access-way, emerging into the cool night air. My feet touch down in the dirt at the edge of the plain where the field will be, and I stop. I look to the sky just in time to be blinded by a burst of bright white light.

  The blindness fades, and I finally see who showed up. I see the opponent we've come here to face.

  Make that opponents, plural.

  The blood runs ice cold in my veins. I knew I'd be surprised, I couldn't guess who'd show up for the bout. But this.

  Holy shit.

  But this throws me into a state of a shock. I literally freeze in place as the situation and implications soak through me. As I realize how much shittier my life has just gotten.

  Because those people up there, swarming around Hericane? And the ones down on the field, firing their powers and weapons up at her? Those thirteen people?

  They're all heroes. They're all top-percentile heroes in the Superhuman Protectorate.

  Not the bad guys. The good guys. The best of the best. And it looks to me like they're trying their best to kill her.