Superheroes

by Margaret Ronald

  The following day, he was discharged. While waiting for Allison to pick him up, he took another stroll down to 217. This time, he encountered no obstacles and managed to complete the journey, finding a recuperating and spirited McNeil in the company of his fiancée, a pretty blonde who had just landed herself a position at a boutique East Coast law firm. According to McNeil, he had already requested a transfer and, once well enough, would be making the move. Marshall sat with them for a while and then, at the appointed time, wished them all the best and excused himself. “See you at the wedding then?” McNeil asked him.

  “Sure,” said Marshall, holding up at the doorway and throwing them a wink. “See you then.”

  By the time he got downstairs, Allison was already there. “Waiting long?” he asked as he made his uncertain approach. Her response was a long, drawn-out sigh of unmistakable relief. She fell into his arms. They held each other wordlessly until they began to draw curious looks from passersby. Then, Allison said, “Let’s go home.”

  Months passed. His mother was given a clean bill of health and moved into a place twelve blocks away. “Close enough,” as Allison was fond of saying. They settled in. She was promoted, joined several weekend charity drives. He landed a job with the local branch of a major pharmaceutical company and finally got that library card he’d been putting off. In early February, Allison announced she was pregnant. Time passed. They were happy.

  Finally, that spring, while in the area on company business, Marshall drove the forty miles out to pay Agent Bryerson a visit.

  “What’s this?” asked the stone-faced bruiser when Marshall presented him with the gift-wrapped bottle.

  “An overdue thank-you present,” said Marshall.

  Bryerson sized up the bottle, gave a satisfied nod, and set it down on his desk. “Yep,” he said. “I save your life, you get me a bottle of wine. Sounds about right.”

  “A great bottle of wine,” Marshall clarified.

  “No doubt,” said Bryerson, throwing him his shark grin. He motioned toward the doorway. “Come on. Let’s go do this and then you can take me to lunch.”

  It was a request Marshall had made months ago and Bryerson was happy to accommodate. No rush. Even though the case was closed, its evidentiary material wasn’t going anywhere. It would be drawing the scrutiny of investigators and eggheads for some time to come.

  Bryerson led him to a room at the end of a long corridor, unlocked the door, and waved him in. The halogen lights flickered to life, casting their ice-blue illumination down on the facts and figures of the investigation. “The Downfall suit isn’t here, of course,” Bryerson informed him.

  “Didn’t think it would be,” Marshall said as he scanned the various photos and documents laid out in front of him.

  “The army hired that little brainiac, QuickThink—you know him—?”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “—to reverse-engineer the suit. He thinks he can have special forces outfitted by middle of next year.”

  But Marshall’s mind was elsewhere. He’d already spotted what he’d come for—confirmation sitting on a table at the back of the room. He approached it, pointed. “This how the ferenium-17 was delivered?”

  “Yeah. They figure it was dusted on a copy of his own book he was asked to sign. The return address was bogus, but he never got around to sending it anyway. I mean, isn’t that a kick in the pants. No special bullet or elaborate trap. It was just sent regular mail.”

  Marshall picked up the box and studied its Chinese motif—a gold dragon embossed on a crimson red backdrop. Incredibly, after so many months, it still held the scent of jasmine and sandalwood.

  DIRAE

  PETER S. BEAGLE

  Red.

  Wet red.

  My feet in the red.

  Look. Bending in the red. Shiny in his hand—other hand tears, shakes at something in the red.

  Moves.

  In the red, it moves.

  Doesn’t want it to move. Kicks at it, lifts shiny again.

  Doesn’t see me.

  In the red, it makes a sound.

  Sound hurts me.

  Doesn’t want sound, either. Makes a sound, brings shiny down.

  Stop him.

  Why?

  Don’t know.

  In my hand, his hand. Eyes wide. Pulls free, swings shiny at me.

  Take it away.

  Swing shiny across his face. Opens up, flower. Red teeth. Swing shiny again, other way.

  Red. Red.

  Another sound—high, hurting. Far away, but coming closer. Eyes white in red, red face. He turns, feet slipping in red. Could catch him.

  Sound closer. At my feet, moves in red. Hurts me. Hurts me.

  Sound too close.

  Go away.

  Darkness.

  Darkness.

  DARK.

  I …

  What? Which? Who?

  Who I? Think.

  What is think?

  Loud. Hurting. Loud.

  A fence. Boys. Loud. Hurts me.

  One boy, curled on ground.

  Other boys.

  Feet. So many feet.

  Hurts.

  I walk to them. I.

  A boy in each hand. I throw them away. I.

  More boys, more feet. Pick them up, bang together. Throw away.

  Like this. I like this.

  Boys gone.

  Curled-up boy. Clothes torn, face streaked red. This is blood. I know. How do I know?

  Boy stands up. Falls.

  Face wet, not the blood. Water from his eyes. What?

  Stands again. Speaks to me, words. Walks away. Almost falls, but not. Wipes face, walks on.

  Turn, faces looking at me. I look back, they turn away. Alone here.

  Here. Where?

  Doors. Windows. Noise. People. In one dark window, a figure.

  I move, it moves. I go close to see—it comes toward, reaching out.

  Me?

  Darkness. Darkness. DARK …

  the one with the knife, just out of reach. Drops back, comes close, darts away again. Waiting, waiting, in the corner of my left eye. Old woman screams and screams. The one riding my back, forearm across my throat, laughing, grunting. I snap my head back, feel the nose go, kick between his legs as he falls away. Knife man moves in then, and I catch his wrist and break it, yes. Third one, with the gun, frightened, fires, whong, garbage can rolls on its edge, falls over. He drops the gun, runs, and I lose him in the alley.

  The one I kicked, wriggling on his side toward the gun when I turn back. Stops when he sees me. The old woman gone at last, the knife man huddling against the warehouse wall. “Bitch, you broke my fucking wrist!” Bitch, over and over. Other words. I pick up knife and gun and walk away, find a place to drop them. The sky is brightening toward the river, pretty.

  Dark …

  and I am rolling on the ground, trying to take an automatic rifle away from a crying man. Hits out, bites, kicks, tries to club me with the gun. People crowding in everywhere—legs, shoes, too close, shopping bags, too close, someone steps on my hand. Bodies on the ground, some moving, most not. In my arms, he struggles and wails, wife who left him, job he lost, children taken from him, voices, voices. Gives up suddenly—eyes roll back, gone away, harmless. I fight off a raging man, little girl limp in his arms, wants the gun, Give me that gun! I am on my feet, standing over the gunman, surrounded, protecting him now. Police.

  Revolving lights, red and blue and white, ringing us all in together, they yank the man to his feet and run him away, barely letting him touch the ground. Still weeping, head thrown back as though his neck were broken. Bodies lying everywhere, most of them dead. I know dead.

  One policeman comes to me, thanks me for preventing more deaths. I give him the rifle, he takes out a little notebook. Wants my story—what happened, what I saw, what I did. Kind face, happy eyes. I begin to tell him.

  … then the darkness.

  Where do I go?

  When the da
rk takes me—just after I am snatched up out of one war and whirled off into another—where am I? No time between, no memories except blurred battles, no name, no needs, no desires, no relation to anything but my reflection in a shop window or a puddle of rain … where do I live? Who am I when I am there?

  Do I live?

  No, I am not a who, cannot be. I am a what. A walking weapon, a tool, a force, employed by someone or something unknown to me, for reasons I don’t understand.

  But—

  If I was made to be a weapon, consciously manufactured for one purpose alone, then why do I question? That poor madman’s rifle had no such interest in its own identity, nor its master’s, nor where it hung between uses. No, I am something more than a rifle: I must be something that …

  wonders. Wonders even while I am taking a gas can away from a giggling young couple who are bending over the ragged woman blinking drowsily on the sidewalk, the man holding his cigarette lighter open, thumb on its wheel. I hit them with the can until they fall down and stay there; then pour the gasoline over them and throw the lighter into a sewer. The ragged woman sniffs, offended by the smell, gets up and mumbles away. She gives me a small nod as she passes by.

  And for just an instant, before the darkness takes me, I stand in the empty street, staring after her: a weapon momentarily in no one’s hands, aimed at no one, a weapon trying to imagine itself. Only that moment …

  then dark again, think about the darkness …

  and it is daylight this time, late afternoon. I can see her ahead of me, too far ahead, the calm, well-dressed woman placidly dropping the second child into the river that wanders back and forth through this city. I can see the head of the first one, already swept almost out of sight. The third is struggling now, crying in her arms as she picks it up and raises it over the rail. Other people are running, but I am weaving through, I am past them, I am there, hitting her as hard as I can, so that she is actually lifted off the ground, slamming into a sign I cannot read. But the child is already in the air, falling …

  … and so am I, hitting the water only seconds behind her. That one is easy—I have her almost immediately, a little one, a girl, gasping and choking, but unharmed. I set her on the narrow bank—there are stairs ahead, someone will come down and get her—and head after the others, kicking my shoes off as I swim. As I swim …

  How do I know how to swim? Is that part of being a weapon? I am cutting through the water effortlessly, moving faster than the people running along the roadway—how did I learn to use my legs and arms just so? The current is with me, but it is sweeping the children along in the same way. Ahead, one small face turned to the sky, still afloat, but not for long. I swim faster.

  A boy, this one, older than the first. I tread water to scoop him up and hold him over my shoulder, while he spews what seems like half the river down my back. But he is trying to point ahead, downstream, even while he vomits, after the third child, the one I can’t see anywhere. People are calling from above, but there’s no time, no time. I tuck him into the crook of my left arm and set off again, paddling with the right, using my legs and back like one thing, keeping my head out of the water to stare ahead. Nothing. No sign.

  Sensible boy, he wriggles around to hold onto my shoulders as I swim, so that the left arm is free again. But I can’t find the other one—I can’t …

  … and then I can. Floating face down, drifting lifelessly, turning and turning. A second girl. I have her in another moment, but the river is fighting me for the two of them now, and getting them to the bank against the current is hard. But we manage it. We manage.

  Hands and faces, taking the children from me. The boy and the little one will be all right—the older girl … I don’t know. The police are here, and two of them are kneeling over her, while the other two are being wrapped in blankets. There is a blanket around my shoulders too, I had not noticed. People pressing close, praising me, their voices very far away. I need to see about the girl.

  The police have the mother, a man on either side of her, holding her arms tightly, though she moves with them willingly. Her face is utterly tranquil, all expression smoothed away; she looks at the children with no sign of recognition. The boy looks back at her … I will not think about that look. If I am a weapon, I don’t have to. I start toward the motionless girl.

  One of the policemen trying to start her breath again looks up—then recognizes me, as I know him. He was the one who was asking me questions about the weeping man with the rifle, and who actually saw me go with the darkness. I back away, letting the blanket fall, ready to leap back into the river, soaked through and weary as I am. He points at me, begins to stand up …

  … the darkness comes for me, and for once I am grateful. Except … except …

  Except that now I will never know about that girl, whether she lived or died. I will never know what happened to the mother …

  Once I would not—could not—have thought such thoughts. I would have had neither the words nor the place in me where the words should go. I would not have known to separate myself from the darkness—to remain me, even in the dark, waiting. Can a weapon do that? Can a weapon remember that small boy’s face above the water, and the way he tried to help me save his sister?

  Then that is not all I am, even as I wish it. Who am I?

  If I am a person, I must have a name. Persons have names. What is my name?

  What is my name?

  Where do I live?

  Could I be mad? Like that poor man with the gun?

  I wake. That must mean that I sleep. Doesn’t it? Then where do I … no, no distractions. What is sure is that I come suddenly awake—on the street, every time, somewhere in the city. Wide awake, instantly … dressed—neatly, practically, and entirely unremarkably—and on my feet, moving, either already in the midst of trouble, or heading straight for it. And I will know what to do when I find it, because … because I will know, that’s all. I always know.

  No name, then … no home … nowhere to be, except when I am hurrying toward it. And even in daylight, darkness always near … silent, void, always lost before, but now this new place in the dark when I can feel that there is a now, and that now is different from after-now. If that’s so, then I ought to be able to stand still in after-now and look back …

  standing beneath a flickering street light, watching two young black girls walking together, arm in arm. They look no more than fifteen—thirteen, more likely—and they have just come from seeing a movie. How do I know what a movie is? This must have been a funny one, because they are giggling, quoting lines, acting out scenes for each other. But they walk rapidly, almost hurrying, and there is a strained pitch to their laughter that makes me think they know it is dangerous for them to be here. I parallel their progress on the other side of the street.

  The five white boys materialize silently out of the shadows—three in front of the girls, two behind them, cutting off any chance of flight. The moment is perfectly soundless: everybody knows what everybody else is there for. The black girls look desperately around them; then back slowly against the wall of a building, holding hands like the children they are. One of the boys is already unbuckling his belt.

  I am the first one to speak. I walk forward slowly, crossing the empty street, saying, “No. This is not to happen.”

  I speak strangely, I know that, though I can never hear what it is that I do wrong. The boys turn to look at me, giving the two girls an instant when they might well have made a successful dash for safety. But they are too frightened; neither of them could move a finger at this moment. I keep coming. I say, “I think everyone should go home.”

  The big one begins to smile. The leader. Good. He says loudly to the others, “Right, I’ll take this one. Dark meat’s bad for my diet.” The rest of them laugh, turning back toward the black girls.

  I walk straight up to him, never hesitating. The smile stays on his broad blond face, but there is puzzlement in the eyes now, because I am not supposed to be doing t
his. I say, “You should have listened,” and kick straight up at his crotch.

  But this one saw that coming, and simply turns his thigh to block me. Huge, grinning—small teeth, kernels of white corn—he hurls himself at me, and we grapple on our feet for a moment before we fall together. His hand covers my entire face; he could smother me like that, easily, but I know better than to bite the heel and anchor myself to the consequences. Instead, I grab his free hand and start breaking fingers. He roars and pulls the hand away from my face, closing it into a fist that will snap my neck if it lands. It doesn’t. I twist. Then my own hand, rigid fingers joined and extended, catches him under the heart—again, around the side, kidneys, once, twice—and he gasps and sags. I roll him off me fast and stand up.

  The boys haven’t noticed the fate of their leader; they are entirely occupied with the black girls, who are screaming now, crying to me for help. I take a throat in each hand and bang two heads together—really hard, there is blood. I drop them, grab another by the shirt, slam him against a parked car, hit him until he sits down in the street. When I turn from him, the last one is halfway down the block, looking back constantly as he runs. He is fat and slow, easily caught—but I had better see to the girls.

  “This is not a good place,” I say. “Come, I will walk you home.”

  They are paralyzed at first, almost unable to believe that they have not been raped and beaten, perhaps murdered. Then they are all questions, hysterical with questions I cannot answer. Who am I? What is my name? Where did I come from—do I live around here? How did I happen to be right there when they needed help?