He lands face down, is covered by scraps of wood and brick and deck screws and other detritus. He also knows that the orange he now sees just behind his closed eyes isn’t from the fire pit, but from the fire ball now engulfing the middle house.
Ernest hears raspy, labored breathing. Unless it’s his, and he’s having an out-of-body experience, Ernest knows that the creature who was setting fire to the deck must have landed somewhere close. And, like Ernest, is somehow alive.
Ernest lies motionless for another moment, making sure he can draw breath without his ribcage erupting in pain. Flesh wounds are one thing for a man whose pain calibration has been thrown off; internal organ damage is another matter.
His lungs expand, and to Ernest’s relief, it doesn’t hurt. Not much. Bruised, but not broken. There’s only one way to find out about the rest. Ernest twitches and rolls to his side. He feels a jolt of pain that feels like something sharp and metal being driven against his femur. He pulls a chunk of particleboard off his leg. It is something sharp and metal being driven against his femur. Huh, I guess that explains it. With a grimace, Ernest extracts a flathead screwdriver from his thigh. Either the explosion or the landing had driven it almost hilt-deep. He examines its bloody end for a moment, then flings the tool aside.
Kneeling, Ernest scans the backyard for signs of either Jupiter or the creature that set the whole thing in motion. He sees movement under a lump of debris. Ernest crawls in that direction. If a screwdriver has impaled me, Ernest thinks, there’s no telling what might be sticking into, or out of, the other man’s body. There may not be time to spare.
Ernest arrives at the moving lump and pulls away wreckage: a hunk of wood that looks like it was part of a pergola, concrete chunks that may have been the fire pit. And hey, where the hell is—
‘Jupiter!’
His shout goes unanswered. Not good. Ernest removes a 2x4 covering the man-thing’s face. He’s now unearthed enough debris that he should be able to draw breath unobstructed.
‘Hey! Hey! Are you hurt? Can you hear me?’
Although rubble and blood obscure the man’s face, Ernest can see his chest rise and fall. He hears ragged breathing. ‘Jupiter! Are you—’
‘Coming!’
Thank God. His partner also survived.
Ernest reaches under the wreckage, checking for a pulse.
The figure’s right hand shoots toward Ernest’s neck. It clamps down with an almost mechanical, hydraulic force. Ernest’s eyes register surprise at the sheer strength of this opponent. He gags, gasps, but is unable to free himself from the monster’s grasp.
Ernest throws a punch. It has no effect.
He punches again, this time conjuring up a few ounces of superstrength. He just wants the thing to let go—no need to drive its jaw into the next zip code.
The blow lands. The brute is incredibly strong, but is still governed by a brain that doesn’t react well to blunt force trauma. Its hand slides from Ernest’s neck.
Ernest’s own hand goes to his throat. He rubs his Adam’s apple. Although bruised, Ernest’s vocal cords are relatively unharmed. ‘What in the hell…’ Ernest swallows, blood flowing back into the muscles around his voice box. ‘… are you?’
The answer comes in the form of a sheet of plastic.
More specifically: a sheet of industrial strength, window insulating bubble wrap, pulled tight across Ernest’s face by something with industrial strength all its own.
Ernest takes a panicked gasp for air, instantly trying to piece together what the hell is going on. What is this monster thing, and who the hell is now attacking him, and why?
In the midst of his shock and confusion, two powerful hands snatch Ernest up and away from the monster.
Make that one hand.
One powerful hand.
Belonging to one Jupiter Blackshear.
Ernest’s claws at his neck, and at Jupiter’s hand, which now isn’t really much of a hand, but rather something that feels like some kind of hydraulic vice. There is little Ernest can do. Especially in his current state, and badly outgunned.
What’s more, Ernest now realizes with horror, he’s outnumbered.
Unbelievably, the monster at Ernest’s feet begins stirring. It hoists itself upright. It positions itself front of Ernest, the man-thing’s breathing once again heavy and rasping, blood dripping off his chin. Even though thick plastic obscures his view, Ernest sees a beast ripped from the pages of a nightmare.
Plastic sheeting also muddies the next sound Ernest hears, but he makes out Jupiter’s voice well enough. ‘Hold this for me, will you, Bob? I need a few more supplies.’
Bob silently obeys. Ernest feels his arms wrenched behind him and locked into place by something metallic and unforgiving.
Ernest gasps for breath. His vision blackens around the edges.
He thinks of his family.
He wishes he had listened to Phoebe. He wishes he could go back and change things. He wishes he had passed on his superhero legacy to Fergus, who wanted the job so badly. Struggling for what may be his last breaths, however, there isn’t time for repairing past mistakes. There’s only time for regret, that most wasted of emotions. His life is about to end, and his last moments are going to be the most useless of his life. He won’t be there for his son. Or his daughter. Or his wife. Or their unborn child.
Ernest’s vision darkens further. He tries to draw oxygen. He cannot. He feels like he’s at the bottom of a river with a stone tied around his waist. His legs feel heavy.
Then he feels nothing.
---
Ernest surfaces.
Jupiter tears the bubble wrap from Ernest’s face. With a great, heaving gasp, Ernest sucks in the night air, returning from the depths of the river’s murky waters to crawl to its shore.
With an impish smile, Jupiter pockets the white plastic detonator switch. Blue letters illuminate its side.
He eyes his old mentor and new enemy, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Ernest sees a clarity of purpose in those eyes that chills him almost as much as his recent visit to the river’s bottom.
Also chilling: Jupiter’s right hand, shaped into the form of a machete, ready to cleave something in two. Ernest decides it might be best not to provoke his student—he’d rather the thing cleaved in two not be him. If he’s alive, maybe he can figure out why the hell Jupiter just took him captive. More importantly, he can try to figure a way out so he can reunite with his family. For now, that’s hope enough.
‘You know I’m a huge movie fan, right? Of course you do. We had a little moment, didn’t we?’ Jupiter puckers his lips, smug. ‘You know what I think is just about the perfect movie? Like of all time?’
Ernest says nothing, still repaying his body’s oxygen debt.
‘Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Beautiful, beautiful film.’
Ernest blinks, keeping his face impassive.
‘Two men enter, one man leaves. Loved, loved that part. Been thinking about that movie a lot lately. I think it’s… appropriate,’ Jupiter says.
Synapses fire. ‘I know how it turned out for Aunty.’
Jupiter flashes a knowing smile. He then bends to retrieve something at Ernest’s feet. Ernest tries to look, but can’t make out what it is. He learns soon enough. Jupiter starts wrapping Ernest with more of the industrial bubble wrap.
Thankfully, Jupiter is starting the wrap at Ernest’s feet. Ernest is pretty sure this feeling of gratitude will soon pass.
‘Been doing a lot of soul searching this last month. The way I see it, you and I are in a Thunderdome of ideas. I’m willing to strive for perfection. Idealistic? Maybe. But I’m trying to leave this world a better place,’ Jupiter says, continuing to work the bubble wrap around Ernest’s wounded thighs. ‘You, on the other hand, you are content to settle. The modest suburban house. The two mediocre children, destined to become solutions consultants, or marketing specialists—cogs in the great corporate wheel. The wife with the spin class and the minivan and the s
weatpants and no makeup. Her entire profession one of compromise.’
The wrap is now encasing Ernest’s torso. Jupiter continues: ‘I look at you and I’m sad. I see the man I don’t want to become. The man I can’t become.’ The chatter of plastic rubbing against plastic. ‘And unfortunately, the man who will stop my quest to become something great.’
Ernest is beginning to look a bit like an uncooked sausage inside a clear casing. To this casing, though, Jupiter adds few lengths of rebar, offered by his accomplice. The creature rasps with effort as he drags the heavy lengths of iron.
‘Oh, and you probably want to know about him.’ Jupiter pulls a bit of the plastic away from Ernest and runs the rebar down the length of Ernest’s back, scraping against flesh for good measure. If he gets out of this, Ernest thinks, he’ll be sure to get what Jupiter’s father never did: a tetanus shot.
‘I was thinking,’ Jupiter continues. ‘Every great superhero needs a great sidekick.’
You mean henchman?’
‘Semantics. Anyway, this is mine. His name is Dick Grayson.’
‘Hilarious,’ Ernest says.
‘I mean Tim Drake. I mean Jason Todd.’
Ernest longs for the ability to exhale poisonous gas.
‘Actually, the name is—’
‘Baab,’ says Bob.
Ernest looks to the creature. Jupiter has just made a stupid joke only gotten by the most unrepentant of comic book dweebs. And because he actually got the reference, Ernest will now go to his death unredeemed from such dweebishness.
‘Of course it is,’ Ernest says.
And then it hits him. Ernest recognizes the face at last. He’s been focused on Jupiter since he was last able to breathe, and the face is distorted—rounder, fuller, and with features that seem to want to slide off—but he recognizes it nonetheless. It’s the tall, skinny guy from the apartment complex. Except not skinny anymore. A good 30 pounds of skin have been added to the bones. It’s the son of Jupiter’s sworn enemy.
It’s Jack Rowe, aka John Abbetoir.
‘I offered him free dental coverage, which, as a meth-head, he needed. Plus. the ability to avoid a lengthy prison sentence for trying to kill me. And to top it off, I figured it out… It’s Broca’s Area.’ Jupiter puts the finishing touches on Ernest’s bindings. ‘I mean the superstrength, that’s your power. I get that. But it doesn’t explain your toughness. You shouldn’t have been able to withstand the punishment you’ve taken all these years. You should have wanted to quit long ago. A human’s instinct is to recoil from pain… unless they don’t feel the pain in the first place. Which leads us back to Broca’s Area. It’s that special part of the brain that—’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Of course you do. And now, so does he.’ Jupiter gestures with an open hand at the thing that used to be Jack Rowe. ‘Bob, if you please.’
The brute hoists Ernest over his shoulder like a dock worker lifting a sack of cornmeal, and starts walking toward the kidney-shaped pool.
‘That fight you wouldn’t talk about? Over our tea? I figure you won’t talk about it because something sharp was driven through your eye and all the way into the frontal lobe of your brain. I’m guessing that’s an unpleasant memory. And also how you got that scar…’
Jupiter raises his right hand. Now, instead of a machete, just his index finger is in the shape of a nine-inch nail. Plus a couple of inches. ‘And also how Bob got his. Isn’t that right, Bob?’
‘Baaab,’ rasps the thing called Bob.
A mischievous grin from Jupiter. ‘Yeah. I think Broca’s Area is near some speech centers. And cognitive functions. I’m not a doctor. I’d have asked a doctor, but,’ he pats Ernest on the chest, ‘you killed off the only one who would’ve advised me, right, pardner? Men like Dr. Strang only come around every so often.’
The three of them arrive poolside. Deep end. Bob sets Ernest down, feet first. Ernest tenses his shoulders. He’s been packed tightly, but it should only take him a few seconds to escape these plastic constraints.
In a flash of movement, Jupiter raises a machete-hand to Ernest’s neck. ‘Mmm. Bad idea. Not because I have this. But because if you escape, you won’t be the last one I use this on.’
Ernest glances at the menace of Jupiter’s hand. He can almost hear the weapon lament the fact it won’t be used. He stops struggling.
‘Remember how you told me over tea that if you love someone, you’d die for them? Yes? Well,’ Jupiter says, ‘now’s your chance.’
Satisfied Ernest is no longer determined to escape, Jupiter lowers the machete. Ernest hears Bob rasp behind his back, then feels a length of rebar cinch down the plastic encircling his hands.
‘Horseshit tea, by the way. Anyhoo, the good news is that my sidekick here keeps quiet, and does exactly what I want.’ Jupiter gives his minion a playful slap with the flat of the blade. ‘Too bad you’re not my wife, am I right?’
‘Baab.’
Jupiter frowns an apology. ‘You’re right, that wasn’t in good taste. On the count of three.’
‘Don’t do this,’ Ernest pleads.
‘You might not feel much in the way of pain. But you can drown in an accident.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
‘Or.’ A theatrical pause. A glance toward the houses on either side of the middle one’s back yard. ‘You can burn. Either way, I’m giving you a gift, Ernest. You get the end of your career you and your wife have been pining for. And you’ll get a noble death. You get to die a hero, rather than live to… something, so forth, and so on.’
‘My kids—’
Jupiter’s eyes flick over to Bob. ‘Three.’
Bob heaves the Ernest bundle.
It sinks almost straightaway to the bottom of the rancid pool. The cold of the water is a shock, and Ernest sucks in a huge lungful out of pure reaction before his head disappears under the surface.
Jupiter watches Ernest drift to the bottom, and then takes a moment to study his fingernails. From his pocket, he retrieves the small, white plastic device to which the fate of so many is closely attached.
‘Two men enter. One man leaves.’
‘Baaab.’
‘Fine. It sounded better in the movie. Shall we?’
Jupiter raises his right arm. It’s in the shape of huge, curved shield. Shelter for the two of them. Bob ducks underneath its shelter.
With his left thumb, Jupiter presses the detonator.
This time, three explosions rip through the warm springtime air. The two houses on the flanks of the cul-de-sac erupt, ejecting housing material in every direction.
Meanwhile, most of what remains of the middle house goes up in the air— and then down. Massive sheets of plywood and roof lining and insulation and hundreds of other construction items land atop the pool, creating a flaming, smoking, toxic seal.
When the dust settles, Jupiter and his partner arise. He allows his hand to return to human form. He dusts himself off. Mission accomplished.
‘Love it when a plan comes together,’ Jupiter says, in a nod to Hannibal Smith, leader of The A-Team, and his childhood hero.
Drool leaks from the corner of Bob’s mouth.
Shame, Jupiter thinks. Ernest would have gotten it.
Thirty Two
There isn’t much upside to being on your back, at the bottom of a pool, unable to breathe. Among the very short list of advantages, however, are these: 1) you’re still able to see, 2) you’re not face down, and 3) you’re not dead.
And even though the view from under five feet of water is hardly like looking through a pair of reading glasses, Ernest doesn’t need that much in the way of fine detail for his racing brain to absorb the basics, which include, in no particular order: several large explosions, Jupiter and Bob shielding themselves, multiple house frames collapsing, debris from the houses landing to Ernest’s right and left, with a healthy chunk landing directly in the pool, flaming 2x4s crisscrossing the water’s surface, and finally, Jupiter and Bob making
their exit while emergency sirens sound in the distance.
Actually, this last item Ernest more or less extrapolates from the preceding. What he finally concludes, despite his aversion to cursing, is this:
Whether by water or fire, he’s fucked.
Ernest read one time (perhaps Ryland just mentioned it—thoughts scramble at a time like this) that death by drowning is a peaceful way to go. But that must only describe what happens once the panic wears off, once the oxygen is gone, and the drowning victim succumbs to their fate.
For now, all he knows is that he’s been sent to the bottom of the river once more, and that he’s terrified. So for now, Ernest does the only thing his panicked mind can think of: he fights.
He fights for a way to get back to his family.
To get back home.
Ernest wrenches his arm. His superstrength bends a length of rebar just enough so that he can free his right hand. He claws at the bubble wrap, but the effort is futile. The membrane is way, way stronger than it should be. The rebar was a simple matter. Apply force and it bends. The plastic sheeting is like a living, organic thing—like being held in the fatal embrace of a Burmese python. When Ernest struggles to free his whole arm, the movement only causes the grip of the plastic elsewhere to constrict further.
This will continue, Ernest thinks, until his vision darkens once again. Until he quits fighting and succumbs to his fate. Until—
Ernest wrenches his arm again. The motion causes him to pitch to his side, and he rolls onto his right ass cheek. He feels a lump in his back pocket.
His pocketknife.
Ernest is able to wiggle his right thumb and forefinger into his jeans pocket. He removes the knife. Using the pool bottom for leverage, he frees the main blade, cutting his thumb in the process.
A shadow falls across his vision. The lack of oxygen is taking its toll. Ernest works the knife against the space between his left hand and the rebar that’s been wedged into the wrap. He expels what little air remains in his lungs, but frees his left hand just enough. He grabs the rebar, clenches his teeth, and pulls.
I, Superhero Page 18
