‘Point taken,’ Fergus says.
‘Anyway, this works kinda like a Kevlar vest for your whole body.’
It’s as he’s swinging his arms about that Fergus notices the coolest part of the supersuit. The forearm. Gauntlets, hard encasements almost exactly like Batman might wear, except without the Batman-y flanges. Fergus gives his left one a knock with his right knuckles.
‘Whoa.’
‘Yeah. I know.’ Flynn’s frown is one of unabashed pride. ‘The gauntlets are woven from ceramic and carbon fiber thread. Which means they’re lightweight, completely cut-proof… and best of all—’
Fergus’s right hand is aglow with an orange-yellow light. ‘Almost impervious to heat.’
‘So, you do pay attention in school.’
‘Told you. I’m s-m-r-t.’
‘Careful. My room. Flammable things.’
Fergus watches his right arm cool. Flynn stares, and can’t help but smile at her brother’s look of joy over her work. ‘Oh, and there’s one more thing. About the gauntlets.’
Flynn points. The gauntlets have a small, quick-lace fastening system near the elbow end of the forearm bracings. Fergus yanks on the lacing tab. The teeth of the ceramic enclosure interlock, and the gauntlet cinches snug against his arm. He looks up, mouth open, waiting for the right words to form.
‘I know. I’m awesome,’ Flynn says.
‘You’re… you’re Lucius Fox, sis.’
‘Ha.’ Flynn says, hands on her hips. She purses her lips, considering Batman’s gadget developer. ‘Lucius Fox is a pansy.’
---
Fergus reaches for the doorknob to let himself out of his sister’s room. But it turns before his hand makes contact, as though he were controlling the mechanism telepathically.
It’s Dad.
Ernest’s chest heaves, as though he’s just run several flights of stairs. ‘There you are. It’s time.’ He takes a quick glance at the shirt of armor, and the super pants tucked under Fergus’s arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘Uh… it’s a—’
Ernest raises a hand. ‘No time.’ He looks over Fergus’s shoulder. Flynn arches her eyebrows. Ernest’s lips form a thin line as he considers the contribution from his daughter.
‘Wear it,’ Ernest says to his son.
‘Why?’ Fergus asks, even though by this time he’s asking the back of Ernest’s head; even as he feels the first butterflies of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. This is it. Go time. All the preparation and study of the past month have now come down to a final exam of sorts, except that the grade for this one will be more of a pass/fail proposition: is Fergus a superhero or not?
He sticks his head into the hallway. ‘Dad? What’s going on?’
Ernest scampers toward the master bedroom. ‘Something bad,’ he says, not looking back.
Thirty Nine
The sound of a four-cylinder engine registering protest.
Ernest stomps the gas pedal, and despite the protest, the Camry screams away from the Smith family driveway.
Inside the house, confusion. Flynn walks into the kitchen to the sound of squealing tires. Phoebe steps over to the kitchen window and peels back a curtain. She watches the family sedan disappear, trailing smoke from burned rubber.
‘Something about a levee is all I know,’ Phoebe says the second Flynn’s shoe strikes the kitchen tile, preempting Flynn’s inevitable question. ‘I asked what the hell he needs Fergus for. All he needs is a phone call to the Army Corps of Engineers. You don’t need to suit up just to fill sandbags.’ Phoebe turns to face her daughter.
Flynn squints an eye as she tries to puzzle it together. ‘So then what’d he—’
‘Said he was in too big a hurry to explain,’ Phoebe adds. ‘You know your father. Might as well have been talking to the microwave.’ With that, Phoebe grabs a remote control and points it toward the kitchen television. Flips the channel. One of the local stations has broken into regular programming in order to cover the developing situation in Chesterfield.
Flynn studies the image provided by the News Chopper Five team. She squints. What the…?
The Missouri river, flowing east toward the Mississippi all of six miles from the Smith home, is flooding. Except not flooding exactly. More accurately, it’s been diverted from its normal path, and is now spilling into adjacent farmland. The chyron across the bottom uses exclamation marks and hyperbole liberally.
BREAKING!! Chesterfield levee break! Residents trapped by lethal floodwaters!
Newscasters Amber DeCynge and Joel Scott, he the owner of the most perfect Caucasian male newscaster name in all of creation, she as white as the crowd at an SEC football game, do their level best to work in the right mix of gravitas. The news coming to the co-anchors via earbuds has them scrambling to provide accurate information.
‘And Amber, I’m just now getting word that the St. Louis Police and Fire Departments, along with the Army Corps of Engineers, have been called to the scene.’
Phoebe turns to Flynn. The Army Corps of Engineers. See?
‘Yes. Right…’ Scott says to the voice in his ear, before addressing the camera. ‘They’re urging all residents to stay clear of the flooded areas.’
‘That’s right, Joel. It can be very tempting to want to try to go down there,’ offers Ms. DeCynge. ‘But emergency personnel are already on the way, and this is one of those situations that you’re thinking you want to try and help out, but all you’re doing is putting yourself at risk.’
‘That’s right, Amber. One of the worst things that can happen in a situation like this is to get in the way. Let the emergency personnel do their jobs.’
They sound like they’re doing a PSA rather than covering the actual disaster. ‘As the saying goes,’ Amber adds, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’
While Scott nods in agreement, Phoebe hits the mute button.
The Shakespeare quotes from the KMOX anchors will have to wait; right now the visuals speak volumes about the drama unfolding nearby. Phoebe and Flynn both lean toward the kitchen TV screen. From far overhead, the camera angle shows the trapped residents mentioned in the banner.
It’s an older couple, presumably man and wife. If Phoebe had to guess, they’re in their 60s, and probably late 60s at that. In the frame of the kitchen TV, their bodies look small and frail against a vast backdrop of burbling brown. But their sense of panic fills the entire screen. And not without reason.
The two cling to each other on the rooftop of their small barn. Even when viewed from above, their bodies stand at awkward angles, their footing unstable. The woman’s cream-colored house coat flutters, making her look even more frail, like a fallen leaf about to tumble across the lawn. The Missouri river, on a sunny and rainless August afternoon, rages all around them, threatening their entire world.
Click. Phoebe turns off the television.
Mother and daughter look at each other.
Mother: ‘I’ll get the keys.’
Daughter: ‘I’ll get my sword.’
They head out of the kitchen in opposite directions, but not before Phoebe does a double-take. Flynn has already vaporized, disappearing up the stairs, so she isn’t able to see the question written on her mother’s face.
Get your sword?!
Phoebe shakes it off. She may not have a sword, but at least she’s now armed with an appreciation of Ernest’s lack of explanation just a few minutes ago.
Forty
Ryland speeds toward the site of the levee break.
His SLPD-issued smartphone is mounted to a dashboard attachment of Ryland’s Ford Taurus. It doles out turn-by-turn directions using perhaps the only voice in existence less excitable than Ryland’s.
What’s more, it’s not the only phone in use. Ryland speaks into his other phone, in a raised tone he reserves, well, only for times like these.
‘Ernest, can you two make it over to the Sedler farm?’ Ryland asks without looking down at the old flip phone, speaking over the noise of t
he road. ‘I’m sending most of our rescue equipment and personnel toward the housing development.’
Ernest answers his friend and boss: he’s on the way.
‘And Ernest,’ Ryland adds. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. You’ve given—’
‘Yes, he does.’ The voice that interrupts belongs not to Ernest, but to his son. Ernest’s phone is on speaker, and Fergus continues in a loud voice. ‘He totally does. Dad’s the one who started this whole mess in the first place.’
Ernest takes the call off speaker mode. ‘If I can help, I should.’
‘Then head to the farm. Get that couple if you can.’
‘Phoebe is pissed. I suppose she ought to be.’
From his car, Ryland nods, and a small grin spreads across his face. Although he knows it’s selfish to think this, it’s good to have Ernest helping out once again. ‘OK, old friend,’ Ryland says into the second handset. ‘Keep the phone handy.’
---
The Camry speeds over a relatively small bridge spanning Moose Run Creek, a feeder tributary for the nearby Missouri River no more than 20 yards across. As father and son tear across the bridge, Fergus suddenly sits up. He presses his nose to the passenger side window, looking at the narrow waterway below.
‘What?’ Ernest asks.
‘Nothing. Just thinking.’
The bridge is well in the rearview mirror as the car crests a small hill a few hundred yards past the Moose Run crossing. At last, the destination comes into sight.
The Sedler farm.
And the levee breach.
Ernest drives the accelerator forward until his foot meets resistance; the Camry’s four-cylinder engine registers its ongoing displeasure, but responds. He rues the day he opted for the more fuel-efficient four-banger over the more powerful V6.
My kingdom for a Batmobile! he thinks.
At sub-Batmobile speeds, the Camry barrels down a short embankment leading from a tree-lined ridge to the farmland below. He then hits a flat stretch of hard-packed dirt road, and drives another quarter mile. As he does, Ernest detects an increase in Fergus’s respiration rate as his son’s nervousness over the pending task becomes tangible.
‘Son,’ Ernest says after clearing his throat. ‘I don’t know what we’ll encounter when we arrive. So just say by my side. Help who you can. And of course, be on the lookout—’
‘Got it, Dad.’
‘There might be more than one. He’s got some kind of henchman is what I was trying to say. And when in doubt, run. You hear me?’
‘Dad! Got it. I’m ready for this.’ And with that, Fergus curls and uncurls the fingers of his right hand.
Ernest studies his son for a second before turning back to the road. No, you’re not, Ernest thinks. But even after doing this more than 20 years, I’m not sure I’m ready, either. Especially alongside my son. But ready or not, the moment is here. There’s a time for setting sail, even when there’s no sure destination.
‘I’m proud of you, son.’
Fergus looks over at his dad.
Ernest skids to a halt on the shoulder of the dirt road. They’re about ten grass-covered yards from the river’s edge.
Except it’s not much of a river right now. It looks more like a lake, albeit a lake made out of rushing, churning, roiling water. When ancient Greeks told stories of Poseidon conjuring up angry waters, Ernest is pretty sure this is what they had in mind.
He jumps out. Heads to the water’s edge with Fergus, dressed in full supersuit, trailing close behind. Soon, Ernest’s toes get wet as water laps at his shoes. Fergus takes up a position just to Ernest’s flank while Ernest shields his eyes from the afternoon sun. He looks out across what would normally be several acres of soybean. He spots a lone house, looking frightened and vulnerable sitting in the middle of all that farmland—or more accurately, all those millions of gallons of rushing water.
Fergus slaps his dad’s shoulder with the back of his flammable hand. He points.
‘Shoot.’ Ernest says, following the path of Fergus’s finger.
At the end of that path, Ernest beholds an even more vulnerable and frightened image: the couple, standing atop a small barn whose rooftop rises just a bit higher than the old house. The two cling to one another, terrified. Floodwaters continue their assault.
Ernest looks around. Gauges the distance between where he’s standing and the barn. Two acres, easily. There’s no way. Superstrength is a fantastic power, but the universe has rules, and even the Powered can only bend them, not break them.
‘Shoot, shoot, shoot.’ Ernest says, looking to his son. Then adds, ‘Why didn’t one of us pick flying?’
He waves his arms overhead, trying to get the attention of the two figures on the rooftop. The male figure waves back. ‘Hang on!’ Ernest shouts. ‘Stay there!’
Which is a ridiculous thing to shout at someone who doesn’t have a choice about staying or going. Fergus hits his father’s shoulder again. ‘Dad.’
‘I know. What else do you want me to say?’
‘Dad. I’ve got it. The levee.’
‘What about it?’
‘We can fix it.’
‘How?’
‘Give me the keys,’ Fergus says.
‘In the ignition. What’s the car have to do with the levee?’ Ernest turns back to the flooded landscape, trying to come up with some kind of plan. The waters continue their inexorable march. There has to be some intermediate landing place, Ernest thinks. He’s starting to grow frantic. A tree. A rock outcropping. An outhouse or tool shed. Something he can aim for that would at least give him a chance to reach the elderly couple before the flood consumes them both. Or wait. Speaking of both: What if he threw Fergus? He could probably fling his son a good 80 yards with a full windup. Would the water be deep enough for him to safely land? And then what would he do anyway? Swim to the barn? Then what? He’d be just as stuck as them.
Bad idea.
Ernest turns to his son.
The sedan is gone.
Or at least the car is gone from its parking spot. Ernest sees a plume of dust receding from the small embankment they navigated a few short minutes ago. Where the hell is that boy going? Oh, well. He can debrief after this is all over.
Ernest turns back to the barn, and therefore just misses seeing another car, one that whooshes past the Smith Camry, heading down the tree-lined embankment as fast as its engine will allow.
The man on the barn waves again. Except the old-timer now looks he’s like pointing, gesturing at Ernest rather than waving him down. Ernest sees the old man open his mouth, and a second later he hears a faint cry of Help! or maybe Hey! Whatever the man is trying to shout is barely audible over the noise of rushing water. Ernest hears panic in the voice. He hears the sound of someone who’s considering making a swim for it.
No! Ernest holds up his hand, palm out. Stay right there. I’ve got this. He retreats a few paces. He’ll have to jump as far as he can and just swim the rest of the way. Nothing else to be done for it.
He crouches low, ready to spring forward as far as he can.
Then the cell phone buzzes next to his crotch.
Jesus. It’s a minor miracle, Ernest thinks, that he didn’t jump straight up—and land chest deep in the waters a few feet from “shore.”
Ernest fishes out the cell phone. This can’t be good if Ryland is already calling again.
But it’s not Ryland. ‘Phoebe? Where the hell are you?’
‘Right behind you, dummy,’ says Phoebe through the phone’s speaker.
---
Despite himself, Ernest smiles at a lovely sight indeed: his wife barreling down the dirt road in the family’s other car, the Smith Subaru Outback.
As the wagon nears, he tilts his head to one side. Then he smiles once more, this one even bigger than the last. Behind the Subaru, Phoebe is towing something that beats the cod-pieced pants off a Batmobile any day of the week, twice on Sundays, and especially, especially on this day, at water’s edg
e.
A Jet Ski.
Wait, Ernest thinks. A Jet Ski?
Phoebe jams on the brakes. She and Flynn jump out of the car.
‘Hon. Where’d we get a Jet Ski?’
She tosses over a keychain attached to a tiny buoy. Shrugs.
Ernest remembers how his wife commandeered the flowers from the neighbor's front yard just prior to her trip to visit him in the hospital. ‘Never mind.’ He’s gonna have to remember to buy a Starbucks gift card for the Cantrells.
He turns to his daughter. ‘Flynn, can you drive that thing?’
Flynn scowls.
A rhetorical question, apparently. He’s become quite skilled at asking questions teenagers deem so egregiously stupid that they don’t merit a response. A minor superpower, perhaps. Judging from Flynn’s reaction, apparently anyone drawing breath can drive a Jet Ski.
‘Fine. Just get me close,’ Ernest says.
Forty One
Ernest speeds through the water on the back of a Jet Ski.
Flynn is at the controls, leaning forward into a slight headwind. She knifes through the floodwaters, throwing a rooster tail of brown liquid in her wake. She takes evasive action as a large tree branch floats by.
Ernest is nearly dislodged, but regains his hold around Flynn’s waist. He smells and tastes the spray of muddy, putrid river sticking to his face. He’ll surely need a flu shot when this is all done, he thinks. A check for parasites. A day submerged in a detoxifying mud bath. A colonic. Something.
As the small watercraft approaches, the stranded couple grow larger in Ernest’s view, now about the only things still visible atop the barn. The Missouri River laps at what must be fatigued, aching feet that cling to the roof’s angled surface. The time they have left to cling to life, and each other, can be measured in minutes, possibly seconds. Ernest sees the man try to ease the woman into a seated position. No! This isn’t over yet. He’s seen the phenomenon before. People within sight of their rescue, overcome with relief, forget to keep fighting for their lives before the rescue actually arrives.
Flynn revs the motor. The bow of the small watercraft lifts, driving against the current. She cuts a straight line to the rooftop. Ernest stands. The footing on the back of the Jet Ski is unsteady. He’ll have to time this jump just right. There isn’t much of a landing strip.
I, Superhero Page 22
