For a long moment, Ernest’s brow knits in confusion.
‘Douglas Rowe?’
‘Ernest Smith?’ Rowe wears an expression similar to Ernest’s, and offers the superhero a hand.
Ernest accepts the hand and rises to his feet. ‘Yes. What are—’
‘Trying to save the plans I made for my goddamn shopping development,’ Rowe answers, resuming his path toward the corrugated shed. ‘And I could use a hand.’
Ernest turns and gives the boat a quick thumbs-up. He doesn’t wait to see Crowley signal back—much less take note that Crowley has done a U-turn, bringing the police vessel about in order to search for a pair of AWOL teens.
‘What kind of help?’ Ernest asks the councilman.
‘I need everything in this shed loaded on that boat,’ Rowe says, moving as fast as his legs will allow. He uses the wooden thing in his hand the way a wizard might use a staff. The thing is a longish hand oar, the kind that might be used to paddle a canoe. Clunk. Clunk. Ca-clunk. Sunlight glints off the heavily lacquered finish.
‘Listen, I’m kind of in a rush myself.’ Ernest catches up and begins walking alongside the 50-something councilman. Mid-stride, Ernest retrieves the old flip phone from his pocket and hits the green button. He needs to get word to Ryland that this stop, too, has turned up empty. ‘And wait a second. Rowe. What’s in the shed that could stop a flood?’
‘No time.’ Rowe says, not breaking stride, not even glancing over.
Ernest steals a glance back at the boat currently moored to the dock, trying to piece together how a boat that size can possibly be any match for any floodwaters that might lay siege to Rowe’s shiny new shopping center. He brings the phone to his ear, waiting for a connection on the other end. ‘Rowe? Rowe, will you just hang on a second? Just tell me what you’re trying to do and I can—oh, shit.’
A third man steps out from behind the shed’s metal doorway, and both Ernest and Rowe stop in their tracks. The man’s face is familiar. And his right arm is in the shape of a medieval warhammer.
Jupiter Blackshear.
Adrenaline pumps through Ernest’s bloodstream. In that moment, Ryland Washington answers the call, but in his surprise, Ernest has already let the phone slip from his ear. Instantly, he checks behind him, looking for any sign of Jupiter’s monstrous henchman.
But Jupiter’s henchman is already standing beside him.
Wearing a resplendent grey suit. And holding a boat oar.
So when the boat oar traces the path of a tight uppercut aimed for his jaw, Ernest doesn’t even see the blow coming. Nor does he hear Rowe’s answer his last question.
‘What am I doing? Trying to stop you, dummy,’ says Douglas Rowe to Ernest Smith, who lies in a crumpled, unconscious pile at Rowe’s wing-tipped feet.
Forty Eight
Fergus and Flynn locate one another as soon as they leap overboard.
They grin as they listen to Crowley grunting in frustration, searching all sections of the deck—in vain—for any sign of the Smith siblings.
The joy in having tweaked poor Martin Crowley is fleeting, however.
Flynn sets to work. Unholsters the grappling gun, glad now that her dad shunned the contraption. Her legs churn in order to keep head and gadget above water. Fergus maneuvers alongside, and latches an arm around her waist. They have seconds. The river current is stronger than they thought; almost instantly they’re carried a good twenty yards downstream. There’s no way a human could navigate to shore without aid of a boat, or at the very least superhuman quadriceps.
Or, Flynn thinks, the brains to construct a grappling gun.
She mentally triangulates their position and that of the boat dock, then pulls the trigger. With a hydraulic thwock, the device sends its barbed hook hurtling toward pylons of weather-beaten wood. When she feels a slight tug—like she’s fishing and just got a bite—she presses the gun’s other button. And then holds her breath.
The line tightens.
‘Hold on,’ she tells her brother. He does.
The device’s hydraulics do their thing, whirring and vibrating in Flynn’s hands. The fishing imagery was apt, Flynn thinks. The two of them are now little more than human-shaped fish being reeled in by some invisible angler ashore.
The teens head toward the dock, and toward their dad. But because they’ve slipped so far downstream, they aren’t approaching the boat dock head on. And so neither get a look at the figure in the grey suit, nor the man with the weapon-shaped arm that's joined him at the mouth of the garage.
Flynn and Fergus glide through the choppy water, oblivious to the danger their immediate future holds.
---
As they near shore, the current becomes noticeably lighter.
Flynn nods at her brother: I’ll take it from here. She releases her grip on the whirring gun and slips beneath the surface, aiming for the ladder at the back of the sleek runabout.
She emerges from the murky depths. Climbs the ladder. Above decks, she stays in a low crouch, and draws her samurai sword from its scabbard, which is strapped tightly across her back. Moving quickly, she checks the speedboat’s starboard, then the port, seeing nothing either time. If there’s something on this watercraft that needs to be dealt with, she thinks, it’s probably underneath, in the hold.
Staying low, she shuffles down a flight of four steps and only then stands to her full height of five and a half feet, casting her gaze all around the ship’s belly. There’s no one present. But she’s also correct—there is something that needs to be dealt with.
Flynn lowers the sword and steps over to one of several wooden crates, each stenciled with black lettering in a language she doesn’t recognize; something with a lot of vowels. She swings open one of the crate hinges, and sees nearly a half-dozen rocket propelled grenades. Not good.
When she opens another crate, she sees something even worse. Worse not because of what’s in the crate, but rather because of what’s missing. In the other crate: the foam outline where a large weapon used to be, and if she had to bet, she’d say the missing weapon is a rocket propelled grenade launcher—an RPG.
Flynn closes the crate lid and stands. Given its military-grade cargo, she thinks, Dad was wrong about what kind of boat this is. She hasn’t snuck onto a runabout. She’s standing in the hull of a freaking destroyer. The question, then, rattling through Flynn’s mind, is this:
What’s it meant to destroy?
---
Ernest Smith wakes to the slap of cold water against his face.
When and if this is all over, Ernest thinks, he’s going to treat himself to a long vacation somewhere in Miami Beach or Cabo or Belize, or hell, maybe Palm Springs; just anywhere he can stay warm and dry.
While waiting for his vision to clear, Ernest hears the distinctive clack of wood against concrete. Once he’s able to see again, he’s finds himself looking at the thick handle of Rowe’s boat oar. And hearing the deep baritone of its owner.
‘You know, every time I watch a superhero movie,’ Douglas Rowe says, ‘I end up wondering why they keep punching one another. Kinda pointless, yes? They’re superheroes, after all, you know? Lead with your best thing.’ Rowe considers the handle of the oar. ‘Oh, and I’m that guy, by the way. The one who talks during movies. Not my best feature, I grant you.’
Ernest imagines the look he might receive from his daughter. See, Dad? Not cool. He considers that neither Jupiter nor Rowe know his kids are on the other boat, and hopes Fergus and Flynn had the sense, for once, to listen to their father. Dread sends a jolt of adrenaline through his blood as he also considers he hasn’t yet seen or heard from Jupiter’s henchman, Bob.
Ernest looks up at Doug Rowe from his seat on a concrete floor. He tries to move but cannot; he feels something thick and unyielding against his back. He tastes blood and figures either his nose or jaw is a broken mess. He tries to speak but can’t through a gag stretched tight against his mouth.
So all that remains is trying to count up how many
times Flynn and Fergus have listened to his instructions prior to today.
---
Flynn emerges topdeck, intent on finding the answer to her question. What’s this boat meant to destroy?
Then she has an idea. Whatever the plan is for the weapons probably can’t be pulled off if the speedboat were to drift, unmanned, toward downtown St. Louis and then to parts unknown.
Flynn crouches again. Heads to the port side. She sees that the boat is tied up with two ropes: one on the bow, one on the stern. With a swipe of the samurai sword, she severs the bow-side rope cleanly in two.
Staying in her crouch, she pivots in order to head for the stern. She nearly gasps, however, when she sees a pair of shoes facing her, only a few feet away. She looks up, and comes face-to-face with the stuff of nightmares: an open mouth filled with discolored teeth, a face pocked with sores and bruises, the glassy eyes of a dead carp.
At least she knows who has the rocket launcher.
‘Baab.’ says Bob in a rasp, drool leaking from a slack lower lip.
Flynn leaps to a standing position, nearly unnerved by the sound. She raises the sword to shield herself.
The monster is too quick.
Bob wields the rocket launcher like a bo staff. He deflects the sword, then delivers a cruel forward jab. The butt of the weapon meets heavily with Flynn’s solar plexus. Flynn doubles over, and the beast swings the RPG in an angry semi-circle.
The battle joined becomes the battle finished.
Flynn is now the second Smith in nearly the same number of minutes to rest, unconscious, at the feet of their adversary.
Bob studies his prey. A woman. No—a girl. No matter. An adversary is an adversary. His master’s instructions were explicit. Anyone on the dock that doesn’t look like either Jupiter Blackshear or Douglas Rowe is to be eliminated. No qualms. No questions.
Bob takes a step back. He shoulders the rocket launcher, then aims the weapon at Flynn’s chest. He looks down at the distance between himself and Flynn. He takes two more steps back.
Bob’s thumb flicks the RPG launcher’s safety to the “armed” position. His finger extends, hovering over the trigger—
‘Bob!’
The beast reacts to the cry of his name. It’s Jupiter, calling to him from somewhere above.
‘Baab?’ says Bob, hesitating. He looks toward the corrugated metal garage. He tries to tell the men under whose direction he works that there is an unconscious teenager at his feet, and that the teen has a samurai sword, and that he just caught this teen trying to cut the boat loose from the dock.
‘Bob! Get up here. Now!’
‘Baab,’ says Bob, having already ordered everything on his vocabulary’s menu.
The man that once answered to the name Jack Rowe, aka John Abbetoir, and who, before his brain was altered with methamphetamines, and then altered further with a metal lance created by Jupiter Blackshear’s middle finger, would be able to tell Jupiter to just hang on one mother effing second, please, because there’s an unconscious intruder lying at my feet, pauses, trying to put his racing thoughts into words.
Instead, Bob grunts the only word he can.
He lets the weapon slide from his shoulder. He lurches off of the boat and onto the dock, ready, as always, to do his master’s bidding.
Forty Nine
‘Ah. There you are. Finally.’
‘Baab,’ says Bob, summarizing all he’s seen and done in the past few minutes.
‘Right.’ Douglas Rowe looks to his left and gestures with an open hand; Ernest tracks the gesture with his eyes. From his flank, another figure now shambles into Ernest’s field of vision. There are several possible fears clamoring for space in Ernest’s head right now, and one has just come to pass.
‘Would you please make ready that shipping container, Bob?’
Ernest knew the living zombie couldn’t be far away. He hopes both his son and daughter haven't somehow gotten ashore and found this out firsthand. Ernest still isn’t sure about all the beast’s capabilities or intentions, but in the case of the latter, he’s sure they can’t be good.
He isn’t given the luxury of worrying over his kids’ whereabouts for very long, however, as he hears something squeaking from above and behind. He assumes it’s the squeak of Bob obeying orders. It sounds like something heavy; something being rolled along with the help of steel wheels that have been left in the rain.
‘Baab,’ says Bob, sharply. The beast seems to be speaking to Rowe.
‘Oh. Ernest. He’s saying he needs your left hand, if you please,’ Rowe says, and then chuckles, correcting himself. ‘Actually, that’s what I’m saying. Truth is, I have no clue what my son says anymore. You know I actually ordered those Total Transformation DVDs? Didn’t work. At all. But ever since the, uh…’ Rowe clears his throat. ‘… surgery? Big improvement.’
Rowe looks over at Jupiter, who responds with a shrug. Ernest doesn’t budge.
‘Look. My son had to learn the hard way that when I give an order, it’s best to obey. Remember son? Jack, tell Ernest what happened when I told you to get off the meth.’
‘Baab.’
Rowe turns to Ernest with a flourish. ‘Once again: your left hand, please.’
Only at this last command does Ernest realize his left hand isn’t tied to the thick concrete post—one used to help secure boats in for service—like his right one is.
The effects of being knocked out cold continue to abate. Ernest takes full measure of his senses now. All four men are assembled inside the corrugated shed. Two lonely fans above do a poor job stirring the air. Rowe has loosened his orange tie, but otherwise looks unruffled, grey hair still swept back over a high forehead, giving him an air of royalty. Blackshear is standing just beyond Ernest’s feet. He cuts a sleek, menacing figure in his black supersuit. The look is made even more menacing by a right arm in the shape of an indestructible Persian scimitar, the kind of curved sword that looks like it’d be more at home among Ali Baba and his forty thieves. Jupiter looks like a videogame boss you defeat before leveling up. Then, there’s the monster. Bob. Close enough for Ernest to hear his open-mouthed breathing. Dressed in a navy blue T-shirt and brown, camouflage cargo shorts. Ernest gets a glimpse at the shirt. It reads: ‘Come to the Nerd Side. We Have Pi.’ Borrowed from Jupiter’s closet, no doubt.
Ernest turns the awareness inward now. His feet and knees are bound in coil after coil of thick rope, wet and clawing into his legs. He might be able to break free of these restraints, but it would take a massive effort. After moving the bridge, he isn’t sure he has that kind of effort left in him. Besides, it would only be half the battle. He can’t see what’s binding his right hand, but he’s now aware of even more wet rope, along with steel, and even that sensation is fading. His right hand is going numb. However Bob bound his arms to this post, he used an inhuman strength.
But as advertised, his left hand is free. Ernest swings it around his waist and rests it in his lap in a loose fist. Bob offers the end of a rope about an inch in diameter.
Ernest hesitates, and Jupiter steps forward to place the point of his scimitar at the base of Ernest’s throat. Ernest relents. He aims a defiant stare at Jupiter, trying not to reveal any traces of panic or weakness.
Bob retreats behind Ernest, out of sight once again.
‘Oh, and whatever you do,’ Rowe adds, ‘don’t let go.’ He shakes his head. Looks to Jupiter. ‘Damn. I had a line there about not losing your head…’ Rowe pinches his lips as though searching through his mental catalogue of quips to say to superheroes who find themselves at his mercy. ‘Damn. Lost it.’
From behind, Ernest hears a small diesel engine turn over. Then beeping—the sound heavy machinery makes when it’s being driven in reverse.
The rope in Ernest’s left hand tightens.
Jupiter’s eyes look skyward. He steps backward.
It’s only at this moment Ernest considers he ought to have some concern about whatever might be attached to the rope. So
he follows its path. The rope runs through a large, industrial pulley about ten feet to his flank. It’s part of a pulley system that can be used to lift entire boats, or to load and unload heavy things from said boats in this garage—things like engines and containers.
Heavy cargo containers like the one now suspended over Ernest’s head.
Bob checks behind him and steers a forklift away, extracting the twin metal forks supporting the container.
The jute in the rope groans. The pulley wheel shouts. The enormous steel box drops, diving about a foot toward Ernest’s helpless, exposed head.
It stops.
Ernest’s forearms, shoulders, and fingers lock. The instinct is one of simple self-preservation. He cries out from the effort. Neck veins bulge. His left arm trembles under the strain, but he’s able to hold on, and thus prevent himself from being crushed. What is it that he’s told his kids about these situations?
Just survive.
Just survive because surely by now, Officer Martin Crowley and his two kids have called for additional help. If he can endure for just a few minutes—five, perhaps ten at the most—then he can outlast Rowe and Blackshear and hold his wife in his arms once more. And he’s made a career of enduring. It’s what superheroes are supposed to do.
‘Ah, much better,’ Douglas Rowe says. ‘Jupiter, I think we pegged our estimate of how much old Ernest here could lift.’
If his strength were a scatterplot of things he can reliably hoist, Ernest thinks, then whatever Rowe has suspended in the container is a data point on that graph’s upper right-hand side. Unlike the section of bridge, whatever is above him isn’t partially suspended in water.
‘Because we can’t have you using all that glorious superstrength in an effort to escape, can we?’ Rowe asks. ‘We need that power redirected, as it were. Kind of a theme for the day.’
Ernest notices that Jupiter is still in the process of backing away, but nods at Rowe’s appraisal. He stops, no doubt relieved, when he reaches the safety demarcated by a hard line of shadow.
I, Superhero Page 26
