Jupiter continues. In another two strides, he’s upon the boy. With a flash of movement, Jupiter’s right arm is a scimitar again. Ernest watches, helpless. His son’s chest heaves. He’s standing his ground, gathering his will for another blast at the criminal. Don’t, Ernest thinks.
There’s a flash of steel.
Ernest tries to shout something to Jupiter, or to his son, but words fail.
Everything is moving too quickly.
Everything, that is, except for his son.
Fergus gets his left forearm up in time to absorb the first strike from the scimitar. Flynn’s brilliant Kevlar wrist guards do their job. With a flick of his wrist, Fergus redirects the force of the strike.
Jupiter’s second blow is clumsy. Fergus jumps back. The scimitar clangs off pavement. More sparks fly. Jupiter is temporarily exposed. Fergus bares his teeth, extends his right arm, and fire leaps from his hand. Jupiter’s arm jerks back. Pure instinct; the act of yanking a hand away from a hot stovetop.
Steel flashes again.
Jupiter Blackshear is thrown back nearly ten yards by the blast concussion. When he lands, he’s on fire. He stops his skid within inches of the cargo pulley mechanism.
Yet it’s Ernest who screams first.
Then Fergus howls in agony.
The teenager sinks to his knees, holding his right elbow against his body.
He’s trying to staunch the bleeding, and hoping that doctors might salvage what remains of his arm.
Fifty One
Jupiter Blackshear rolls to his stomach.
He extinguishes the flames that have turned the supersuit into a torso-shaped clothes iron, stamping second-degree burns (at minimum) onto most of his chest and neck. He pushes himself off of the pavement, his hand once again in the shape of a human appendage, rather than an instrument of war. He starts to scream, but catches most of the scream between tightly clenched teeth.
‘Ahh!! Mother. Fuuuuurgh!!!’
Fergus’s frightened voice—a little boy’s voice—cuts through his enemy’s scream. His eyes are round and scared. They search his father for some indication of what to do next. ‘Dad? Dad, I need… Daddy?’
‘Jupiter!’ Ernest shouts with all his strength and heartache. He ignores his jaw. He ignores everything save for his son’s hurting. It what parents do. ‘Enough! End this, Jupiter. Let me go to my son.’
Jupiter inhales and winces. ‘End this!? Me? All you had to do was retire! Get out of the way. Retire, and your son would still have his arm. I wouldn’t need a fucking skin graft. Aaahhhhh!’ Jupiter climbs to his feet, facing Ernest, still seated and powerless under the cargo box. He lets out another cry of pain as his right arm changes shape; it does what he wills it to do. ‘All you you’ve done now is make this easy for us.’ Jupiter’s arm is the shape of a slashing weapon once again. ‘End this, you say? My pleasure!’
Jupiter wheels around.
The scimitar whistles through the air. Jupiter aims the business side at the line of rope between Ernest and the pulley, which is the strand of fiber that right now marks the line between Ernest living and dying.
Flynn Smith’s katana catches a glint of sunlight.
It also catches Jupiter’s strike.
‘Aarghhh!’ Jupiter’s voice is a mix of pain and surprise and rage. Slowly he rises from the waist. He directs the point of his scimitar at Flynn before directing his question at Ernest. ‘How many of you fucking Smiths do I have to take down today? Huh?’
‘One more.’ Flynn echoes Jupiter’s gesture with her own weapon. ‘The toughest one.’
Jupiter angles his head. ‘Please.’
‘Flynn, no!’ Ernest shouts.
But in the time it takes for him to shout these words, the battle is joined. The combatants are a villain with superpowers, and a 16-year old girl with a defiant streak, skill with the violin, and a penchant for crafting weaponry—but no superpowers whatsoever.
It takes about three clashes of Jupiter’s scimitar with Flynn’s katana for the villain to realize that he’s dealing with a skilled swordsman—a skilled swordsperson. After five offensive strikes that are quickly neutralized, Jupiter pauses.
He waits. He drops his guard.
What the hell?
But by the time Ernest gets a read on Jupiter’s next move, it’s too late for him to shout a warning. There’s only time for the thought to dart across his brain: no, Flynn. Don’t!
Flynn presses forward, swinging at Jupiter with an overhead strike.
Which is exactly what Jupiter wanted.
Jupiter brings his arm up to deflect the blow. Almost instantly, his weapon changes shape—it is now a thicker, more dagger-like weapon. On one side of the blade is a set of serrated slots which look like the stunted teeth of a baleen whale.
Ernest knows his daughter will recognize the weapon. And just like his shouted warning, this recognition will come too late.
Jupiter’s arm has changed into a sword-breaker.
The sword-breaker catches Flynn’s katana in between one of its slots. Jupiter then shoves his arm forward, toward the hilt of Flynn’s sword.
With a quick flick of his wrist, it’s over.
The katana snaps. Steel spins across the floor. Flynn is left holding only the intricately-woven hilt.
Jupiter studies Flynn; a lion looking over a gravely wounded animal. Flynn begins a retreat, keeping the stump of the katana pointed at Jupiter in a display both bold and foolish. Jupiter broke her katana; Flynn’s defiant streak is still intact.
‘Really?’ Jupiter says. His arm now transmutes from the shape of a sword-breaker to something resembling a Scottish claymore. He continues forward, hoisting the massive, cross-hilted broadsword with a casual dexterity. Flynn continues her retreat. She stops when she reaches her brother, dropping into a defensive crouch. She tries not to stare at the gruesome sight of her brother clutching part of his right arm against his chest while the other part lies a few feet away next to a streak of red.
Flynn plants her feet and aims the sword at Jupiter. Her posture makes it clear: to get to Fergus, he’ll have to go through her.
As though reading her thoughts, Jupiter responds: ‘Fine by me.’
Jupiter raises the Claymore sword—
‘JUPITER!’ Ernest screams, his voice ragged. ‘Let my kids go. Please. You can have me. You can have your scheme. Your money. I’ll get out of the way. Just let them go. Let my son get to the hospital.’
Jupiter pauses, his breathing labored. He looks at the two teenagers. Then at the cargo box.
‘It ends here.’ Ernest’s voice and face strained. ‘Do I have your word?’
‘No.’ Jupiter almost laughs. ‘Do you have a choice?’
Ernest looks down at the rope in his hands. A memory flashes into his mind. He recalls the words he once told an archenemy. When you love someone, you’d die for them. He exhales, looks up at his kids.
‘Dad! No!’ Flynn shrieks.
‘Don’t! Don’t you let go!’ cries Fergus, his voice carrying every last bit of his physical and emotional pain. ‘Just survive!’
‘Hang on, Dad!’ Flynn says, moving her hand behind her back.
‘Kids, it’s OK. It’s time,’ Ernest says, his forearms searing with pain. Resignation in his voice. In his face. In his shoulders.
He looks at his son. Then at his daughter. ‘It’s time for me to let go now.’
So he does.
Fifty Two
The pulley screams.
The rope whistles through it; the shipping container plummets.
But Flynn had seen the look from Ernest. She saw the extra half a second his eyes lingered on her, and in that instant, saw his message:
I’m ready to let go of this rope.
But I’m not ready to let go of my family.
The instant Ernest releases his grip, Flynn swipes behind her back. She produces the old, beat up pocketknife from its neoprene hiding place stitched into the back hip of her pants. In a single motion,
she flicks open the blade and swings it forward.
She buries the pocketknife hilt-deep into Jupiter’s hamstring.
Jupiter Blackshear cries out, the sound equal parts agony and surprise. As both father and daughter had hoped, Jupiter loses his footing, and St. Louis’s most dangerous supervillain since Dr. Strang pitches forward on the injured leg. And since his right arm is in the shape of a scimitar, he has to use his left in order to grab the switchblade’s bloody handle.
In the same moment, Ernest Smith folds his legs under his torso and raises his left arm, now free from the burden of the rope. He braces himself against the plunging hull of metal. He’s able to cushion the blow with the palm of his outstretched hand. The cargo box weighs a good three tons, however, and is moving as though in a bad mood. His left arm is able to slow the container’s descent without stopping it altogether, but this reduction in acceleration keeps the impact from being lethal.
Just in time, Ernest ducks his head. The massive container crashes against the back of Ernest’s neck, and the back of his shoulder, but no further. The side furthest from Ernest lands against the concrete with a thunderous crash. But the container’s other side has not yet hit the ground.
Like the Greek god Atlas, crumpled to one knee and bearing the weight of the entire Earth, so too is Ernest under the massive shipping container. Using every ounce of what remains of his body’s reserves of superstrength, Ernest gives the container one last heave. It tips up onto one corner furthest away from the father of three. The entire steel box then pauses, swiveling around this temporary fulcrum as though deciding which way it might go next.
It starts to topple.
Jupiter extracts the blade from his hamstring with a growl of pure hatred. He flings the knife away. He looks up toward the woman—no, the girl—who committed this insult. Against a god, no less.
He then notices the shadow growing by his side.
Jupiter reacts as quickly as he’s able. He extends his right arm, trying to form a shield against the mass of heavy steel raining down from above. At the same time, he tries to catapult away from the falling container.
He almost makes it.
The container collides against Jupiter’s right arm with a clank that rings metallic in the thick afternoon air. His legs buckle. There’s a snap of bone. The larger crash that follows echoes throughout the shed for several seconds afterwards.
The short scream that follows cuts through all echoes of the crash, and the afternoon, as surely as Jupiter’s scimitar cut through the flesh of Fergus’s arm. It’s the feral sound of panic, and pain, and outrage. It’s the sound of a badger caught in a fur trader’s sinister trap; of something willing to eat through its own flesh. It’s the sound of true terror.
The next sound is that of a speedboat engine as it revs into a high gear, speeding down the Missouri River.
Flynn Smith grabs the pocketknife and runs to her father’s side.
Fifty Three
Ryland Washington is in full sprint.
Upon arriving at the boat garage at the end of an unmarked gravel path, the police chief exited the dark grey police cruiser he had commandeered from waiting officers once he and Phoebe reached the levee road.
He had then thrown the cruiser into park, left the engine running, and began running at full speed, hunkered low.
Ryland now draws his sidearm as he approaches the corrugated steel shed, keeping the barrel pointed to the ground, a movement automatic after years of police raids, not to mention his multiple tours of duty with the Marines. When he arrives at the shed’s front door—the one facing away from the river, the one meant for humans, not boats—Ryland takes up a position against the frame. He checks his phone once more. He unlatches the handle and takes cover.
‘St. Louis Police! Ernest, is that you?’
The police chief hears a familiar voice call back, one belonging to a 6 foot 2 man with reddish hair and superstrength. ‘Ryland! All clear. We need an ambulance, Ryland! Now!’ Ryland hears that the normal calm in Ernest’s voice has given way to something frightened and pleading.
Ryland holsters the firearm and enters the boat garage, phone to his ear. Seconds later, he clicks the old flip phone shut. ‘Three minutes.’
The police chief takes in the scene. A huge shipping container, maroon and streaked with rust, lying on the ground. The air is stagnant, suffocating. Just outside the shed is a small concrete slab, then an empty dock, then the Missouri River, where a boat that should be waiting for them is not. An injured and exhausted Ernest Smith approaches as fast as he’s able. One side of Ernest’s face is bruised and misshapen.
Ernest’s teenagers, meanwhile, sit with backs against the container. Ryland sees a streak of blood leading away from their positions. Flynn Smith is securing a strip of cloth around Fergus Smith’s right arm. The teenage boy looks pale. A slight tremor shudders through his body. Ryland then notices Fergus’s left hand, and the grisly incongruity of what he’s seeing hits home.
For the Smith family, life has just taken a calamitous turn.
‘Three minutes? Ernest asks his old friend. ‘Is that… What happens if…’ he can’t bring himself to give words to the thought—the terrible thought that three minutes might be too long. That three minutes might be enough time for his son to bleed out.
In response, Ryland walks over to the most gravely injured of the Smiths, and reaches into his suit pocket. He retrieves a small packet.
He squats next to Fergus and looks at the wound.
‘It’s a clean injury,’ says Ryland before tearing open the packet. ‘This will help.’
Ernest speaks up. ‘What is—’
‘It’s Yunnan Baiyao,’ says Flynn Smith, double-checking the tourniquet. ‘Helps with pain. Also helps stop the bleeding. Dad. He won’t bleed out.’
Ryland confirms this with a nod. He takes off his jacket and looks carefully at Ernest. ‘Do you have the strength to lift your son?’
The answer is instant: ‘As long as I draw breath.’
Ernest gently scoops up his superhero teen. Fergus looks pale and tiny in his arms. Ryland tucks his sport coat around Fergus.
‘Now what?’ Ernest asks.
‘Hold him. Just be his dad.’
Fergus looks into his father’s eyes. Scared. And because of that, brave. ‘Survive, right?’
Ernest runs a hand through the boy’s hair. ‘I’m so sorry, Fergus. So sorry. This is all my fault.’
‘No. It’s mine,’ says Ryland.
The police chief scans the area visible through the bay doors of the garage. He’s looking for the one person nearly forgotten while performing triage. ‘Speaking of surviving, I assume—’
‘Alive.’ Ernest gestures over toward the dock. ‘But he’s not going anywhere. He’ll need the ambulance, too,’ Ernest says.
‘I was asking about Crowley,’ Ryland says. He takes a breath, looking out at the river. ‘What the hell happened to my boat?’
Ernest says nothing.
He doesn’t have to.
---
As he approaches the figure of Jupiter Blackshear, Ryland Washington unholsters his sidearm, a Glock 22. Even from a distance of twenty yards or so, Ryland can see a badly broken leg, along with a right arm that, while shiny and metallic, is likely in worse shape than Fergus’s. It’s a twisted lump that’s as unrecognizable as it is inert. Ernest was right. Jupiter isn’t going anywhere; being tied up to one of the piers of the jetty probably wasn’t necessary.
Ambulance sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.
Ryland slows his approach, gun pointed at the ground. He studies his enemy, his face giving away nothing.
Jupiter’s breathing is labored. He looks up at the approaching figure, his eyebrows lift in recognition. Fueled by anger and loathing, he buries his pain beneath a rigid frown.
‘What do you want, you old garden gnome? A man has the right to defend himself.’ Jupiter spits out the words. ‘I was attacked. By a fucking human flamethrow
er. She’s the one who drew a sword. There’s laws about self-defense. Right? Man’s got the legal right to stand his ground.’
Ryland looks out at the river. At the space where the police boat should have been in order to take Jupiter Blackshear into custody.
‘Not to mention the rules about drawing a sword. I mean,’ Jupiter swallows, ‘you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Your heritage?’
‘What?’ Anger flashes across Ryland’s eyes. Otherwise his face is morning on a lake.
‘You know. Your background! Come on, there’s some kind of rule about drawing a fucking sword.’
‘My background?’ Ryland asks. He squats behind Jupiter Blackshear and begins unfastening the ropes keeping him bound to the wooden post. ‘I’m from Tennessee. I’m an English major. The only rule I know is the one about Chekov’s gun.’
Jupiter’s face twists in confusion. ‘What? What does that have—’
‘When a gun appears in a story, it has to be fired. Chekov.’ Ryland glances over his shoulder at the Smith family, framed by the shed’s bay doors. He cocks his sidearm, loading a round in the chamber.
Jupiter inhales, wheezing. ‘Just who in holy hell was Chekov—’
Then he stops himself, eyes widening. He’s about to add something to his question. But that doesn’t make any sense. At all. And then his eyes register the full weight of Ryland’s statement. Humans decipher the experience of living through story.
In the story of Jupiter’s life, a gun has just appeared.
That gun is used.
Ryland pulls the trigger of his Glock. A small grey “O” of gunpowder appears next to Jupiter Blackshear’s eyebrow.
It is not as large, however, as the “O” of grim epiphany traced by his mouth.
Jupiter’s body pitches over the edge of the dock and splashes into the Missouri river. Ryland watches. Led by the chunk of twisted metal that is the man’s right arm, Jupiter’s body instantly sinks below the surface. While he watches the corpse plunge, Ryland Washington meditates on the nature of life, and death, and rivers, and the human heart, and the inability for mankind to see more than a few feet into these mysterious depths.
I, Superhero Page 28
