Corrupts Absolutely?

by Peter Clines

  The couple laugh.

  Do a handstand, I order the woman.

  She tries, balancing for just a moment, her skirt falling down, showing a glimpse of black underwear, before she falls. She hops up off the floor. She’s ready to try again, ready to please me, but I release her. The couple applaud and thank her. The waitress keeps smiling, unaware that anything is unusual about what she just did.

  I walk to the bar. I hop easily onto it and start walking down its length, my shoes clicking on the marble top. The people seated grin at me, lift their drinks to toast me. The bartender applauds. I say hi. I wave. I see our table, Rose’s and mine, about thirty feet away. I bend my legs and jump. I rise into the air, soaring forward and up, enjoying a feeling of weightlessness. I go as high as the second-floor balcony and then start to descend. I land right next to the table, sticking my landing like a gymnast. The table shakes. The restaurant applauds. I raise my wine glass and hold it up to them. I’ll be able to fly soon. I smile. I read their minds. One man thinks that was the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Another wants to send over a bottle of champagne, but he’s nervous that I wouldn’t be moved by the gesture. A blond woman at the bar is imagining herself getting fucked by me.

  I see Rose walking back from the restroom, her purse slung over her shoulder.

  “Rosebud,” I say, using my old nickname for her. “Let’s not fight anymore.” I kiss her cheek. I inhale her scent; I’ve always loved how she smells.

  She sits. “Max,” she says. “Let me just ask you one thing.”

  “One thing and then we’ll stop fighting?”

  “Yes.”

  I can tell by her manner that she has been practicing this in her head.

  “Okay,” I say, but I know that we won’t stop fighting. Whatever she wants to ask is going to cause us to keep arguing.

  She takes a deep breath.

  “It sounds silly to use these words,” she says, “but I’m going to. Are you…” She stops, apparently nervous. “Do you realize that you aren’t behaving like a super hero? You’re more like a super villain?”

  “Honey!” I say. “That’s a mean thing to say.”

  “Well, you’re not out stopping criminals and pulling people out of burning buildings.”

  “If I see something happening, I’ll help out,” I say. “Just because I haven’t signed up with the police force to get a junior G-man badge doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy.”

  I hold my arms up, trying to say, Come on. Cut me some slack here.

  She just stares at me.

  “I admit I’ve been a little selfish,” I say. “But I’m still just learning about this stuff. I’m still developing. Besides, I think we’re entitled to have some good things happen to us for a change.”

  She nods, but it seems reluctant.

  “I don't know what’s going to happen next, honey, but it isn't like I’m Dr. Doom out to take over the world.”

  She nods, smiles.

  “Okay,” she says, holding her hand across the table for me to take it. “Let’s not fight.”

  I can’t read her mind, but I think she’s up to something. It has nothing to do with my abilities. It’s that she’s been with me for so long; I know her. I reach across the table and take her hand.

  “I’m sorry we were fighting,” she says. “I love you.”

  “I love you t—”

  As fast as she can, she brings her other hand up from beneath the table. It’s holding a syringe. She tries to stab me in the wrist, but I’m too quick. I let go of her other hand and easily grab her wrist as it comes down in a stabbing motion. I could squeeze until her hand comes off, but I don’t. I hold it just firmly enough that she can’t stab me and she can’t get away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I say.

  She says nothing, just releases the syringe. It falls into her salad plate.

  “Is that tranquilizer or poison?” I say.

  “Does it matter?” she says. “Would either have worked on you?”

  “Probably not,” I say and release her wrist.

  She collapses back into her seat, looking exhausted.

  I want to take our table and throw it across the room. I want to take that blond woman and make her fuck me. I want to take our waiter’s head and crush it between my hands.

  “Why?” I say.

  She shakes her head, saying nothing. Tears rise in her eyes. She looks up, blinking, trying to keep them from falling down her cheeks.

  “Rose, I really do love you,” I whisper. “I would never try to hurt you.”

  “You love yourself,” she hisses.

  “How can I prove to you that I love you?”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

  “Rose, you—”

  “I want to go up there,” she says, gesturing to the upper levels of the hotel. She wipes her eyes with her napkin. “I assume I’m going to be returning to our old lifestyle after tonight. I’d like to look down from up there. Like I’m rich and famous and can afford to stay in the top floor of a big hotel.”

  I look at her, saying nothing. It’s over. My relationship is over. All my powers, and I can’t save this.

  “Okay?” she says.

  “Okay.”

  She stands, taking the syringe and putting it in her purse.

  “Don’t want anyone to pick this up,” she says.

  I let her. I know she won’t try to stab me with it again. I rise.

  She takes my arm as we walk, leans into me. She is loving in her tenderness. It’s genuine. She loves me still, somewhere inside of her. I wish I could reach in, find the part of her that still loves me, and enhance it, give it power just the way something has given me power. I feel sad about this. Yet somewhere, somewhere deep inside of me, I’m relieved. I’m ready to get on with my new life. It’s like I’ve been running with a weight belt—what will Rose think?—and here’s a chance to go forward, free of that load.

  The people smile as we walk by. Rose clings to me. She puts her hand in mine, wraps her fingers in my fingers. I wish I could know what she’s thinking.

  The elevator comes, and we step inside. We face the glass bubble wall. Rose turns to me and smiles, then the elevator lifts off like a rocket ship. My organs seem to move inside me. Rose clings tighter to me. We’re flying up and fast, and through the glass, the world around us changes. The restaurant gets smaller. The people shrink. My heartbeat quickens. The balconies zoom by rapidly.

  “So you’ll be able to do this on your own?” Rose says. “Fly like this?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I think so.”

  “It will be pretty.”

  “You could be there to share it with me, you know?” I say it, and part of me means it.

  At the top, the elevator stops, and we step out. Rose still holds me. We walk to the edge of the balcony and look down. The drop is frightening. The people below are just specks, the restaurant tables no more than black dots. Soon, not only could I fly up here without the elevator, but I could leap from up here and land just like I landed earlier jumping in the restaurant. Soon.

  “I never expected something inside to be so pretty,” Rose says, putting her hands on the balcony, looking down. “Something human-made.”

  “It is pretty,” I say, looking down at the inside of the hotel, its architecture like something out of a science fiction movie.

  “I guess,” she says, staring down, ignoring what I said, “when you look at anything from a new perspective, it can be pretty.”

  She turns toward me. Her eyes look more awake than they’ve seemed all night. Her face has a red flush. She really looks beautiful in this moment, and I feel like I’m making the wrong choice. I should be doing whatever I can to keep Rose, to retain what we have. Give up my powers. Never use them. Whatever it takes.

  “I’m sorry I can’t see you from a better perspective,” she says.

  “Rose,” I say, “I’m still the sa
me person I always was. I’m the same person you wanted to have a family with, the same person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.”

  “I know,” she says, taking a few steps away from me. “You really haven’t changed at all. That’s part of the problem.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She smiles. “Well, Superman doesn’t know it all, does he?”

  “Rose,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

  “I love you, Max,” she says. She looks at me as she says it, then she turns and looks back down below. She steps farther away, leaning on the railing as she walks. “I always will. I can’t help myself.”

  “Rose,” I say.

  She looks at me, still taking slow steps away, leaning on the railing, gliding it.

  “I love you, and I don’t want to be apart,” I say. “I mean it.”

  “You mean it?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Then prove it.”

  With that, she kicks off her shoes and, with surprising dexterity, climbs up onto the railing. In her bare feet, she balances on the six-inch beam like an acrobat.

  “Rose!” I say, and then she opens up her mind to me.

  I see her sadness and her hatred of me, and I see her hatred of herself. She was excited about my powers in the beginning, happy to partake in whatever I did; then her conscience grew as well as her guilt for her complicity. She suspects everything I’ve done, even what I kept hidden from her. I saw none of this until now. And I see her plan, clear and simple. She will jump and either fall to her death alone, or I will jump after her, thinking I can save her, and I will die along with her. If the latter happens, she will have saved the world from me. If the former happens, she won’t have to see what I will become. She doesn’t want to live either way.

  She smiles at me, looking strangely peaceful. And then she jumps forward into the air, into nothingness, turning as she goes so she can look back at me. I want to fly after her, but I stop myself, hands gripping the railing, watching her go. She falls quickly, growing smaller and smaller. I reach out to her with my mind and I see through her perspective, looking upward, seeing me, mouth open, at the top level. I grow smaller and smaller. The emotions she feels are unlike any I’ve ever felt in a person before. Such exhilaration. Such fear. Such happiness and relief mixed with regret. She loves me, and she hates me. I hate myself. I pull away from her before she hits, too afraid to stay with her at the end.

  I see her, from the top of the building, just a speck on the floor. Screams come from below, so far away they’re hardly audible. A pain is in my chest, hard and sharp, like claws opening me up. I haven’t felt pain in a long time. It’s crippling. Like part of her was in me, and that part is now dead. I’m dizzy, and I step away from the balcony. I need to get out of the hotel; I need to run. I look around, to orient myself. My head clears a little. Rose’s shoes are lying on the tile by where she jumped. Her purse is there too. I think of the syringe inside. It’s poison; I’m sure now. Poison as potent and deadly to me as my love was to Rose.

  I run over to the elevator and press the button to go down. I hate this. I want to be able to jump from up here, to survive the fall. I want to be able to fly. I want to be able to pick Rose up off the floor down below and make her live. Just make her. But I can’t. The elevator begins to descend, my stomach tightens, and the view of the world changes again. The levels of the hotel whir by. The ground floor grows. I can see Rose’s body clearer and clearer, lying facing up as if she’s sleeping. I want to be able to control my thoughts right now, take hold of my emotions and keep myself from feeling guilt and self-loathing and relief. Yes, it’s there: relief. And I can’t stop it, just like I can’t stop the pool of black-red blood growing around Rose.

  About the Authors

  Kris Ashton

  Kris Ashton is an Australian author best known for his tales of horror and dark speculative fiction. He has published three novels and more than 20 short stories. His third book, Invasion at Bald Eagle, was released in January 2015. Kris is also a noted journalist and has worked as a film critic, travel writer, and book reviewer. He lives in Sydney with his wife, daughter, and a slightly mad boxer dog. Find his blog and other ramblings at kris-ashton.wix.com/spec-fic.

  Andrew Bourelle

  Andrew Bourelle’s fiction has appeared recently in Jabberwock Review, Red Rock Review, and Rosebud.

  Peter Clines

  Peter Clines grew up in the Stephen King fallout zone of Maine and—fuelled by a love of comic books, Star Wars, and Saturday morning cartoons—started writing science fiction and fantasy stories at the age of eight with his first “epic novel” Lizard Men from the Center of the Earth. He is the author of The Fold, the bestselling Ex-Heroes series, the acclaimed --14--, The Junkie Quatrain, the mash-up novel The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe (with Daniel Defoe and H.P. Lovecraft), numerous short stories, and countless articles about the film and television industry. He currently lives and writes somewhere in southern California.

  Malon Edwards

  Malon Edwards was born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, but now lives in the Greater Toronto Area, where he was lured by his beautiful Canadian wife. Many of his short stories are set in an alternate Chicago. Currently, he serves as Managing Director and Grants Administrator for the Speculative Literature Foundation, which provides a number of grants for writers of speculative literature.

  Edward M. Erdelac

  Edward Erdelac is the author of seven novels (including the acclaimed weird western series Merkabah Rider) and dozens of short stories. He is an independent filmmaker, award winning screenwriter, and sometime Star Wars contributor. Born in Indiana, educated in Chicago, he resides in the Los Angeles area with his wife and a bona fide slew of children and cats. He blogs at emerdelac.wordpress.com.

  Karina L. Fabian

  In addition to psychics whose powers drive them insane, Karina Fabian writes about a dragon detective, zombie exterminators, and nuns in space. The award winning author lives in Utah with her family, where she writes product reviews for Top Ten Reviews. Her final novel in the Mind Over trilogy, Mind Over All, comes out summer 2015. Explore her many worlds at fabianspace.com.

  Ani Fox

  Ani Fox has previously published science fiction and horror short fiction through BAEN and Ragnarok Publications but has never before submitted a novel. Fox pursued a PhD in Indigenous World History from the Australian National University, an academic interest which flavors his work with complex systems, indigenous culture, and a stridently gender-equal view of people. Fox has lived in the continental U.S., Hawaii, Australia, and currently resides in Luxembourg where he works in technology strategy and consulting. His work in tech security means he recruits signals, intelligence operatives, and spooks for commercial security, as well as interacts with various members of organized crime. Crime, espionage, and technological advances play heavily in his written work.

  Wayne Helge

  A native of Chicago’s south suburbs, Wayne Helge served in the Coast Guard for a dozen years before wading ashore, and now works and writes in Virginia. He wrote his first piece of fiction about a murdering dentist while in high school, and sometimes wonders if things have been going downhill ever since.

  Jeremy Hepler

  Jeremy Hepler’s a stay-at-home dad who lives in the Texas Panhandle. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies over the past seven years. Most recently, he placed second in the Panhandle Professional Writer’s Short Story Competition and just completed his first novel. Follow him on Twitter (@jeremyhepler), his blog (jeremyhepler.wordpress.com), or contact him via email (jeremyhepler@hotmail.com).

  Karen H. Koeler / Warren Stockholm

  Warren Stockholm is the pulp pseudonym of K. H. Koehler, who is the author of various novels and novellas in the genres of horror, SF, dark fantasy, steampunk, and young and new adult. She is the owner of K.H. Koehler Books, and her books are w
idely available at all major online distributors. Her covers have appeared on numerous books in many different genres, and her short work has been featured on Horror World, Literary Mayhem, Fossil Lake Anthologies, and in the Bram Stoker Award-winning anthology Demons, edited by John Skipp. Her novel series include The Kaiju Hunter, The Mrs. McGillicuddy Mysteries, Anti-Heroes, Planet of Dinosaurs, the Nick Englebrecht Mysteries, and the forthcoming prehistoric pulp series The Archeologists from Severed Press. She lives in the beautiful wilds of Northeast Pennsylvania with two very large and opinionated Rottweilers. Visit her website at khkoehlerbooks.wordpress.com.

  Anthony Laffan

  Anthony Laffan works in IT in New England. When not at work, reading, or writing he enjoys game design and writing about the theory behind different kinds of storytelling. More from him can be found at www.realityrefracted.com. “Sabre” is his first published work.

  Wayne Ligon

  Wayne Ligon was born in Montgomery, Alabama. Fascinated by comics at an early age, he quickly branched out into science fiction, fantasy and horror literature while still retaining a strong love of the superheroic.

  Malcolm McClinton

  Just a guy making a living from his art and imagination, Malcolm has found a nice little niche for himself that satisfies his anti- authoritarianism, reclusive nature, and need for adulation all at once. You can visit him online and find links to his galleries at hangedmanstudio.blogspot.com.

  Joe McKinney

  Joe McKinney is the author of several horror, crime and science fiction novels, including the four-part Dead World series, made up of Dead City, Apocalypse of the Dead, Flesh Eaters and The Zombie King; the science fiction disaster tale, Quarantined, which was nominated for the Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker Award for superior achievement in a novel, 2009; and the crime novel, Dodging Bullets. Upcoming releases include the horror novels Lost Girl of the Lake, The Red Empire, The Charge and St. Rage. Joe has also worked as an editor, along with Michelle McCrary, on the zombie-themed anthology Dead Set, and with Mark Onspaugh on the abandoned building-themed anthology The Forsaken.