End Of The Year Collection - 2014

by Spain, Laura

  * * * * *

  When Billy came to, he was sprawled beneath a broken table and missing a shoe. Climbing out, he saw the bar was in shambles. He staggered to his feet, sore all over, and joined the others in a hobbled queue, battered and bruised and groaning, all waiting to be poked and prodded at by a local junkie who used to be a doctor. The villain scene comes with a medical plan.

  “Hey, Billy,” The Doc said. “Congratulations on your parole.”

  Billy eyed the torn banners, the smashed pulp of the cake. “Thanks, man.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Rotten teeth and burn-calloused fingertips floated before his eyes. The man smelled like old sweat and slept-in garbage.

  Billy tossed back the customary on-the-house shot of whiskey for the morning after a vigilante’s surprise interrogation. It burned going down. He winced and groaned. “Goddamn Cowl.”

  * * * * *

  BREAKFAST (3 DAYS AGO)

  Billy sat alone in the diner, surrounded by a chattering crowd of oblivious civvies and their whiny brats. He had ordered breakfast, but spent more time stirring his oatmeal then actually eating it. He tongued at his back molar. Was it chipped or cracked?

  The front bell ding-a-linged.

  Skeleton Rourke’s wide bulk filled the doorway. The big man had to stoop when he came in, thudding and clanking. His dark hoodie was the size of a tent, oddly humped, the fabric poked up. The demonic armor he wore beneath was welded to him—it didn’t come off—and his clothes did a terrible job of hiding the hard plates and wicked spikes. Skeleton’s hood turned and he spotted Billy. He waved, chains clanking at his wrist.

  Billy nodded and gave a small wave back.

  The diner was small and Skeleton was a big lumbering galoot. He side-swiped tables, bumping and stumbling, spilling juice and rattling silverware. “’Scuse me. Pardon me… Excuse me. Sorry…”

  He dropped into the booth; the wood groaned beneath him.

  “The Sick Man killed The Cowl,” Skeleton said, no preamble.

  Billy just raised an eyebrow.

  “Everybody says so,” Skeleton said.

  “No way,” Billy said, thinking about that gravelly voice, those granite fists.

  “It’s true. Sick Man set a trap. He hired a bunch of heavy hitters.” He counted off on his fingers, “Big Time, Dragonhead, Lady Face-kick, The Red Pole—”

  “I hate that guy,” Billy said.

  “Me too… but that doesn’t matter anymore. The Red Pole’s dead, Billy. They’re all dead.” Skeleton leaned in, whispering, like a bull moose trying to be inconspicuous. His hood was pulled low, a muted green glow from within, hints of naked jawbone. “All of ‘em, except The Sick Man.”

  “Come on, man. How many times has Big Time made the same claim?” Billy asked. “Remember when he was showing off that skeleton dressed in The Cowl’s burnt costume and everyone thought he was really dead, and like, a year later the Cowl came out of nowhere and beat the crap out of him?”

  “Yeah…” Skeleton hesitated, “yeah, that was weird… But, whatever, forget that. This time it’s real. Red Pole was speared. Dragonhead looks like a charcoal briquette. Big Time’s gone, Billy! He took the concrete high dive!” Skeleton’s raised hand arched down to the Formica table top. He made a reedy dropping whistle. “Splat. The Cowl took them down…” He held up a bony finger in his leather glove, “and then the Sick Man got him!” Green flames shined beneath his hood. “He got him!” Skeleton laughed evilly, it echoed deep and hollow in his chest, his head back and his teeth clack-clack-clacking.

  People looked their way and Billy hunched over his oatmeal, making subtle shushing motions. This was a civvie diner, if these sheep spotted two known villains in their midst, they would panic and scatter like startled birds. There would be running and screaming, then the cops would show up, not to mention a costumed jackass or two and then Billy would be fucked. Without his gear, he’d be back in a cell in no time, sent up the river for parole violations, “associating with known criminals”. That would be his third strike too, and that’s for good.

  Skeleton hushed and sank down in his seat, stooped over, but the big man couldn’t keep quiet long. He cast furtive glances about and leaned back in. “The Sick Man’s called a meeting. The whole scene. Masks, mobsters, gang bangers, psychos, thugs and thieves, everyone’s gonna be there. He’s gonna declare himself King. Can you dig it? We gotta go. Did you pick up your gear from Felix yet? You ready to suit up?”

  Billy’s face darkened, he shook his head. “No, the cheap bastard upped the price. ‘It’s a seller’s market,’ he said, the greasy little google-eyed son of a bitch. Asshole.”

  Skeleton’s shoulders slumped. “Oh… that’s cool, I guess. I mean, it’s not like you’ll be a civvie forever, right?” He said, glum, staring at his gloved hands on the table. Then he looked up, a hopeful skull within his dark hood, wreathed in green flame. “Do you think you might have it together by the meeting?”

  “I don’t know.” Billy shrugged. “I doubt it. Maybe, if I’m lucky.”

  * * * * *

  NOW

  Billy slammed into a rain-slicked dumpster. He bounced off, staggering, and the world lurched as he whipped around, panicked and searching.

  The alley was empty.

  His heart was thudding. He whirled around.

  Running boots. Billy turned. A sledgehammer fist thundered into his gut.

  He folded over, honking, and blasting a spray of spittle. Fingers twined in his jacket. He was flung, a stumbling run, tripping in the high drifts of black-bagged garbage piled against the buildings. The bags were wet and slick. They broke open, stinking and squelching under his feet. His knee twisted in the mess and he slammed face first into a brick wall, pain bursting behind his eyes. Skin tore, blood ran. He braced against the wall, blinking away the wet muck, spaghetti in his hair and coffee grounds between his fingers. He struggled to focus, to stand, stumbling up and falling back.

  What the hell? Was that The Cowl?

  The Sick Man had to be wrong—wrong or lying. He had to be, because there was no mistaking it: The black leather suit, a mask covered by a dark hood. The glowing red goggles. The punching. So fast, here and then gone, like a living shadow.

  The Cowl.

  It had to be. It couldn’t be. Either way, time to go.

  Billy stood up, too quick, falling and tottering free of the garbage. His head was ringing and his nose was bleeding like an open tap, the copper tang of blood in his mouth.

  Boot to the ribs, steel toe.

  Billy whooped and dropped to his knees on the broken concrete.

  A shadow fell over him, a dark figure stepped up. He was kicked onto his back and a heavy boot stomped down on his chest, once, twice, again and again. Billy grunted and flopped. He felt ribs creak and break. He screamed, flapping helpless warding hands.

  “Where’s the Sick Man?” The figure roared and stomped. “Where is he?”

  That’s not The Cowl’s voice. It was weird, digitally garbled.

  Fists curled in his lapels. They yanked him up, his feet slipping and skittering, and then he was whipped across the alley. He hit brick and bounced off.

  Dangerous laughter rippled through the shadows, promises and threats.

  The alley was empty again.

  He turned, wiping away blood. What the fuck? He lurched up into a hobbled run. The street light sputtered ahead of him, casting its light into the dark narrows between the buildings, a portal to safety. He limped for it, a drowning man struggling to break free of the water’s surface.

  Movement in the corner of his eye…

  “Where you going, scumbag?” In his ear, a low digital warble.

  Billy spun around, throwing wild haymakers, grunting, hitting nothing but air, staggering from the force of his swings. Hands shoved him from behind and he splashed down into a stagnant puddle, his hair hanging in his face.

  Out on the street, a rusty Dodge rolled past. It was slow and easy, its frame c
reaking and its tires hissing on the wet pavement. A snippet of Motown wafted past, here and then gone again, a world away.

  “We’re not done yet.” The electronic voice again.

  Rough hands grabbed him.

  This couldn’t be The Cowl; Billy knew that much. The Cowl’s voice was real. It was brutal, low and angry, nothing but gravel and scars. This person’s voice sounded like it was coming through a voice modulator.

  The dark figure threw him back down the alley. He squawked, his arms pin-wheeling, a running fall. His foot caught in a pothole and he hit the concrete, face down, spread-eagle and dribbling blood. “Ugh.”

  Slow footsteps approached.

  “Where’s the Sick Man?”

  He started to crawl. “I don’t know.” He was dragging himself, too slow, getting nowhere. He smeared through wet muck, banana peels, slippery filth; the sound of those heavy boots drew closer, closer. “Please, I swear! I don’t know!”

  The boots stepped around him. They stood in his way.

  Thick soled and iron-shod, the tight laces crossed up and up and up. Billy’s gaze climbed. He saw black leather and black armor. It was darker than the surrounding night. Red lenses flared beneath a shadowed hood. Billy gaped.

  Holy shit. It WAS him. It really was him.

  The Dark Shadow of Justice.

  The Eyes in the Night.

  The Cowl.

  He was yanked to his feet, slammed against the wall. The Cowl worked him like a heavy bag, those freight train fists pummeling him.

  “Where! Is! The Sick Man!” yelled with each thundering punch.

  Billy grunted and coughed blood. He sagged in The Cowl’s fist.

  The black mask was in close, right there in his face, the red goggles a bright crimson and making that high whine you can only hear when The Cowl is right up on you. Billy had been here before, The Goddamn Cowl had been beating on him for years and this was the same black mask, the same black hood. The costume was the same, too: thick leather, Kevlar-like plates under some kind of heavy fabric, all black, all of it damp and creaking and smelling awful, moldy like a gym locker room and hung with the bitter cabbage stink of unwashed sweat.

  But that voice…

  And now that he really looked, the body—it wasn’t right either. The Cowl was a big, burly, built like a brick shithouse dude. This person… Billy stared. His eyes followed the long legs up and up, along the curves, the hips, they were built, but still… A woman?

  “Who the fuck are you?” Billy groaned.

  She drew back her fist. It hung there, the hard overhand right, and Billy saw the familiar glints of chromed metal at the knuckles. They gleamed in the stuttering flicker of the street lights. “I’m The Cowl, asshole.”

  “You’re—”

  “Where’s The Sick Man!”

  “You’re a chick!” He barely saw the punch.

  Face frozen, lips sneered, his head thrown back, an explosion of pain. “Ga-ah!” A little cartoon orchestra of Cowls marched around his head. Deet-da-deet-da-deedle-deet! Deet-da-deet-da-deedle-deet! Deet-da-de-deet-ta-de-deet-ta-de-de-deedle-de!

  The Cowl let him go. The alley floor leapt up and kicked him in the face.

  Fade to black…

  * * * * *

  AFTER THE MEETING (1 DAY AGO)

  Skeleton Rourke had told him that the Sick Man was the last man standing.

  “Barely standing,” Billy amended as the tattered red velvet curtains creaked closed, swishing. He could hear The Sickman’s hesitant stutter steps and the wobbling tap-tap-tap of his cane as it faded away backstage.

  The desultory applause trailed off as the crowd broke up.

  “No kidding.” Skeleton towered over him, his naked bones visible in the gaps between the clanking and soot-smudged black iron plate armor, wreathed in green flames. His ram-horned Death’s head helmet squealed and sparked as he turned and Billy caught a whiff of sulfur. “At least his speech was rousing.” The big man shrugged, armor up, armor down, screech.

  “Rousing?” Billy said, “More like crazy. He wants to take over the city? And rename it St. Sickmansburg? Why not send out invitations? ‘Hey, Supers! There’s some villains over here doing bad stuff! Come on over and kick the crap outta us! BYOB!’ It’s crazy!”

  The crowd muttered as they filed out of the old theatre’s moldering remains, confused, angry and disappointed all at once, like a bunch of kids who had got nothing but socks and sweaters for Christmas.

  “Yeah…” Skeleton agreed, “and that part about the cannon that shoots rabid dinosaurs? That made no sense at all,” trailing off. Then something caught his eye and his flames whooshed up, armor screeching as he waved excitedly over the crowd. He stopped and turned back, looking suddenly uncomfortable, flames dampening. “Oh, hey… listen, dude, I got invited to this thing.” He motioned over his shoulder, chains banging hollowly on his wide soot-stained chest plate. “It’s… ah… but it’s for masks only though and you don’t have your kit together, you know, yet, so…”

  Billy strained up on his toes and looked out over the crowd.

  The Monster Boys were waiting at the end of the aisle, the Bully, Thundercrack and Baron Von Fuckya-up. They were flexing and shoving each other, chortling, a pack of half-drunk bruisers wearing too much metal.

  Yeah, Billy thought, no thanks.

  “That’s okay,” Billy assured him. “That’s cool, man. I’m cool.”

  Skeleton gasped relief, his flames whooshing. “Really? You sure? Oh, that is awesome, dude. Look, I’ll catch a ride with them then, ok? And, you know, when you’re suited up again…” But he was already edging away, clanking, easing between the seats.

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.” Billy nodded, but Skeleton was already gone, swallowed up by the crowd. Billy could hear their excited whoops and the thunderous gonging of their high-fives.

  He merged with the crowd trudging up the steps.

  “I’m telling you, man,” a voice was saying behind Billy, “the smart money says: Get the fuck outta Dodge while the getting is good.”

  Billy glanced back over his shoulder.

  Double Jointed Larry and the Paper Mache Giraffe were slowly climbing the steps behind him.

  Larry was talking, the big peacock plumes stuck to his domino mask bobbing. “I’m serious. Listen, if The Sick Man is telling the truth about him and The Cowl and the other Supers figure it out, they are gonna hit this city like an atom bomb, man.”

  The Paper Mache Giraffe creaked and crackled, rocking and nodding up the steps.

  “I don’t want that.” Larry said, “Captain Awesome and those other douche bags flying in here and beating the unholy crap out of us. I don’t want that. Do you want that?”

  The Paper Mache Giraffe didn’t say anything, but anyone looking at him could easily tell: He definitely did not want that.

  Larry started and nodded up the stairs. “Hey! Looky here! It’s Billy Torch! I heard you were in the hospital or jail or… hospital-jail or something.” Larry looked him up and down, “And wearing civvies?” A raised eyebrow.

  “I’m getting my gear together,” Billy said. “Felix has it right now.”

  “Sure you are.” Larry glanced at the Paper Mache Giraffe and smiled. “Sure you are. Say, you lookin’ for a little henchman work?”

  Billy could feel the Paper Mache Giraffe’s silent, mocking laughter. He glared at Larry, clad in his peacock feather cape, his thigh-high sparkle boots and his v-neck onesie that showed off his hairless, pigeon chest. “Why don’t you two fuck off?”

  “You know what you need, street thug?” Larry whipped his hands up, wiggling his fingers. They waggled, bending too far both ways, his knuckles popping like bubble-wrap. “Flair.” He shoved past Billy, throwing his dusty feather cape in a wide flourish. “You should look into it, maybe you could be somebody,” he tossed back, sneering.

  The Paper Mache Giraffe followed Double Jointed Larry up the stairs.

  Billy watched them go, his face burning and his
fists clenched.

  Fucking Felix Fixit.

  * * * * *

  NOW

  He woke choking.

  He gurgled, inhaling water.

  The Cowl had dragged him into the middle of the alley and dunked his face in a murky puddle slopping around within a deep pothole. She held him under until he started to flop and thrash, blowing muddy water. Then she tossed him aside.

  Billy lay there, wet and coughing and hurting all over.

  Leather creaked as The Cowl crouched down next to him. She reached out and tangled her fingers in his hair, wrenching his head to the side. She raised her fist, metal glinting. “Talk!” She spat. “The Sick Man!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think I’m kidding tonight?” She roared and slammed his head down.

  “I don’t know.” He gasped and tried to scoot away, but she just tightened her grip. He winced, feeling his scalp pull, the roots give. “I swear, I don’t.”

  “You think I got a problem with beating you to death right now, asshole?”

  Who is this? Why is she dressed as The Cowl?

  “Answer me!” She slammed his head down again and he saw stars.

  Girl, he thought, girl. His mind was racing. Wasn’t there...? Memories blurring like the pages of a book. Wasn’t there a rumor years ago about The Cowl and that kung-fu chick in the thong? Didn’t they have a kid? A daughter? Is this The Cowl’s daughter? She slammed him down harder. His head rattled and his vision blurred. “Ok, wait. Wait, please,” he stammered, pleading, hands up and pawing at her, feeling leather and armor and hard edges. “Stop.”

  She released the tangle of hair, knocked his hands away and leaned in close. He cringed back from his own blood-hued reflection in her goggles, battered and beaten.

  “One chance,” she said, digitally garbled, rough.

  He tossed around, panicking. Shit. He didn’t know where The Sick Man was. How could he? He’s been upriver; he wasn’t in the inner circle, not anymore. He was a civvie, not a mask; even Double Jointed Larry had ripped on him. If that son of a bitch Felix hadn’t jacked up the price on his flame rig—