Wonder Guy

by Stone, Naomi

  A crater two feet in diameter and a foot deep occupied the spot from which he’d jumped. In the center were the impressions of two feet. He had an uncomfortable feeling his own feet would fit those prints perfectly. Crap. Equal and opposite reaction, buddy.

  And what could he to do about it? He hoped not too many drivers used the alley. Uh oh. The concerns flashed by as he cut back to Hennepin. There’d been so much commotion around the parade, he wouldn’t have noticed the sound of asphalt crushing beneath his take-off jump. And what about the roof of the CC/EE building back at the U? When he first took off, he’d been distracted. The sheer wonder of being in flight struck him anew every time he went aloft. He reached the scene of his earlier victory over the elephant before completing the thought.

  Enhanced hearing brought him the curses of the driver who’d just clunked across the monster pothole Wonder Guy had left as evidence–or a memento–of his adventure there. The impressions of his feet remained all too clear in this second take-off crater.

  Why didn’t Superman ever have this problem? Maybe he was doing his take-offs wrong? Maybe comic books weren’t reliable guides to all the ins and outs of superpowers. Maybe he needed a running start? Airplanes got up to speed before they lifted off.

  In any event, this wasn’t the only pothole on Hennepin Avenue, and he should leave fixing it to the experts of the Highway Department. He imagined the resulting black, gooey, tarry mess if he used heat vision to melt the asphalt. In the meanwhile he turned back toward the University, take-out box in hand, his pleasure in flying not at all dimmed.

  * * * *

  Gloria drove up Lyndale to avoid the congestion on Hennepin. Jo sat in the passenger seat with the sheet cake on her lap and chatted about the trouble HR had finding qualified researchers to replace the few who’d left the company recently.

  Gloria murmured a few mmm hmms and ohs, but as she maneuvered the familiar route past familiar streets and buildings her thoughts strayed, taking the direct route back to the moment when her gaze had met the eyes of the hero in the golden mask. Brown eyes, she was almost certain. In the shadow of the elephant, it had been hard to distinguish their color, but there’d been no mistaking the snap of electricity when his gaze had turned to meet her own. His look, hot and intent upon her, had awakened an answering spark that sent shockwaves straight to her core.

  Before this, the sweetness of Pete’s kisses had seemed sufficient. Love meant understanding and consideration. Love meant being comfortable with a person. Other descriptions of love were a bunch of exaggerated hype, the songs, poems, stories of undying passion, all that ‘climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea’ crap. She didn’t get any of it.

  Until now. His look had slammed into her like falling out of bed. Like falling out of a dream to find the breath knocked out of her, her head spinning, but not caring because she was awake to a day full of amazing possibilities. Who’d have thought she had the capacity to feel like this? So jazzed, so powerfully alive, so ready to grab onto something with both hands and never let go?

  Gloria drew a deep breath and sighed, gripping the steering wheel tight as she waited at a red light, tapping the foot not dedicated to the brake. Jo shot her a questioning look but didn’t stop detailing the pros and cons of each applicant who’d come through the HR office this week.

  But this was crazy. Crazy and selfish. Pete would be hurt if he knew she dreamt about a look in the eyes of another man. What did she want to do? Fling her plans and her whole future to the wind because she’d imagined a look in the eyes of a stranger? Maybe she had imagined it, but she hadn’t imagined how it made her feel. But again, what good was passion, with nothing in the real world to support it? Oh, this was crazy. Stop it, Gloria.

  The only thing to do, the only practical thing, was get back to work. Keep her mind on the road. Pay attention to Jo. How rude to daydream like this while her friend talked. If the day seemed to go gray when she followed her own advice, Gloria attributed it to clouds moving in, though the sky remained as clear as it had been all morning.

  * * * *

  Greg followed Interstate 35W north, headed back toward the university. If only he’d had the chance to spend more time with Gloria. Why hadn’t he swept her up in his arms instead of tackling the elephant? Because if he’d swept her up, he’d have needed to grab the toddler and the baby in its stroller too, and might have dropped one or more while juggling to hold them all. No, he’d done the right thing. No one got hurt.

  And he’d caught that look in Gloria’s eye–a look holding something more than simple admiration or gratitude. Something electric. She’d never looked at him like that before. If he’d managed to escape the belly dancers sooner he might have spoken to her. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ He imagined asking in his best George Reeves style, hands fisted on his hips. Maybe things were better this way. The ‘mysterious stranger’ must have made an impression on her.

  He flew with little attention to the road below him until he noted a car merging from I35 onto I-94 East. The compact sped up to merge ahead of a semi-trailer but at the same moment, a pickup truck angled to merge in front of the semi from the center lane. The two merging vehicles were on course to collide directly in front of the big rig, involving it in their accident.

  Amid blaring horns, heart slamming into his throat, faster than thought, Greg dove, placing himself between the compact and the pickup truck just in time to buffer their impact. He held the vehicles apart by main strength, the reek of gas and the road rising hot into his face as he drew a deep breath, but the rescue still had a ways to go. His arms felt like coiled springs, bracing against the tension of tons of hurtling steel on either side. The force jolted through his entire frame. He flew between the faded red pickup on one side and the dusky blue compact on the other, matching their speeds, keeping them apart for the long moment it took the drivers to react.

  The driver of the pickup, a jowly, heavyset man wearing a faded Vikings sweatshirt, dropped back into his lane long enough to give the driver of the compact a chance to shoot ahead. The woman, in a business suit and close-cropped brown hair, took the opening with a look of mixed shock and annoyance. The driver of the semi slowed enough for the pickup to complete its merge a moment later, dropping in between the compact and the semi.

  Greg shot back in the air, deliberately not picturing the mangled metal and bodies that might have smeared the highway if Wonder Guy had been slower. Thank God. Thank the fairy godmothers he’d had the chance to help. Lucky the drivers had kept their cool. Must have been a shock to find not only another car suddenly in one’s path, but also a costumed superhero. Still, if anyone had reacted badly he, or his mighty alter ego, would have lifted one of the cars out of the way.

  Drat. Admittedly a small enough sacrifice, but in his rush to stop the collision, he’d lost his take-out box. Chances of his lunch surviving in any recognizable form seemed too low to bother looking for it now. It all went to show what came of mixing personal errands with superhero business. His stomach grumbled again. He’d have to stop at home for a PB&J.

  Greg flew straight to his apartment above Aggie’s garage. He had sandwich fixings in his small refrigerator. He let himself in through the window over the backyard, left open for the spring breezes and the alley cat who condescended to visit him occasionally.

  When he lifted the sash it shot up much harder than he’d intended, cracking the glass in the frame. Damn. He squeezed in. He’d have to deal with the glass later. In climbing over the bookcase below the window, he knocked into it, sending it flying, scattering books across the floor. And that, he’d deal with that later, too. He felt like a gorilla in a china shop, or whatever. He’d thought to use his enhanced speed to get quickly in and out and on with his day, but no.

  Greg moved with exaggerated care to avoid bumping anything else on his way to the kitchenette. If he switched back to normal, he’d miss this chance to practice applying his powers to stuff less durable than elephants and cars before he had to
do so in a more public way.

  How had Superman managed in his Clark Kent guise? It proved surprisingly hard to gauge the strength it took to do small, ordinary things like open the refrigerator without tearing the door off its hinges, or open the peanut butter without crushing the jar in his grip. Let alone applying peanut butter and jelly to bread without mashing the bread to a paste. He threw a couple of botched attempts out the window for the squirrels and birds before he produced a sandwich that held together long enough for him to eat it. He followed it with half a carton of milk. It might not be scallops with cashews and basil, but it hit the spot.

  Recalling the potholes he’d left behind on his earlier take-offs, Greg didn’t dare attempt leaving through the same window by which he’d entered. He left his apartment taking great care of the door and lock mechanism and practically tiptoed down the stairs and out to the alley, where he relaxed, shaking off the sensation of being three sizes too big for his apartment. Nobody’d care if he harmed the weeds beside the garage, out in the open air with plenty of elbowroom. Now to try taking off again without adding a new crater to the ruts of the alley.

  Stepping as lightly as possible, he started off at a run, faster and faster, aiming high, building up to super speed as if flinging himself, like a Frisbee, into the air. He took flight in time to soar above any cars passing the mouth of the alley and twisted to look behind him, zeroing in with super vision. The alley looked no worse than usual, no fresh new potholes anyhow.

  Even at super speed, Greg had only gotten as far north as Franklin Avenue before a now familiar buzz sounded in his ear.

  “Hurry!” Serafina’s voice urged him. “It’s a home invasion.”

  Chapter 7

  No sooner did Serafina impart the address than Greg bent his angle of flight toward Prospect Park, steering by the ‘witch’s hat’ tower standing on the highest bit of ground in the city.

  The house proved to be an older Tudor-style structure shielded from the street by trees and hedges. He circled above. What now? Ring the doorbell?

  At the same moment he remembered the option of x-ray vision, his super hearing brought him the sound of flesh striking flesh and a woman’s muffled cry.

  Greg spun in the direction of the sound. It came from the upper story of the house. Focusing intently revealed shadowy figures through the walls. Guns showed clearly in the hands of the two standing in the center. A slight figure crouched over someone lying unmoving nearby.

  He crashed through the window, tearing it from its frame before he thought better of it. Who would pay for the damages?

  He landed in the large, well-upholstered bedroom in full superhero regalia.

  “What the hell,” someone exclaimed.

  It didn’t take super vision to read the situation. The guns in the hands of two unkempt youths swiveled instantly from the fallen man and crouching woman to take aim on Greg as he alit inside the destroyed window.

  He had barely time to flinch before one of the guns fired.

  Something struck his chest and he stumbled back a step. The impact wasn’t what he’d expect from a bullet, and something–a ricochet?–smashed one of the bedside lamps. Holy shit. Had a bullet bounced off him? Oh man. No time to think about it now.

  The other gunman’s eyes widened when the first shot had no effect. He cocked his weapon.

  Greg easily wrenched the gun away and crushed the barrel in his fist.

  “Jesus,” the shorter young man backed away as he shouted. “Did you see that, Bob? He’s not just dressed like a comic book hero.” He turned and ran for the bedroom door, his companion not far behind him.

  Greg caught them both by the backs of their collars before they’d gone more than a few feet.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he addressed the crouching woman. She looked up from beside the fallen man, eyes wide in a face looking older than it probably did on most days.

  Greg gestured to the man beside her. “Does he need medical assistance?”

  “I don’t know.” She seemed to recover herself, shocked features growing more animated. “That one,” she pointed to the taller of the youths in Greg’s grip, “hit George over the head with the gun. He’s breathing okay, but he won’t wake up.”

  “Call 911,” Greg told her. “Tell them to send the police and an ambulance. Then bring me something to tie up these,” he scowled at his captives, wanting to give them a good shake, not wanting to call them men, “these thugs, until the police get here.”

  She nodded, starting to move. “There’s another–”

  At a slight sound behind him, Greg whirled, his prisoners still in hand. The bullet meant for his back struck one of them in the chest.

  “Howie,” screamed the young woman in the doorway. She trained her gun higher, on Greg’s masked face. She took a step back. “Look what you made me do.”

  “I didn’t mean–” He went numb. What had he done?

  Her features contorting into a Greek tragedy mask, she pulled the trigger.

  He released the wounded thug, flung up his hand at super speed and caught the bullet, which became a flattened dollop of metal in his hand. He dropped it to the carpet.

  The girl stared, at Greg, the dime-shaped bullet, her fallen partner.

  The captive struggled against Greg’s grip.

  “Run, Jenny,” he yelled to the girl. Her stunned look faded, but rather than take his advice and run, she knelt beside the fallen youth who’d taken the bullet she’d meant for Greg. She leaned over him, running her hands over his chest.

  “Is he dead? Oh God, oh God. Are you okay, Howie? It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

  The older woman approached, cell phone in hand. “The police are on the way. I told them to send the ambulance.”

  “He’s breathing.” The girl looked up, tears in her eyes.

  Greg’s captive squirmed against his choking grip. “Let me go!”

  The older woman wore a flowered dress, but a dressing gown lay across the end of the king-sized bed. She pulled free its long cloth belt.

  Jenny turned her tear-streaked face toward the woman moving to hand the sash to Greg. “You weren’t supposed to be here. You said you were going out of town.”

  “Jenny? Jenny Stevenson? What are you doing here?” The girl’s identity seemed to register with the older woman for the first time.

  “You were supposed to be out of town. You and Mr. Zimmer. We needed some cash. No one was supposed to get hurt. Oh Howie.”

  The thug in hand lashed out at Mrs. Zimmer when she handed across the tie. Greg shook him into dazed compliance.

  Should he tie up the girl too? She had tried to kill him. She’d fired the shot that had laid Howie out on the floor, but she showed no sign of attempting flight, sitting beside her wounded companion as if her legs had collapsed under her. Superman and Batman always knew what to do.

  The lady of the house sat heavily on the end of the bed. “We decided to catch a later flight. Why? Why would you do this?” She focused on the girl. “Why break in here? With guns? We’re neighbors. I used to babysit for you when your mother worked.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Jenny’s bloodied hands pressed against a seeping wound in Howie’s chest. He wasn’t dead, at least. He moaned and stirred under the ministration.

  “Why wouldn’t I understand?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like! You’ve both got jobs. You can afford a vacation in Europe. My dad lost his job a year ago and my mother’s only got half the hours she used to have. We’re going to lose the house. We can barely keep food on the table. We can’t afford a new cheerleader’s uniform for me. You’re the one who insisted to the school board that the team needs new uniforms. You can pay for mine.”

  “I had no idea.” Mrs. Zimmer stared at the blood with widened eyes and held her hands fisted in her skirt.

  “You didn’t want to know. You could have figured it out easy enough if you paid attention.” Jenny spoke over her shoulder. She bent forward across Howie
, brown hair veiling her face.

  Greg hadn’t noticed the sound until now, but the wail of sirens grew louder. Two injured men, one bound felon, two emotional women. The last item filled him with more dismay than the rest combined. This situation had moved beyond the scope of superhero duty. Greg scanned the room with his x-ray vision, making sure the weapons were accounted for.

  “Will you be all right now, ma’am?” He took a step back toward the broken window.

  “Do you plan any more mischief?” Mrs. Zimmer asked the girl.

  “I have to stay with Howie,” Jenny answered with a look of resignation.

  “We’ll be all right.” The older woman told Greg. “Thank you for stepping in.” Her gaze strayed to the broken window frame. “Oh no. What am I supposed to tell the insurance people?”

  Greg made his exit before he’d have to answer. The ambulance and police cars pulled up in front of the house as he jumped out the window and flew up and away out the back. The clear cold air slapped his face, breaking him free of the spell of confusion.

  He hadn’t meant for Howie to be shot. He shouldn’t feel so guilty. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. Except, if he’d just held still, the bullet to his back wouldn’t have done any harm. Come to think of it, that girl might never have staged a break-in if her family wasn’t desperate, if her accomplices weren’t stupid enough to go along with her or if she’d had some guidance. No one would have been hurt if the Zimmers had left according to plan. The lines between criminal and victims were supposed to be more clear-cut. He told himself he’d done his part, but left feeling as if nothing at all had been settled.

  * * * *

  When Gloria got home from work, she stopped first at Aggie’s without waiting to change out of her business-appropriate blouse and blazer over her neat black skirt. She’d long been in the habit of going to Aggie’s before going home. It had to be a carryover from her middle school days when Dad had still been working and didn’t want her returning to an empty house. Back when he’d managed to lay off the drink until he got home, before his injury.