Almost Infamous: A Supervillain Novel (4 page)

I made it nearly three steps to the counter before I was jerked off my feet and slammed to the floor on my back.

Pro-tip, kids:
If you’re going to dramatically toss your cape over your shoulder, make sure you’re not tossing it onto the metal spokes of a magazine rack that’s bolted to the floor.

I got back to my feet and was about to free my cape from the magazine rack when the first liquor bottle shattered against my helmet.

I couldn’t see where it came from, not with the damn helmet cutting off my peripheral vision, and probably looked like an idiot darting my head from left to right.

I expected it was the mop guy, probably trying to play superhero.

Instead I saw the clerk behind the counter. She had undone her massive ponytail, which now writhed around like a mass of gnarled pythons, grabbing liquor bottles and hurling them at me.

She’s super, too. Shit!

Bottle after bottle smashed around me before one shattered against my helmet, then another in the chest.

“Get the hell out of here!” she shrieked. “Jimmy, get my gun!”

I didn’t see Jimmy run for the gun, and I didn’t want to. I ripped a large portion of my cape away, finally freeing myself from the magazine rack. I waved a hand at the rack of liquor bottles behind her, shattering them all and taking away her ammo.

Instead of throwing bottles, now she started throwing the larger shards of glass my way. One of them bit into the left arm of my jacket and I screamed in pain as I felt it slice at my elbow.

No, this wasn’t working out at all.

I couldn’t get to the register without this crazy bitch slicing me to ribbons. Now if I could only get it to come to me…

I hadn’t made any attempts at grabbing objects when testing my powers, but there was a first time for everything.

I reached out, again focusing on the register. It rattled, and even crushed inward some, but didn’t move from the counter. The plastic jar that sat next to it, however, flew right toward me. It was full of odd bits of change and crunched up dollar bills, with a sticker on it saying that all donations would go to the Lemurian Civil War Orphans Fund. There had to be at least seventeen dollars inside.

Jar in hand, I ran for the door, trying to push my way out, but it wouldn’t budge.

I placed my hand against it, focusing on the glass and metal frame, and exploding it outward into the street.

With one last thought, I turned back to the clerk and raised my helmet’s visor. “Remember to tell people that Apex Strike did this!”

She shrieked, “You crazy motherf—!”

I ran away, smiling and scared out of my mind with the hope that I could get out of there before Jimmy found that gun.

As I headed for my bike, I turned to the sound of a car horn blaring. Not taking traffic into consideration, I stopped in my tracks as the truck bore down on me, slamming on its brakes.

Before I could think, I put my hand out in a desperate attempt to stop the truck that was now inches away.

I didn’t stop it.

I did, however, rip it in half down the middle. Each half rolled around me, falling on its sides in twin twisted heaps.

Everything went silent. People on the street mostly stopped and stared, though some had the presence of mind to pull out their phones to take pictures or call for help.

I should have tried to make my escape, but I couldn’t help myself. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I raised the visor and yelled, “Remember, today you saw the birth of Apex Strike! A-P-E-X, STRIKE! When posting about me, remember to hashtag it, or I will destroy you!”

I smiled, dropping my visor back down and feeling pretty damn proud of myself.

Then I saw the money.

Dollar bills of all denominations rained down around me and coins jangled as they rolled down the street at my feet. For the first time, I got a good look at the truck I’d torn in two.

It wasn’t a truck, it was an armored van.

“Sweet!” I exclaimed, cramming handfuls of cash into the orphan jar. I must have grabbed a couple thousand dollars, which was more than enough to make up for how much of a mess this day had turned into.

I was still cramming cash when I heard the crackle of electricity explode behind me, filling the air with green light.

My heart lurched. I knew this was a possibility, I just never thought it would actually happen… not on my first time.

Tossing one more handful of cash into the jar, I began sprinting down the street, knocking people down and smashing storefronts to cause confusion and wishing I had better fitting pants that didn’t squeeze so uncomfortably with every leaping step I took. I made it nearly a block before I finally looked over my shoulder.

The glowing, crackling green triangle of energy floated several feet off the ground near the wreckage of the truck.

A Tri-Hole. The preferred method of transportation for any respectable Protector.

When the Tri-Hole first exploded behind me, it must have been no bigger than a postcard. Now it was at least eight feet across, big enough to let one of them through.

And, sure enough, the shadowy outline of a superhero began to appear. It waved a hand out, creating a ramp of solid ice and sliding down, revealing a young masked man with spiked blue hair in a light blue and silver bodysuit. Then a second figure flew through the Tri-Hole. He was muscular, blond and shiny, bedecked in a bodysuit of gold and white with a shimmering cape that flapped in the breeze behind him.

A small part of my mind was thinking:
Wow, Icicle Man and Helios
.

They weren’t big heroes, but they were
almost
big heroes, so that was enough to be impressed with.

The rest of me was thinking
, Ohshitohshitohshitohshit-ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit!

The last thing I wanted—especially on my first caper—was to get captured and sent to the Tower. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to go home and enjoy my money and power and, if I had to quit villainy to do so, I would…
oh God I just don’t want to get in trouble
.

I ran, tired and sweating and cursing this damn suit. I was certain that if I could just dodge down one of the side streets and find a quiet place where no one could see me, I could ditch the costume and look like any innocent kid holding a jar full of money that was totally not stolen, no sir, Mr. Superhero.

Icicle Man and Helios went off in different directions, people pointing them every which way as the chaos I’d attempted to spread seemed to kick in.

Almost there, almost there, just a little bit farther—

The ground beneath me turned to ice. I slipped and fell, sliding down the street and smashing into a snow drift. Massive spikes of ice burst from the ground, surrounding me like the bars of a cage.

Aching from the fall, I turned onto my back. Looking around, I saw people cheering and clapping and holding up their phones as Icicle Man smiled and waved, crouching a few feet off the ground on a ramp of ice he’d made. Once he was done with the crowd, he turned in my direction.

I raised the visor on my helmet and screamed, “Please! Please don’t hurt me! I surrender! I’ll do anything! I surrender!”

To show him I was serious, I raised my hands and tossed the plastic jar of money at his feet.

He laughed, jauntily, shooting a couple of icicles from his hands and spearing the arms of my jacket to the ground.

“Sorry, villain, but that’s not good enough!” he said, getting another uproarious burst of applause and cheers.

The cage of icicles began to close in around me, sharp tips pressing into my flesh. He wouldn’t kill me; he couldn’t. No villain since the War on Villainy ended had been killed, not like the old days; they’d just been sent to the Tower for the rest of their lives. It wouldn’t be fun, but it had to be better than being publicly impaled by a dozen icy spikes.

Even though he couldn’t, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. He was a superhero. I was a supervillain. Nobody here would think worse of him for it.

There was only one way out of this that I could see.

Focus.

The icicles immediately shattered, freeing me from my frozen cage. The wave I created shattered pavement and knocked nearly everyone within a fifty-foot radius to the ground. I stumbled to my feet as Icicle Man tried to regain his footing on a new ice ramp. Attempting smooth, he slid towards me.

I raised my hand to him.

Focus.

In my defense, I was just trying to push him away.

And I did… sort of.

He did lurch backward in midair before going completely rigid. He levitated off the ramp at least a foot, shuddering and jerking as his hovering body contorted violently. Blood burst everywhere as a terrible ripping, slurping sound filled the air, with bones and organs and various bits of meat swirling around in on themselves before exploding outward like a piñata full of roadkill and cherry bombs. What used to be inside Icicle Man was everywhere, spread across the street, the screaming audience, me.

I had turned him inside out.

In retrospect, this would have been a great time for a witty catchphrase, cementing my legacy as the next great supervillain.

Instead, I just screamed, “FUCK!”

#Supervillainy101: Ned Kelly

In the late 1870s, the Stone Age of Superheroes, there was no more feared an outlaw in Victoria, Australia, than Ned Kelly. A petty criminal throughout his youth, he gained notoriety when he and his gang murdered three police officers sent to bring them in for questioning. This set off a crime spree of violence and bank robbery that, well, probably would have gone relatively unnoticed in this otherwise lawless section of pre-hero Australia.

Toward the end, aware that police would soon be closing in, Ned Kelly procured the help of one of the many mad scientists hiding out in Australia to build him a weapon that would allow for one great last stand against the police. In the town of Glenrowan, Kelly brought out this fearsome weapon: a steam-powered suit of mechanized armor. Using this semi-robotic suit of armor to deadly effect, witnesses reported Kelly killing at least a dozen police officers before taking a rifle shot to the boiler in his back.

Reports of what exactly happened after this are sketchy at best, but it is known that the subsequent boiler explosion killed Kelly, his gang, and all of the police who had tracked them down and set a good stretch of the town on fire.

To this day, you can still see occasional news stories of people finding chunks of his armor, and if they’re really lucky, bone.

#LessonLearned:
Always have a well-planned exit strategy.

3

I AM NOT APEX STRIKE!

I got away.

Everyone was so focused on the puddle of meat that used to be one of their beloved superheroes that they didn’t see the lowly, gore-covered supervillain escape. I was running on auto-pilot, fleeing in fear, hearing only the dull thud of my heart in my ears as I ran blindly. After a block I started climbing people’s fences, going from backyard to backyard, convinced that at any moment a Tri-Hole would open and spew out more heroes who would arrest me and take me to the Tower, telling my parents what awful things I’d done. I was in so much trouble…

No,
Apex Strike
was the one in trouble! Aidan Salt had never even left town. Aidan Salt had never even seen a real superhero in person (except Thunderhead), let alone killed one.

If they asked me I’d say, “Apex Strike? Who’s that?”

Finding a shovel in some random backyard made destroying the evidence easy. I dug up one of their flower beds (it was ugly anyway) and buried the costume as deep as I could.

Retracing my steps back to my bike, I was afraid that people would look at me and laugh, since I was just in my tank top and boxers. Fortunately they seemed more interested in the growing crowd back where Icicle Man was killed.

I made it home with time to spare, parking my bike, showering about four or five times, and parking myself on the living room couch with a bible. If anyone asked, I’d been home all day, reading. I hadn’t been online, hadn’t seen the news, and had no reason to know that anything of interest had happened today.

Mom and Andy came in about an hour later, both looking grave.

I snapped the book shut. “I’vebeenhomealldayreading!”

I’d like to thank the Academy…

They were too lost in their own world to even notice me. Given her glassed-over look, I think Mom might have even popped a Valium. Andy was on the verge of tears.

“Is something the matter?” I managed to say, pretty sure I didn’t sound
that
suspicious.

Andy immediately ran upstairs, bawling, while Mom steadied herself on the doorframe.

She looked at me, questioning, “You mean, you haven’t—”

“No, I haven’t heard what happened.”

She ran to me, throwing her arms around me. “Oh, it was terrible! Someone… a terrible, inhuman, un-American,
supervillain
, killed… Icicle Man!”

I got off the couch to console her. As she sobbed into my shoulder, I gently rubbed her back, trying to calm her down.

“It’s all right, Mom, everything’s going to be fine,” I said in my best soothing voice, trying not to sound too scared.

Of course, it wasn’t fine.

For the next week, our fight was the number one trending topic in the media and nearly every channel was focused on the death of Icicle Man and the disappearance of the mysterious and evil Apex Strike. There were memorials. There were retrospectives of his brief career in heroism, which was tragically cut short. Lots of time was spent focusing on his extensive charity work. His album of jazz standards shot to the top of the charts in less than twelve hours.

It was easy to get lost in the headlines:

“A Nation Mourns”

“Death of a Hero”