And Other Stories (6 page)

When the scene of Ringo’s suicide
was complete, Wyatt said, “Doc, maybe we ought to split up for a
while.”

That would be prudent. If anyone
decided Ringo had been killed, it would be best if no one could say
that two men looking like Wyatt and Doc had been near these parts.
Doc nodded.

Wyatt said, “I’ll get your share to
you.”

Doc nodded again.

Wyatt smiled. “Half’s better’n
thirds, ain’t it?”

Doc coughed, then nodded a third
time.

“You’ll be all
right?”

Doc said, “Sure.”

“Well. Be seein’
you.”

He watched Wyatt ride away. A
bullet in Wyatt’s back would surprise no one, but Doc did not draw
his gun. He loved anything that was simple and strong and
beautiful. Some things should live forever, and some things should
die.

Coughing, he rode on
alone.

Little Red
and the Big Bad

Will Shetterly

You know I’m giving the straight
and deep ’cause it’s about a friend of a friend. A few weeks back,
just ‘cross town, a true sweet chiquita, called Red for her fave
red hoodie, gets a 911 from her momma’s momma. The Grams is
bed-bound with a winter bug, but she’s jonesing for Sesame Noodles,
Hot and Sour Soup, and Kung Pao Tofu from the local
Chineserie—‘cept their delivery wheels broke down. So Grams is
notioning if Red fetches food, they’ll feast together.

Red greenlights that. Veggie Asian
chow and the Grams are solid in her top ten. So Red puts on her
hoodie, leaves a note for the Moms, and BMXes away.

Now, down by the corner is a fine
looking beastie boy who thinks he’s the Big Bad, and maybe he is.
He sees Red exit the eatery with a humongous bag of munch matter
and calls, “Hey, Little Red Hoodie Hottie. Got me a tasty
treat?”

Red doesn’t slow. She just says,
“Not if you’re not my Grams, and you’re not.”

This Big Bad wouldn’t be so big or
so bad if he quit easy. He smiles and follows Red to her chained-up
wheels. While Red juggles dinner and digs for her bike lock key,
the Bad says, “Take five? Or all ten?” and holds out both
hands.

Red warms to his style and his
smile—this beastie boy isn’t half as smooth as he thinks he is, but
half is twice as smooth as this town’s seen. Red hands off the bag,
the Bad peeps in, and his stomach makes a five-two Richter. He’s
thinking he’s holding the appetizer, and Red’s the main
course.

Red mounts her wheels, takes back
the bag, gives the Bad a gracias, and pedals off down the main
drag, riding slow . She doesn’t want to be a sweatpig when she gets
to Gram’s. The day’s as sweet as a sugar donut, but Red’s not
happy. As she rides, she calls herself a ho for flirting up a
corner boy with Grams so sick. Pumping the right pedal is like
pins. Pumping the left is like needles.

The sec Red rounds the corner, the
Bad’s off on a mountain bike, zipping ’cross town, cruising down
alleys, cutting through yards, taking every shortcut he knows and
making up seven new ones. ’Cause when he peeped in the chow sack,
he saw the foodery’s little green delivery slip spelling out Grams’
name and address.

The Bad gets to Grams’ front door
while Red’s still blocks away. He leans on the buzzer till a weak,
weak voice asks, “Who’s there?”

The Bad pitches his voice like
Red’s . “It’s me, Grams! It’s major munching time!”

Grams laughs and buzzes him in.
She’s laughing right until she sees the Bad, and then she’s not
laughing at all.

Red’s the gladdest when she gets to
Grams’ place. Walking up to the door, she pokes her nose in the bag
of Chinese tastiness, snorting peppers and garlic as if she were
dipping her face in a spicy sauna. She has to smile. What can be
wrong when a great dinner’s coming?

In Grams’ bedroom, the Bad thinks
the same as a tap-tap comes at the door. He hops in the Grams’ bed,
calls, “Hurry in, my sweet surprise!” and pulls the covers up over
his nose.

Red walks in the front room,
saying, “You shouldn’t leave your door open.”

The Bad calls from the back, “It’s
just to let you in, my munchiliciousness.”

Red heads down the hall, saying,
“Your voice sounds funny.”

The Bad calls, “It’s just my sore
throat getting sorer. It’ll be better once I eat, my little main
dish!”

Red brakes at the bedroom door. The
place looks nice, if nice is a dark, dark cave. On the shadow that
she knows is Grams’ bed is a shadow that could be Grams. The shadow
says,“Now come snuggle your poor, cold Grams,” and pulls the
bedcovers back to invite Red in.

Red sets down the food, gives the
shadow some serious squinteye, and wants to turn on every light in
the room.. Then she hears Grams, near to tears, add, “Or don’t you
love your Grams?”

Red says, “Sure do, Grams,” and
hops in bed without a doubt in her head. But when the Bad pulls her
close, Red’s a little spooked. She says, “Your eyes are way bright,
Grams.”

“‘
Cause I’m way glad to see you,” says the Bad, pulling her
closer.

More spooked, Red says, “Your arms
are way strong, Grams.”

“‘
Cause I’m way glad to hold you,” says the Bad, pulling her
closest.

And as spooked as spooked gets, Red
says, “And your teeth are way sharp, Grams.”

“‘
Cause I’m way glad to eat you,” says the
Bad.

Now, I could say that’s when a bold
cop hears Red scream, runs in faster than the Bad can bite, shoots
down the Bad like the cold, cruel creature he is, finds Grams tied
up safe in a closet, and Red and Grams and the cop all get the
happy ever after.

Or I could say there’s no scream,
no handy cop, and the Bad has a happy belly glow for days, thanks
to Red and her Grams.

Either way, there’s uno problemo
with my story: If the Bad dies, how do I know how he gets ’cross
town? If Red dies, how do I know how she feels biking to
Grams’?

Here’s what’s sure: One dies. One
lives to tell the tale. And the one telling the tale is guessing
’bout the other.

Now pick the end you like. But
before you do, think on this:

The storyteller’s still around.
Maybe nearer than you think.

And everyone’s got to
eat.

Secret
Identity

Will Shetterly

Everyone assumed I’d had my masker
card for years. Wasn’t I the son of the great Galaxian? The
Vampire’s kid had become the Vampire II; everyone assumed I’d be
Galaxian, Jr. or Kid Galaxian or something that clearly announced
my heritage. When I flew down the halls of Hero High, people were
as likely to call me Galaxian as Alec. I never bothered to correct
them. The only reason I hadn’t visited the Department of
Masquerader Registration to make it official was that there was no
rush. No one else would claim Dad’s masker name.

I was on my way to Latin when
Steeljack called, “Hey, faggot! Yeah, you!” I winced, but I didn’t
look. He wasn’t talking to me. To Steeljack, I was one of the most
powerful gamma-level Celestials on the planet. He was a beta-level
bully who liked tormenting alphas and Earthers.

Jason Zi’Garis answered, “Oh, S.J.,
you don’t even have to ask. Of course I’ll go to the prom with
you.”

I stopped and looked then, just
like everyone else within fifty feet. Half the kids laughed. Half
just stared, fearing what would happen next. I was in the second
group.

Those who were laughing had good
reason. Jason ought to have been scary. He stood eight feet tall.
His shoulders were nearly four feet wide. His grandfather had
masked in the ‘50s as the Big Boss Man. At sixteen, Jason was
bigger and stronger than his grandfather had ever been.

But Jason was always clowning
around. He’d dance down the halls like Fred Astaire when everyone
else was rushing businesslike to their next class. He’d take
outrageous parts in school plays and wear his costumes to class.
Now, with Steeljack furious at him, Jason was affecting a high
voice and a swish walk. Who could stay afraid of him?

And no one should have been afraid
of Steeljack. He was a skinny kid, two-thirds Jason’s height and a
quarter Jason’s weight. His real name was Larry Si’Valy, but he
only answered to his mask name. He was dressed, as usual, in his
registered costume, which looked a lot like a Nazi Stormtrooper’s
uniform.

That costume heightened their
differences. Though Jason was dressed inconspicuously—for an
eight-foot kid—in jeans, running shoes, and a varsity jacket, he
was wearing a black T-shirt with a pink triangle. He had just
registered at the DMR as the Pink Puma.

It made the morning news in a big
way. There’d always been jokes and rumors about maskers, ever since
Dad showed up in tights and a cape in 1938. An Earther woman
claimed to have been the Star Woman’s lover, but the Star Woman was
killed when Russia invaded Hungary in ‘56. Though a TV movie called
Her(o)love had been made, no one knew if that affair really
happened. Mr. Sandman had confirmed the rumors about himself when
he wrote Out of the Closet and Off with the Mask, but Mr. Sandman
was an Earther masker. Jason was the first and only Celestial out
of the closet.

I looked up and down the hall for
teachers and didn’t see any. Steeljack had probably checked before
he yelled at Jason.

“Pink Puma.”
Steeljack sneered. “More like, Pink Pansy.”

“Ooh, wish I’d
thought of that.” Jason smiled as he started to walk around
Steeljack. “I’ll tell everyone you’re the one to ask for gay masker
names.”

More kids laughed. I didn’t. Jason
was an alpha whose physical strength strained the limits of human
possibility. He could take care of himself in most circumstances.
But beta-class abilities had nothing to do with human possibility.
Steeljack was a metamorph whose favorite shape was a metal-skinned
kid with razor fingertips.

Chris Naiy was down the hall,
flirting with Wanda Chan. They both got quiet when Steeljack
stepped closer to Jason. Chris and Wanda glanced at me. I looked
away fast.

Steeljack said, “You’re pathetic,
Pink Pooftah. You’re disgracing Celestials, and you’re disgracing
maskers. You make us look like a joke.”

“No way, S.J,” said
Jason. “You’re a self-made man.”

Someone snickered. As Steeljack
figured it out, his skin became chrome. Someone screamed.
Steeljack’s fist was flashing toward Jason’s head, and Jason was
bringing his arm up in a block as he backed away. We all knew
Jason’s flesh couldn’t deflect Steeljack’s metal blow.

Then Chris was standing behind
Steeljack. A streak the brown of Chris’s skin and the red of his
jacket and the yellow of his jeans hung in the hall, from the place
he had been to the place he stood. His hands were on Steeljack’s
shoulders, and Steeljack had been wrenched sideways. His punch
ended in the air several feet away from Jason.

Chris released Steeljack, letting
him lurch forward, off balance. Steeljack spun and glared. Six-inch
spikes sprang from his knuckles. Then he saw what had
happened.

Chris was a gamma who could
timeslip, slowing the world down around him. Chris couldn’t hurt
Steeljack in his metal form, but Steeljack could never hope to
touch Chris. It was worse than a stalemate.

In fifth grade, an older kid on a
bicycle had called Chris a nigger. An instant later, the kid was
still where he had been, but his bike and his clothes were up in a
tree, and the kid was covered from head to toe with chocolate
syrup. The kid landed on his butt, then took off running. Everyone
called him Sundae for the next three years.

Steeljack shrugged, shifting from
metal to flesh. “Hey, I wasn’t really going to hit him.”

Chris nodded and began to turn
away.

“Besides,” said
Steeljack, “my complaint’s with Fagman, not you.”

“Yeah, Chris,” said
Chiller, a cryokinetic whose skin frosted over when he got excited.
Right now, his hands and face were blue with a sheen of ice. “Is
Jasey-poo your boyfriend?”

Chris stared at Chiller as if that
was the lamest thing he had heard. Then he put his arm around
Jason’s waist. “Why, yes, he is, and I don’t care how jealous you
get, you chilly-silly dude.”

The crowd laughed as Chris and
Jason made kissy faces. They laughed more when Wanda sniffed loudly
and said, “Oh, Jason, he’ll break your heart like he broke mine,
that shameless hussy!”

Steeljack flexed his hands. Metal
razors rang like chimes. A red-headed girl smiled and called, “Hey,
Larry, quit showing off.” Blue-hot jets of flame appeared from her
fingertips. “Skykids need to be careful. Someone might get hurt
accidentally.”

Steeljack frowned. “Yeah, right.”
The razors became skin again.

The bell sounded then, and we all
scrambled for our classes. Steeljack and Chiller headed one way,
Wanda and the redhead ran another, Jason cartwheeled down the hall
toward his room, and Chris and I raced to ours. I flew, but when I
arrived, Chris was sitting comfortably in his seat. “What took
you?”