Hero Worship (14 page)

TWENTY-THREE

I toss and turn all night, unable to fall asleep even though I'm exhausted. I finally drift off and don't wake up until the next afternoon. When I try Eliza's number, I actually get an answer this time. But it's an automated voice saying, “The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again.”

I hang the phone up and redial the number—but I get the same message.

Angry beyond belief, I plop down on the sofa. I flip channels, stopping when a program is interrupted by breaking news. An anchorwoman sits behind a desk. A photo of Lieutenant Mercury, in his yellow-and-black costume, is superimposed on the screen behind her. It says
R.I.P.
below him.

The anchorwoman says, “Our city's beloved hero and protector, Lieutenant Mercury, has been murdered. His body was found early this morning behind a restaurant on the thirty-six-hundred block of Hermosa Street.”

My heart stops.

“The beloved hero's real name was Darren Campbell,” the anchorwoman says.

And with those eight words, my whole life is leveled.

They flash a couple of photos of Darren not wearing his famous costume, and my worst fear is confirmed—it is without a doubt the same man who attacked Eliza and me.

The newscast then shows stock footage of soldiers storming an opulent desert palace. The anchorwoman's voice says,
“A young Darren Campbell led Vector Squadron 3 to depose of the dictator Anas Sayed.” An artist's depiction, much like a drawing in a comic book, shows Darren crushing an enemy tank with his bare hands. Soldiers jump out of the tank, fleeing for their lives.

“Darren's service during the Sidewinder mission is still classified to this day,” the anchorwoman says. “But he's credited with turning the tide of the military campaign.”

I fear a picture of my face will flash across the screen next, proclaiming me the murderer of this celebrated man. Of everyone's hero.

“There wasn't much information about Darren Campbell immediately after his military service,” the anchorwoman says. “But in 1991, Darren revealed himself to the world as Lieutenant Mercury.”

The newscast shows a series of photos of a masked Lieutenant Mercury performing acts of heroism. In a grainy photo, he swoops out of the sky to save a child trapped in a burning building. There are photos showing him fighting terrorists, both domestic and foreign, and various dirties whose names and abilities have long been forgotten.

“Lieutenant Mercury's crowning achievement came in 2001 when he decided to recruit worthy cleans to form the group known as the Core,” the anchorwoman says. “This group has protected the citizens of Loganstin ever since.”

The newscast shows Mystic, sitting in a chair and dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “This is a tragic day for all of humankind,” Mystic says. “And I want to assure the world that the Core will not rest until Lieutenant Mercury's killer is brought to justice.”

The anchorwoman says, “There is a memorial service planned for tonight at the Civic Center, downtown. The Core will be there to pay tribute to their fallen leader.”

Turning off the television, I jump up, grab my jacket, and rush out the door. At least I know where I can find Eliza.

TWENTY-FOUR

The crowd grows steadily, and the flow of foot traffic becomes one large mass moving toward a common destination. Traffic is shut down to accommodate the crowds. Police direct the foot traffic, waving hands and blowing whistles. I'd wager there are a hundred thousand spectators coming out in honor of the fallen hero.

Vendors circle through the crowd, peddling their Lieutenant Mercury merchandise. T-shirts, hats, cookies, water bottles, and cupcakes are just some of the goods for sale. Most of the T-shirts have an image of Lieutenant Mercury with
Rest in Peace
stenciled underneath it.

Finding a lamppost, I scurry up it. The enormity of the crowd is breathtaking. There are so many people that I can't even see the street below—they completely blanket it.

In the distance is a stage, where Mystic holds a microphone. The four other remaining members of the Core sit behind her. Streak, wearing his red, skintight costume, taps his foot as if bored, but his super-accelerated ability to move makes his foot a blur. Rocket and Sling sit next to each other. I think about the night at the parking garage, and it angers me that these two phonies can sit on this stage and play the part of heroes. Rocket adjusts his mask, which causes him to accidentally nudge Roisin in the shoulder. She shoots him a look, but he's oblivious. I can see Mystic's lips move, but the words I hear through the sound system don't match up with them. I realize I'm so far away that there's a delay, so what she says doesn't sync with what I hear.

“Lieutenant Mercury was the best among us,” Mystic is saying. “He had a dream years ago to assemble the best of the best to protect this great city. The remaining members of the Core will honor his deepest desire and continue to serve the citizens of Loganstin. His untimely death weighs heavily on my soul, as it does for my friends and teammates. I want to reassure each and every one of you in attendance here today that we—”

Without warning, she stops in mid-sentence. She looks into the crowd, scanning faces like a speed reader skimming the words in a novel. Her eyes stop, and while I can't be one hundred percent certain, it appears that she's staring at me.

Not diverting her eyes from my direction, Mystic lifts the microphone to her lips and says, “Please remain calm, but Lieutenant Mercury's killer is in this crowd, right now.”

If Mystic wanted to incite the crowd, this achieves her goal. A murmur ripples through the spectators. The four seated members of the Core jump to their feet and move to Mystic's side, ready to launch into action at her command. If it weren't for the situation, they would look rather comical, striking the pose that's become a cliché for costumed crime fighters—fists held up, legs spread wide, searching dramatically for evil forces only they are capable of fighting.

“Apparently he wasn't aware I could read his mind,” Mystic says. “I can't think of a better tribute than to apprehend the killer in front of all of you.” She drops the microphone, but I don't wait around long enough to hear the noise this makes through the speaker system. I slide down the lamppost and hurry off into the wall of people.

The crowd grows more agitated. People are trampled, and I hear sirens in the distance. Riot police, wearing helmets and clutching shields, storm into the thick of things. As I shove my way through the throng, a couple of police officers raise their batons and savagely smack unruly agitators. The whole scene turns to chaos.

No matter which way I move, I'm traveling against the motion of the crowd. “Out of my way,” I yell, but my voice is drowned out by the rising mayhem.

A path clears in the crowd, allowing the members of the Core to storm through. Mystic points her manicured finger at me. The other teammates look in my direction. Jumping into a procession of people moving away from the Core, I flow along with the crowd, struggling to remain on my feet. A shadow passes overhead. I can feel it following me as I zigzag along with the mob. I glance up and see him—Rocket. The eyes behind his mask are locked on me, like an eagle tracking its prey as he flies through the air above me. He points a finger at me, looks back over his shoulder, and yells, “The cretin is right here!”

Up ahead, I spot a subway entrance. I race toward it. I don't have to look up to know Rocket is still tracking me from above. Reaching the stairs, I take the steps three at a time. I feel a rush of air on my neck, and, out of the corner of my eye, see the soles of Rocket's boots shoot overhead.

“The elusive lad is going subterranean!” Rocket yells.

I jump over the gate and run past the people waiting in line. A couple of them yell at me to wait my turn, but I race ahead as fast as my legs will carry me. I'm out of breath and tired. I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder and spin around, coming face-to-face with Eliza.

She grabs my hand and puts four syringes of Dr. Klaus's concoction into my palm. As she closes my fingers over them, she says, “Leave town and never come back.” She disappears down the platform. She's left me to the wolves.

I'll need all the power I can get. I remove the cap from
one needle and jam it through my shirt, into my stom
ach.
Squeezing it tightly, I empty the blue concoction into
myself and then toss the spent syringe. Finding someone with fear on the subway platform is as easy as eenie, meenie, miney, moe, and I power up.

I feel a whoosh of air move past us, kicking up discarded pieces of paper. All I see is a blur, and I know it's Streak. He stops right in front of me. Recognition bubbles to the surface and comes to a boil. “You!”

Launching myself into the air, I land in the middle of the subway tracks, hitting the ground running. Exploding like a bullet out of the barrel of a gun, I run into the subway tunnel. Streak zips after me, closing the gap rather quickly. Digging deep, I crank up the juice, speeding away as fast as I can. The subway tunnel winds beneath the city like an underground river that cuts its way through the earth.

I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure I hear Streak cursing. There are plenty of fliers who can travel faster than him, but that's in the air. He's been the undisputed champ on the ground for years. I'm sure he doesn't like me challenging his superiority. But I wonder how long I'll be able to keep this up. If it weren't for Dr. Klaus's concoction, I'd be spent.

A bright light shines up ahead, signaling an approaching train. Streak is behind me. I can feel him barreling down. I slow down, allowing him to get closer. The fingertips of his outstretched hand brush my shoulder. All his focus is on catching me. But all my focus is on the approaching train, its lights blinding as the distance closes rapidly.

Streak's hand lands on my shoulder, tightens. “Gotcha!”

Timing it perfectly, I jump just as the train threatens to mow me down. I arc high into the air and land on the top of the train. Streak yells, followed by the sound of crushing metal. He bounces off the front of the train and slams into the platform. The impact causes the concrete to crack, fracturing like a web. Chunks of concrete break away and fall on him.

Running along the train's roof, I pace it so I remain stationary in the tunnel. The train rushes under my feet until I leap into the air as the train ends. My feet land between the tracks. The train continues down the tunnel.

The sound of whimpering draws my attention to Streak, who lies in a fetal position off to the side of the tracks. He moans as he rocks back and forth, clutching his leg. “You broke my leg!” he snaps. He shoots me a nasty look and tries to get to his feet. He can push himself up, but he grimaces as he attempts to put weight on the injured leg. Hopping toward me, he says, “I'm gonna kill you!”

“There's been a misunderstanding,” I say.

Favoring his hurt leg, he jumps at me. “I'm gonna enjoy hearin' you scream!” Giving up on explaining myself, I turn and zip away, leaving him hobbling in the middle of the subway tunnel.

The tracks eventually move aboveground to the depot, where the trains get refueled, repaired, and stored for the night. My heart drops when I see the other members of the Core—Mystic, Rocket, and Sling—standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle of the tracks. My feet dig into the gravel and I come to a grinding stop. My shirt and jeans are shredded and in tatters, and my shoes are melting on my feet.

“Marvin, you've gone far enough,” Mystic says. She presses her palm against the side of her head and grimaces, like she's suffering from a migraine. But then her facial features soften and her eyes focus clearly on me. I can tell by her face that she's in my brain, piecing my memories together like a jigsaw puzzle.

“You sonavabitch!” Sling yells, lunging toward me, his weightlifter's costume tightly hugging his enormous thighs.

“Sling, no!” Mystic yells.

But Sling is charging me, lowering his head to ram me. Veins in his neck bulge like large worms, and his fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. I speed past him in a blur. Rocket launches into the air, but I easily zoom past him, moving so quickly it causes him to wobble in flight like a kite without a tail. He smacks into the side of a train.

Running as fast as I can, I follow the subway tracks back into a tunnel. As I disappear into the darkness, I hear someone calling my name, and it lingers like an echo.

TWENTY-FIVE

There are highway workers in vests and hardhats working on the freeway, near the entrance to the concrete cave. I can see them under the glow of artificial lights. Concealing myself, I watch from a distance. My power has faded, or I'd just zip past them and enter my old home without them even seeing me. After the events of the night, I'm seriously paranoid. I jump at every noise, afraid a member of the Core has found me. I just want to get indoors and seal myself away until I can figure out what to do.

I approach a tree that's nestled by the on-ramp. Safely out of sight of the road workers, I get down on my hands and knees to brush aside dead leaves and dirt. When I find the manhole cover, I dislodge the heavy lid, push it aside, and climb inside the hole.

It's dark inside the manhole, and the air is stagnant like a sealed tomb. I descend a ladder covered in rust and grime. Reaching the bottom, I make my way through the utility corridor, following the bundles of electric lines and fiber-optic cables that lead me to a metal grille. Getting down on my knees, I dig my fingertips into the grille and try to pull it loose, but I can't get it. It's rusted shut. I pull on the grille until my fingers bleed, finally ripping it off.

On my elbows and knees, I shimmy into the passage. My skin rubs raw as I creep onward like a caterpillar. I stop a couple of times to rest, but force myself to keep moving. The sooner I'm out of this tunnel, the better.

Up ahead, light shines through a grille in the floor. A wave of relief washes over me as I approach it. Rolling onto my back, I look up through the floor of our kitchen. I push up on the grille and hear it clank onto the floor. I pull myself up.

The soft flickering of light from the television reflects on the outside wall. I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans. My mouth is dry, and I try to swallow, but it gets stuck in the back of my throat. The back of Kent's mushy head pokes over the sofa's headrest.
It's not too late
, I think. He hasn't seen me yet. I could disappear without him knowing I was here. But I don't have anyone else I can turn to for help.

“Hey,” I mumble.

Kent jumps to his feet and swivels around to face me. “Dude, you scared the hell outta me!” he says. He ambles around the sofa and gives me a big hug. “Man, Marvin, it's good to see you.”

I hug him back and say, “Same here.”

“Crazy about Mercury, huh?” he says. “So, how's it going?”

“Um … not good,” I mumble, not knowing where to start.

Yvonne steps into the room, ignoring me as she plops down in front of the television. I wait for her to say something, or at the very least acknowledge me, but she doesn't.

Kent gives me a halfhearted smile and says, “Don't mind her. She's still coming around.”

“I didn't know where else to go,” I say. “I'm in big trouble.”

“What're you talking about?” Kent asks. “What kind of trouble?”

“I killed Lieutenant Mercury.”

Kent laughs as Yvonne finally looks at me, studying my face. I wilt under the scrutiny. Kent stops laughing and says, “Oh, wait, this isn't a joke?”

“Eliza and I were attacked by this guy,” I say. “I didn't know who he was, but I found out later it was Darren Campbell.”

“He was the most powerful clean ever,” Kent says.

“Eliza shot me up with a couple of vials of this stuff,” I say, shrugging. I pat my pocket and feel the three remaining syringes inside. “It happened so quickly. I didn't know what was going on.”

Kent appears to lose his balance and plops down in the chair. My confession is too heavy a weight to carry.

“All I ever wanted out of life was to help people,” I say. “I failed to help my mother. I thought I could make up for that if I could join the Core. So when Eliza said I could try out for the team, it finally felt like I had a shot at redemption.”

Nobody says anything for what seems like forever. Yvonne's fierce eyes pierce me. Before I can say anything, she storms off.

Kent wants to say something, and he starts a couple of times but changes his mind, finally giving up.

“Do me a favor,” I say, staring at where Yvonne stormed off. “Watch after her and keep a low profile.” I head toward the exit.

I halfway expect Kent to stop me and say that everything will be okay. We'll figure it out. We'll get through this together.

But he doesn't. He probably respects me too much to lie.