by Adam Nemett
With a sweep of his hand and a hearty “XplO!” Sergeant Drill fires a rifle shot into the air, and suddenly the crowd breaks from their poses and rushes to the water. Some dive directly in, splashing toward David. Others go for the boats moored to disappearing basketball hoops and paddle toward David, looking like furious purple Vikings.
He crosses his wrists together and grabs the two tag ends, like Haley showed him, squeezes and loosens them. The loops widen and he can jimmy his hands, stretching the rope wider and wider until, just like that, his hands are free. Voilà.
David claws at the tape around his mouth, pantomiming to them, Cover your ears, cover your ears! But it’s too late. Ultraviolet has unleashed them and there is nothing rational David can say that will stop this onslaught. The hunt is already on. The USV has fully fallen into the deep well of Mathias’s mouth, and David has no bucket with which to pull them back up.
An oar rests in David’s rowboat—a weapon left to give the illusion of a fair fight? He picks it up and paddles like mad, heading away from Ultraviolet’s pulpit, to the back edge of the lake. But he doesn’t get far before the enemy rowboats close in. Purple heroes stand like bears, claws out, ready to feed. When they get close, David grips his oar like a baseball bat, knees quaking as if preparing for a fastball straight at his head. But there are other heads in range now. Dirty minds. Tainted by Mathias’s insidious evil.
David rears back, takes a swing. He lands his shot directly across some hero’s head and he goes down, but David topples as well, thrown off by the weight and by the creepy feeling of hitting a fragile skull with this blunt weapon. He has no balance, strangled by the banner-cape, and as he’s about to pick himself up, dust himself off, and take another shot, praying his oar will knock some sense into these zombies, David looks up to find flaming bottles flying through the air.
They twirl end over end like batons. Some splash, but one of these Molotov cocktails comes crashing down in the bow of his boat. Exploding, the bottle sprays flames across David, along his boat and cape. For a second he can’t believe it: he’s actually on fire. His exile is here.
The flames move fast, scampering up his cape and heading toward his face. He closes his eyes, the heat all around him now, and there’s nowhere else to go but down.
He jumps off the rowboat into the water below. The cape is too unwieldy, too heavy. David’s limbs get tangled, and the cape just sucks up water and grows heavier, pulling him down below. He is carrying a billion pounds around his throat.
Trying to swim to the surface is pointless. All he can do is dive deeper.
And then, in the depths of this manmade lake, David bumps into another body.
At first he tries to fight it, to claw its eyes out with everything he’s got. But the body doesn’t fight back. It just hovers there, in front of David, arms outstretched. A frozen marionette.
It’s lifeless. Dead. A body in the water.
A superimposition. Another yourself. Blink.
Jesus Christ, it’s Esteban. An earlier prisoner, perhaps, another alleged evil purged. Maybe he figured out their plans for Business-Man and tried to stop them, tried to uphold justice and got trampled by his own goodness, another boy who gave his noble life to save David’s unworthy one.
He yanks the goggles from his head and wraps them around the dead boy’s face. Please be my decoy, David thinks. Buy me some time.
Underwater, time moves fastest. David’s breath is running out.
He keeps breaststroking down into this gateway to the afterlife, dragging the tremendous weight of the cape behind him. David needs to be rid of it or it will be the End. He’s losing breath.
Panic sets in.
Searching his body in vain for a tool, a weapon, a gadget that will loose him from this noose round his neck, David knows he has nothing.
So he uses the only thing this poor excuse for a superhero has left: his own brute strength.
Stretching out his neck, David finds an opening between skin and wire. He slides his fingers in there. And then David goes still. But he’s not dead yet. He’s staying stiff, building energy, preparing to XplO, harder, stronger, faster, more, now, do it you fucker get this thing off just pull you fucker pull goddamn it because this is the time where heroes are made when you’ve got nothing left in the tank and need to dig deep so pull like Superman in Lex Luthor’s blue pool wrapped in Kryptonite chains glowing green be the man you are and remember that power lies not in your muscles but in your guts so find it you fucker pull and scream that you still have work to do and people to save your life your love your child maybe in there about to be sacrificed to this madman unless you do something about it so just pull you hero pull you fucker pull!
XplO!
All that tension spent in the bliss of release, and when the wire busts loose it’s like David’s life has just found its spot. This is who he is now. He is David fucking FuffMan.
To the shore! He sees all those kicking legs above him. They’re headed the opposite direction, splashing a frothy brew lit by the orange flicker of a boat on fire. They’re headed to Esteban’s body, a gift from the imperfect gods.
David’s legs kick Plexiglas. He guides himself to the surface. And thank god his mouth is covered with tape, because he can’t swallow much water or make much noise when he emerges. Water spews from inside of him, filling his eyes and skull and purging from his nose. No one sees or hears him yet. They’re howling to the ceiling, gathered round the dead goggled body found next to that cape. It’s too dark to see. They know nothing but wrath now.
David pulls himself up onto the bleachered shore like the first fish crawling from the water. He rips the duct tape from his face and bails out water from his insides, the vomit burning him all the way through. But no time to recover. Staying low along the concrete stairs, David makes his way up the aisle, heading for the concourse. He ditches the blazer, back to purple, blending in. If he moves slowly enough, maybe the crowd won’t spot him. Up he goes, slithering one step at a time. But when he gets to the top of the section and looks toward the pulpit, the fear in Ultraviolet’s eyes belies his confidence. This is no half-assed villain. Not one to be satisfied until the body is verified. He’s going to push forth. Time is running out.
As David bolts into the concourse, he finds a gray mask on the floor and puts it on, a bit of camouflage. But he still has no weapon. No easy access to the pulpit without first breaking through all of Peacemaker’s bodyguards. David is full of power, but he can’t singlehandedly take out an army.
He needs the element of surprise.
Then David finds a door marked CATWALK.
It’s unlocked.
Taking the stairs three at a time, the latex suit pulls at his skin. The purple paint is shredded from the underwater struggle, so David claws at his breastbone and splits a vertical seam and pulls outward, exposing his bare chest and its zero tattoo, like Clark Kent tearing off a dress shirt.
Every cell is on fire as David reaches the top of the stairwell.
The catwalk. It lies before David, high above Mathias’s lost followers. He climbs up into it, the grated metal cold on his bare feet. The ceiling smells like smoke from Mathias’s pulpit-fire on the opposite side of Spinoza. David’s eyes are blurry, but he can make out Mathias standing behind Haley and keeping a low crouch, David heads toward the space above the two of them.
Storms smack the roof above his head, the kind of tempest that exists only in movies where people are lost at sea. He hears Mathias orating again. He can’t catch everything because the acoustics are weird and his heart is running hard, but snippets of speech waft up to the rafters.
“Woman’s womb,” he yells, “is our final pill! A final Big Bang as the gods come to collect!”
David’s at half-court, directly over the center of the lake, his rowboat still ablaze below. Outside, the supercell must be directly over the arena. A piece of roof rips off, exposing sky.
“Break free from this egg. When they perish, we begin our sile
nce! Her blood will prime the waters below! Then each of you will rise to receive your medication. We are pure or we are Nothings! Wade into the waters below. Stay stiff as you quench the gods.”
Reaching the end of the catwalk, David is directly overtop of them, heat from the fire warming his feet and legs. On one side of this makeshift graduation stage, Dr. Ugs is pouring Liquid Zero into an endless grid of Dixie cups. A line forms on the other side, and heroes march single-file to receive their drink. The seven pregnant surrogates encircle Mathias with meticulous choreography and remove his robe. One raises a branch and the others rub oils into his purple skin.
“Droch, Mirroch, Esenaroth…” they chant.
“Our queen will quench the thirst of the great Timekeepers. Listen closely! You can hear their voices whistling around us now.”
Indeed, David can hear voices. Over and over in his brain the mantra runs.
…Kill the queen and her child… please quench me… the only way to salvation… medication…
He shuts his ears and scans the catwalk for a tool, a rope, something to throw, anything to thwart this villain and save this day. But there’s nothing up here besides smoke. Smoke and David.
And now Peacemaker, who has found him. He’s on the far side of the catwalk, snarling for David to stop. David sees this juggernaut sprinting toward him, closing fast. More roof rips away.
Please, Grandpa. Please, Claire. Give me some sign here of what it is I’m meant to do.
“Let the countdown commence!” shouts Ultraviolet below. “TEN!”
David is above them. Mathias below, sizing up Haley. She raises Mathias’s axe to the sky.
Swim in her waters. It’s the only way to salvation…
“NINE!”
It’s time, David.
“EIGHT!”
She must be sacrificed. Listen to the gods.
Bounding stomps on the catwalk. Shadows in David’s periphery. Peacemaker getting closer.
“Betu, Baroch, Maaroth…” the surrogates chant.
“SEVEN!”
The path of heroics is long and winding. You may still exert influence on mankind, the way you’ve dreamed.
Staring straight down, he tries to block the noise.
Please quench me…
To whom do these voices belong?
“Holy Trinity, punish him who has done evil toward us…”
“SIX!”
Please quench me.
Blink. Batman. Blink. Superman. Blink. Golden Echo. Blink. Wonder Woman.
How can I put my faith in a higher power, ask it to give me guidance?
“FIVE!”
Only sacrifice saves us.
Metal bounces below David’s feet. His old roommate, this samurai goliath, approaches fast.
“… and deliver us from this evil by thy great justice.”
David’s eyes find fire, dancing in its ancient glow. His skin flickers, alive and naked.
“FOUR!”
Dear ghosts, I am finally wearing the correct costume.
Peacemaker screams David’s name.
FuffMan!
Below, Sergeant Drill points her rifle upward and takes aim at David.
“Elion, Elion, Esmaris. Amen.”
Haley raises the axe from her waist, straight-armed, a firm gatepost. She curls the blade in front of her own throat, holding it there, poised and ready. David knows it’s sharp enough to slice her jugular with one swift pull. A swift death. Their sacrificial offering.
“THREE!”
David throws his leg over the catwalk railing. He nudges his heels to the edge of the platform. He stares at Mathias’s bare skull and lines up his shot as a bullet whizzes by.
David’s hands find the railing. His heart finds a moment of silence. He fucking has him.
Just then, Mathias glances upward. His eyes are sad. He winks.
And I am you.
“TWO!”
And David launches himself.
Time falls apart in the air. History dying softly in David’s ears. Future nowhere to be seen. Who knows what human bones can do? Speed and spirit and gravity, something drawing him back to itself, something good. The center of the earth, the electricity of it, the magnetism. He feels the air rushing through his hair, this good wind, and he looks down on Mathias’s head, coming fast as a fist, and he sees that it is terrifying. So he looks away, up, up at the rain accelerating with him, reaching the same speed, droplets fixed like pixels in space, pushing him along, pulling him closer and connecting him to that same water rushing through time, the torrential superstorm above and sinkhole below, pulling or funneling down that vortex of declining time sinking the plague the flood of frogs finally feeling heat and hopping from that boiling pot pouring over her foraged tea leaves unfolding from a weightless womb an embryonic egg cracking the dam breaking and swallowing the bridge and Superman flying round Earth’s oceans until time stops and rewinds and everything is good again.
He looks back down. There’s nothing left to dream or imagine or hear or see. No sirens, no sea. There is only this mad final duel and the outcome will not be decided by David or Mathias, but by the physics of wind, the forces of gravity, their water all one and the same, and as his body comes crashing down, David feels that pull, his skin pulling, the earth pulling, and as he lands on bone and the world goes black, he thinks, I am flying I am flying I am flying…
12
THE SATYA YUGA
i.
Blink.
Bleep.
Bleep.
David saw a heartbeat.
He saw the monitor spiking with each bleep.
He saw everything again.
He saw his dad standing in the corner of the hospital room. His mom was combing David’s hair, the tines massaging his head. She sang a soft song he recognized from somewhere, but he could not place the words. He felt an ungodly need to pee, but had no idea how to make that happen.
Blink. Tubes and wires circled his arms and chest, and he saw covers pulled taut across his legs, and with a sharp inhale David felt violently restless and tried kicking his way out of these sheets. Again, the message went nowhere. He lifted his neck, just barely, wanting to get a look down at himself. The effort was immense, as if that strong banner were still tied round his throat.
David’s dad hopped up and over to him. Gil cried while Eileen squeezed him and shouted to God or nurses.
“Mom,” David managed, his tongue thick and dry. “Is the world gone?”
“Nope, not yet,” she said, laughing through her tears. “It’s just a little different! Smaller.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, buddy,” said Dad. “We thought you were gone.”
David shook his head no.
He tapped his chest, where the Æ tattoo would be. David whispered, “Superheroes never die.”
His dad’s face turned ghostly.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, they do. Plenty of them do.”
— Ø —
A true blackout holds no dreamtime. No imagery. Only darkness. Three months of coma.
The fall had broken David’s back. Cracked his T7 and T8 vertebrae. It took away his legs.
They call it paraplegia. Not a complete lesion of the spinal cord, so they’re hopeful. Doctors say David may regain a high percentage of his motor function below the waist. They say they want to begin rehabilitation immediately, that there are some great new FDA-approved drugs and other experimental ones in late-stage trials.
When destiny fails, use your smoke pellets.
They’re mobilizing his muscles. Functional electrical stimulation. Belly binders and neoprene shorts with electrodes built in. A new costume. He’s watching for radioactive arachnids.
But David’s in no rush to be rebuilt. As soon as he’s well, he’ll have to deal with the trial.
Because the end didn’t come for David.
The world didn’t come to its End, either.
But it did for Mathias Blue.
David’s fall smashed M
athias’s skull. It killed him instantly.
There were thousands of eyewitnesses—unreliable, sure—but enough consensus that a narrative could be formed. David was the one responsible for the final implosion of the USV, and the State of New Jersey charged him with assault, gross negligence, arson, theft, inciting riots, and second-degree murder. His lawyer thinks he can get that last onerous one dropped to voluntary manslaughter, a crime of passion. They’re still discussing what plea to use. Self-defense? Diminished capacity? Insanity? Either way, he’s guilty. But there’s also no hard proof. Regardless of David’s plummet from above, the autopsy discovered an insane amount of drugs in Mathias’s system, including a possibly lethal dose of phenobarbital. David’s lawyer thinks once Colonel Blue has exhausted the easy legal options he’ll drop the charges against David, scared to publicly dredge up any details that could incriminate himself. Maybe they can settle. Only time will tell.
Until then, Mom and Dad come to visit him. They know all the cafeteria employees by name, and the grill cook, Moe, is always willing to make his mom eggs well after breakfast is technically over. Mom and Dad help David do the things he can’t do for himself.
“You only lost three months,” they say.
“You have your whole life ahead of you,” they say.
“Your body will come back,” they say. “All it takes is time and effort.”
David tells them, “Time is irrelevant.”
They rephrase. “Okay, all it takes is the illusion of time. Plus effort. Plus, the nurse said you—”
“Yes, I got a boner,” David says. “She told me, too.”
“See?! Time and effort!”
They are still so proud. Masters of denial, impervious to reality. That’s their superpower.
And, somehow, David still feels strong and virile. After all, he’s killed a person.
And he feels weak. After all, he’s killed a person.
But he’s created one, too.
“Buck up,” Dad says, “you’ve got a baby on the way that you’ll need to protect.”
David is beginning to understand the craziness of bringing a new human into this world. The thrill. The horror. What if it’s not even his child? And what will he do if it’s a girl? Or a boy? What if something happens? What if it’s blind or stillborn or contracts smallpox or leukemia at age four? David still fears the gods’ awesome power to taketh away.