Hero Engine

by Nader, Alexander

  Adriana clears her throat. “His arrest record includes manufacturing and distribution of narcotics, three DUIs—his license has been revoked—six charges of assault, and three charges of being in possession of illegal weapons. He was also a prime suspect in the bombing of a Hero-Day parade a couple years back. On top of all this, he is reported to be linked to multiple hero hate groups.”

  “How is he not in prison?” Ann clenches her jaw. Heroes probably aren’t used to the ineptitude of the regular ol’ legal system.

  “Sounds like a real charmer,” I say.

  Adriana shrugs. “I’ve already forwarded the address to your pilot.”

  “Thanks, Adriana. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  Chapter 15

  THE FLIGHT FROM HOUSTON to Knoxville takes just shy of 50 minutes. We land in a field outside of town where a vehicle is already awaiting us. I’ve requested this one be sans driver. This situation could be a little more explosive than Kevin Gagnon and I’d rather it be only Ann and I.

  We exit the plane and get in a black Ford Explorer. No government tags, no big antennas, not even a black front license plate with the little thin blue line. This thing is about as discreet as I’m likely to get, which is a definite bonus for sneaking up on homegrown hillbilly terrorists.

  Ann pulls something out of a duffle bag she brought from the plane and sticks it to the dash. “GPS to get us to McCarthy’s place.”

  “Uh, I don’t know about that. GPS isn’t too keen on places as country as I imagine we are about to visit. Hell, I doubt these roads are on the map, and I’ve seen driveways in North Georgia that are a mile long.”

  “This isn’t a TomTom. This is SHI special equipment. Trust me, it will take us anywhere we need to be.”

  I give Ann an appraising look that ends at her duffle bag. “What other kinds of goodies have you got in there?”

  She smiles. The gesture is so dark, it’s almost frightening. Like she’s about to list off: Pliers, nipple clamps, acetylene torch, teeth pullers, piano wire, gasoline and matches. Instead, she says, “I’ve got some good stuff, and I even brought a phone book so you can play your badass noir detective bit.”

  Our partnership is far too young for me to properly discern whether or not she’s kidding. So I swallow hard and put the car in gear.

  From where the plane landed, it’s only fifteen miles to McCarthy’s house. One left turn off a four-lane highway in the south part of the city takes us to a two-lane which narrows to a barely-paved road without yellow lines. Houses give way to well-kept mobile homes. Well-kept mobile homes give way to trees and singlewides. Half of the trailers look abandoned and some are nothing but rectangular burn spots in grass clearings. Vinyl skirting and pink insulation and beer bottles and used shotgun shells litter the landscape.

  Eventually, we are surrounded by trees. One last right turn and we’re rattling down a dirt road, patches of grass growing between deep ruts from tires. No car could drive this road; even the Explorer scrubs the bottom at a few spots. Finally, we pull up to a gate with three rows of barbed wire extending as far as I can see in either direction.

  We get out to examine the area. There is a padlocked metal gate with a sign that reads, ‘No trespassing. Violators will be shot, survivors will be shot again.’ The air hums with electricity. That’s not an expression – there’s an actual buzzing coming from the fence. I’ve heard a slight sound from electric fences meant to keep cows inside, but this is enough to make my hair stand on end.

  “GPS says the house is still a mile that way.” Ann points up the rugged trail behind the fence.

  Of-fucking-course it is. These bat-shit conspiracy theorist types can never just live in a normal place. Especially the hate-group, assassination-plot, meth-cooking fuckheads that are one white hood shy of 1920. Like this one.

  “Have you got a hatchet in that magic bag of yours?”

  Ann walks back to the car and comes out with a machete. “Will this work all right?”

  “Heh, yeah.” I take the giant knife from her. “What exactly are you planning on doing here today?”

  She shrugs. “A girl scout’s got to be ready for anything, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” I walk down the perimeter of the fence until I find a tree that’s about eight feet tall and as wide around as my forearm at the base.

  I roll my sleeves up and start hacking at the tree. Vince’s shirt was most definitely not meant for this kind of work. Bark chips away. I hack again. Woodchips fly at my face with every swing. The sun burns down on me, even through the cover of the trees. Sweat rolls off the tip of my nose and down my back. I can feel splinters stuck to the sweat on my face. One last swing and the tree falls.

  The heft of the tree lands on the top wire, with the branches extending down to entwine the bottom rows. There’s a loud snap and a couple pops, but the buzzing goes flat.

  Ann comes from the back of the SUV with a pair of bolt cutters and gloves. She snaps off all three layers of electric wire and then the lock on McCarthy’s gate. I swing it open.

  “He probably already knows we’re here. A guy as kooky as this one will have alarm sensors or some shit. If not, the dead electric fence will give us away.” I open the car door.

  Ann reaches in the backseat and pulls out two Kevlar vests. “Here.” She throws one across to me, along with a couple of ceramic inserts for extra protection.

  I figure Vince’s shirt has seen enough of my DNA from all the sweat, and it’s hot. I take it off and put on the vest over my white undershirt. Ann puts her vest on over a tank top. She straps a pistol into a holster on her thigh and grabs a shotgun out of the back seat of the car. I still have my gun and tuck the holster into my waistband. As I take my seat behind the wheel, I notice a matching shotgun on the floor in between the seats. This is one well-prepared ride.

  “You ready?”

  Ann stares at me with her jaw set and a cold look in her eyes. “Are you?”

  My answer comes in the form of pulling the car into gear and tromping on the gas pedal.

  The Explorer kicks and wiggles as the tires spin from my burst of machismo. I back off the accelerator enough to let the wheels catch. Tires find traction and pull us deep into the meth-head hundred-acre woods.

  The crappy dirt driveway continues on for what feels like forever. At three-quarter miles in I pull up the bank on the side of the road and park. “Walk from here?”

  Ann bends forward. “Yeah, right then.” She takes her bag and hops out of the car.

  I grab the pair of shotguns and follow behind her. The air smells like cat piss and paint thinner. My nose twitches at the smell. It’s nothing new to me. On the opposite side of the car, I hear Ann retch and cough. When I get around to her side, she’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “What the bloody hell is that smell?”

  “That would be the aroma of a well-cooked batch of meth. Heisenberg’s lair must be close.”

  She angles her head. “You hear that?”

  “Crickets?”

  “No, listen.”

  I copy her. Crickets buzz and frogs croak occasionally. There must be a creek on the property somewhere. I listen closer. A distorted something is vaguely audible in the distance with a high-pitch whine on top of that.

  “I hear it, but I don’t know what it is. You want me to take that?” A nod to her oversized duffle bag. She’s standing straight, military rigid, but the bag is sagging with the weight of its contents.

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle it myself.” She hikes the bag a little higher on her shoulder and starts up the dirt road.

  I catch up to her, a shotgun in either hand. “Come on, let’s not take this one right up the middle.” The woods next to the road will offer a little more cover. These vests are sturdy, but I’d rather not test their strength today. Even through a vest, getting shot hurts like hell.

  Ann and I creep through the woods. A clearing opens as the noise shapes into a recognizable vague form of music: AC/DC
’s “Shoot to Thrill” at a subtle ten thousand decibels. The high-pitched wail is an alarm signaling our entrance.

  “You think that alarm is for us?” Ann drops the bag, reaches for one of the shotguns in my hand.

  I pass her the gun. “I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

  “Do you think he’s waiting for us?”

  “I don’t know if he can hear the alarm over Angus and crew.” I crouch-walk to the edge of the clearing and survey from behind a thick tree.

  In the middle of the space is a small motorhome with a permanent porch built on to the side of it. An Impala parked out front has a tree growing through the engine bay. A Nova is little more than a rusted shell of a car, and a Grand National is missing all the glass with a charred black interior.

  To the left of the clearing is a brand new F-350 truck. The tailgate is down and a tarp covers something bulging from the back. A vintage Harley rests next to the truck. The bike isn’t one of those leather-tassel-mid-life-crisis bikes, but one of those I-deal-with-people-who-kill-with-a-smile bikes.

  Ann taps my shoulder, points to the right of the clearing. Butted right up against the tree line is a small, wooden shack. Half of the boards appear dry-rotted and smoke billows through a vent in the roof. The door opens, and a man walks out.

  Jackson McCarthy is average sized with a big pot-belly sticking out from under a dirty wife-beater. He wears a giant respirator and swimming goggles, and his shirt is stained yellow from sweat and full of holes. His NASCAR logoed pajama pants are in a similar state of skankiness. McCarthy rubs a hand over his bald head and turns his ear toward the blaring alarm. With his head cocked to the side and the mask, he looks like some kind of confused, nightmare alien.

  My heart freezes. My hand is glued to the butt of my gun, finger on the trigger.

  McCarthy turns his bug-eyed gaze towards us. I catch a glimpse of recognition through his goggles.

  “Fuck,” I yell and take off running.

  Our perp rips his goggles and gas mask off as he sprints towards the RV that I assume is his home. My hip burns with every rotation of my legs. Every time my foot connects with the ground a jolt of pain runs from my knee to my ribs. He’s pulling away. For a dude with a gut like that, he can haul ass. Fucking tweakers.

  I bend down and grab a fist-sized rock. I chuck the rock and it connects with McCarthy’s back. He grunts and peers over his shoulder. Like a wraith, Ann charges from behind and drives her shoulder into his midsection.

  McCarthy hits the ground gasping. He coughs and spits and sucks down more oxygen. Ann stands and brushes dirt and grass off of her clothing.

  Now I believe the whole thing about SHI workers needing to be in great shape. “Impressive.”

  “Thanks,” she says, dusting her hands.

  The alarm and Angus Young are still blaring at us. Frankly, I’m not sure which is more irritating. I pump the shotgun and fire a round into the alarm horn mounted on top of McCarthy’s meth lab. That takes care of one wail. Another shot to the 73-inch diameter speaker on the front porch keeps me from hearing an encore from AC/DC.

  On the ground at our feet, McCarthy is finally starting to get some air. “Fff-fu-fuck you,” he says, stoned-out-of-his-mind ballsy.

  He thinks we’re cops. We didn’t flash a warrant, so he thinks he’s safe. He figures we’re here to jazz him for info. Career criminals aren’t afraid of cops, and after so much meth and TV, they figure themselves untouchable. He’s probably thinking, Cops couldn’t be here without a warrant. Too bad for him, I’m not a cop today.

  I grab McCarthy by the back of his wife-beater and drag him to his feet. The shirt rips under my grasp. He stands on his own and throws his ripped shirt down on the ground. His arms instinctively wrap around his midsection. Ann tackles like a linebacker.

  “Mr. McCarthy, we need to have a little conversation,” I say.

  He curls his lip at me, showing off a few beautiful brown teeth. “Fuck you, Cop.” He spits on top of his torn shirt.

  This should be fun.

  Chapter 16

  MIDDLE-AGED JACKSON MCCARTHY strolls over to the front step of his porch with all the swagger of a sixteen-year-old gang-banger. He takes a seat on the stairs and glares at us with a look that the word ‘mutinous’ doesn’t even begin to touch. I can already tell this guy’s going to be a wealth of information.

  McCarthy squints in the afternoon sunlight. “If this was a real arrest, there would be more than one limp cop and his bitch, and I’d be in cuffs right now.”

  My temper flares, but years of police training have taught me to hold back. Everyone thinks they can get a free pass if they get a rise out of a cop. Bait him into beating the shit out of you and scream ‘police brutality’ to everyone willing to listen. “Very astute of you, Jackson.”

  Ann walks toward the tree where she left the bag. I notice the vein in her forehead bulging again, but I don’t think McCarthy catches it. If this creep is getting under her skin, I’d be willing to bet this is her taking a literal walk to recompose her thoughts.

  “You can call me the King. Cause I’m the king ‘round these parts.” McCarthy leans forward gawking at Ann. “That’s one fine piece of ass you’ve got for a partner there. She hits like a train. Look at all that muscle on her arms. Boy, I bet she could tear you apart.”

  I shoot McCarthy a shut-the-fuck-up glance. He ignores it.

  “Hey, if that’s your thing, more power to ya. Me, I like ‘em a little soft around the middle. You know what I mean? I knew this girl once. Name was, uh, name was Charlene. She didn’t have no teeth and let me tell you, the things she did with her…” McCarthy trails off as Ann approaches with her duffle bag, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing is tongue against the inside of his cheek to make it puff out.

  He catches Ann watching his mimed fellatio and blows a kiss at her. “Just telling your partner here about a girl I knew and the one thing she was good for. ‘Bout the same as any other bitch, I s’pose.”

  Ann bristles. She’s playing this thing cool. I imagine it’s not the first time she’s caught shit like this. Hero training camp can’t be easy to get through.

  Time to steer this conversation back on course. “Mr. McCarthy, we’re here to talk about your online activates with a superhero hate group forum.”

  McCarthy laughs. “You twos really ain’t cops, is you?” He spits again, scratches absently at a bloody spot on his left forearm. “You mean to tell me a couple upstanding human beings such as you’selves are here about some cape bullshit?”

  “What the bloody hell do you mean by ‘upstanding human beings’?” Ann asks around clenched teeth.

  McCarthy gapes at her for a moment before he smirks and says, “What I mean is, those capes is an abomination. They is unnatural. Against Gawd and the Good Book isself.”

  Why do these fucking kooks always have to use the Bible as an excuse for their hate crimes? “Do you participate on a forum under the screen name ‘CapeH8er69?’”

  “I sure do.” His chest sticks out a little as if his name isn’t something a fourteen-year-old boy couldn’t have come up with in fifteen minutes. Hell, McCarthy’s avatar is probably a picture of a naked woman if I had to guess. Or a gun. Or a naked woman holding a gun and a Bible and the American Flag. That’s the most plausible.

  “Did you converse with ‘LeDeL’ and a man named Kevin Gagnon?”

  McCarthy glares some more. “’LeDeL’ is a good man. He knows how to put in work. That Gagnon sucker ain’t nothin’ though. He weren’t prepared to do Gawd’s work, didn’t have the kind of strength required for the Alliance.”

  “Does Gawd’s work include bombing parades? Parades full of innocent bystanders, yeah?” Ann snarls and I have to wonder how much longer until she pulls that machete out from her bag and starts the throat- slitting.

  McCarthy smiles. The smile isn’t real. No humor, no good intent, not even any amusement. Just a kind of odd self-appreciation. “It’s never been proved who set that
particular device, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for the one who done it. Took care of lots of traitors to our race, that one did.”

  “Traitors to our race?” My heart jumps in my chest. Years of training can only put up with so much.

  “Yeah, humans. That’s the problem with these fucking cape freaks. They change their bodies and it’s against the Good Lord. He made us in His image and changing that image is against the Bible. The capes are an abomination against Gawd and they should be cleansed from this gift He gave us.” McCarthy turns his palms up and looks to the sky as if begging the Good Lord to take him. I fucking wish He would.

  Long breath in, hold, long breath out. This butt-fuck crazy Jesus freak is not going to get under my skin. “You said the Alliance. Is that the Anti-Hero Alliance?”

  “Yeah.” McCarthy laughs. He digs around in his pocket at something. Ann watches closely, making sure he’s not pulling a weapon, I assume. McCarthy catches on to Ann’s attention and jerks his hand up and down in his pocket, winks at Ann. “Ridiculous name, AHA, fucking pussy-sounding name if you ask me. Warriors of Gawd such as myself deserve a better name, but I’m not here to question, just to serve.” He pulls something out of his pocket.

  I swallow the bile brewing in the back of my throat. Instinct is to puke in this guy’s lap right now. The urge is strong, but I fight it. “Who is it you serve, exactly?”

  McCarthy salutes and says, “I serve the Grand Sovereign Mage of the Anti-Hero Alliance.” He opens his palm and there’s a small baggy he took out of his pocket. He opens the baggy and slides a crystal rock in his palm. He drops the rock on his porch and punches it with the biggest knuckle on his right hand. The rock smashes to dust and a cut opens on his hand. McCarthy swipes the powder into his palm. The powder mixes with the blood from his hand and he snorts the red goo.

  “What,” he says, looking up at Ann and I. “You ain’t cops, can’t arrest me.”

  There are no words to describe how much I hate this guy. “Who is the Grand Sovereign Mage?” And what in the fuck does that even mean?