Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

by Chris Strange

  —Shrimp to Shark: An Autobiography of Mako, Supercriminal

  Sam ached to see the sun. Being confined to a small space didn’t bother him. He’d lived on the boat with his uncle for years, after all. The cell—or whatever it was—was a little bigger than the cabin he shared with his uncle, but there was no window here. God, how he wanted to feel the sun again. He was starting to forget what colours looked like, what the sea smelled like. All he had here were the concrete walls and the light that stayed on all day and all night.

  He sat curled up on the mattress and tapped the back of his head against the cool concrete wall. How long had he been here? Three days? Four? A month? Time had no meaning. He slept most of the time now, if you could call it sleep. He had no blanket to shield himself from the cold and the light, so he did little more than doze. Sometimes—he had no idea how often—a hatch at the bottom of the thick steel door would open and someone would shove in a bowl of porridge or watery soup. The first couple of times, Sam raced to the door and begged to be let free. Then he begged for whoever it was to talk to him, to say something, anything. But the hatch always closed in silence and the footsteps faded away, leaving him alone again. His last meal had come an hour or so ago—it was hard to tell—and now the remainder of it sat beside him. Something in it tasted strange this time, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe he was just forgetting how things were supposed to taste.

  He didn’t move from his bunk much anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he was even still alive, or whether he was a disembodied ghost. He wasn’t hungry and he hardly drank anything, so he didn’t need to use the steel toilet in the corner very often. His heart still pounded whenever the hinges of the food hatch creaked, but he forced down the excitement. He didn’t know why he was here, what they wanted from him, but they weren’t going to let him go. Maybe he’d be here until he shrivelled up and stopped collecting his food, then they’d come and clean out his corpse to make room for the next prisoner.

  While he tapped his head against the wall, a memory dredged itself up from the swamps of his mind. A few months ago, while he and his uncle sailed slowly south through the Indian Ocean, he reread The Count of Monte Cristo. In it, the protagonist Dantès was imprisoned for fourteen years. Would Sam be imprisoned that long? He wouldn’t survive. At least Dantès had a Mad Priest to keep him company. Without contact, without the sun, Sam would just stop existing.

  Of course, Dantès had escaped. Sam had thought about escape when he first woke here. He studied the creaking, noisy pipes that ran across the ceiling, and he tried to pry the toilet away from the wall. But all he got was bloodied fingers and broken nails. He cried that day. He didn’t have the strength for that anymore.

  But maybe there was still a chance. He’d felt something back on the boat when the man attacked him. He couldn’t describe it, even to himself, but he could feel the residue of it sticking to his skin, like sea-spray on a windy day. He pressed his hand to the bruise on his throat. In that brief second when the man elbowed him, strength cut through the pain. It was some sort of energy, maybe even electricity, as stupid as that sounded.

  He’d felt the energy once before, when he’d had a shouting argument with his uncle over something he couldn’t even remember. The energy was fainter then, and he figured it was just anger. But his uncle got quiet all of a sudden, and backed down just as the energy went through him. Did he see something in my face? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about it? Afterwards, they made up and had fresh fish for dinner. But his uncle wouldn’t meet his eye for days.

  He held his palm under the light. He swore he could feel traces of the energy tingling in his fingertips. But it was just childish, naive hope. Wasn’t it?

  Footsteps clicked outside the cell. Sam snatched his hand back and crossed his arms over his knees. It’s just mealtime. You lost track of time again. But there was another sound along with the footsteps. A voice.

  “There was a crooked man,” the high-pitched voice sang, “and he walked a crooked mile.”

  Sam pushed himself to the end of the bed as the footsteps came closer. His heart thudded.

  “He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.” The voice giggled.

  He’d heard that nursery rhyme before, but never in that lilting, off-key tune. The footsteps came to a stop.

  “He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.”

  The door’s lock groaned and clicked, and the hinges creaked slowly open.

  “And they all lived together…” Spindly fingers appeared around the door. Sam backed into the corner. “…in a little…crooked…house.”

  It took Sam’s tangled mind a moment to take in the slender man in the doorway. He wore a skin-tight black leotard and torn fishnet stockings. One of his long, pale arms held the door open, while his other hand rested against his face, fingers splayed. No, Sam realised. That’s not a face. He tried to force himself further into the corner, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. Leather string held a plastic mask shaped like a doll’s head to the man’s face. Crusted, dead flesh surrounded each of the stitch-marks in his skin. Crude make-up covered the face, with a grin of lipstick and thick pink blush across the cheeks. Mad eyes stared out of jaggedly carved eyeholes. Goose bumps ran down Sam’s arms.

  The man cocked his head to the side and took a step into the room, a high-heeled woman’s shoe clicking on the concrete. “Is it scared?” His voice was high, girlish. Sam couldn’t see the man’s mouth move behind the mask, which only made things worse. “Doesn’t it like Doll Face’s singing?”

  “Who are you?” Sam tried to keep his voice from trembling. His feet were frozen in place. Oh my God, what is this thing?

  The man giggled and took another step forwards. “It doesn’t know Doll Face. The Pretty Man said it wouldn’t know, but Doll Face didn’t believe him. Everyone knows Doll Face.”

  Sam had to get out of here. This guy was crazy. Uncle, where are you?

  Doll Face slowly pushed the door closed behind him. Sam watched the narrowing crack, mind spinning. He was gripped with a sudden urge to run. He was nearly as tall as Doll Face; maybe he could rush him. But Sam couldn’t make his feet move. There was something dangerous in the man’s stop-start motions. He’s killed people, Sam thought, and he knew it was true. Uncle, why didn’t you tell me the world was like this?

  The door closed with a sickening thud. Doll Face cocked his head to the other side and skittered forwards. Sam shrank down as small as he could make himself.

  “It shakes,” Doll Face said, bending towards him. “Is it scared? Yes. It understands. It might not know Doll Face, but it knows Doll Face.” His head twisted and jerked as he spoke, inspecting Sam from every angle. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, it knows Doll Face.”

  “What do you want with me?” Sam whispered.

  “Pretty Man says it is a bad boy. He tells Doll Face a story. Would it like to hear the story?”

  Sam could smell the rotten flesh around Doll Face’s stitches when he came close. It made him want to puke. “Please. I just want to go home.”

  “Well it can’t go home!” Doll Face screeched. He threw up his arms and screamed in Sam’s face. “It can’t!”

  Sam cowered at the creature’s rage. Oh God, let me go.

  Doll Face stared at Sam for a few seconds, neck twitching. Then he jerked away and continued in a sweet voice like nothing had happened. “Once upon a time, there was a powerful wizard. He went all around the world.” Doll Face bought his spindly fingers up in front of Sam’s face and mimed walking. “Some people loved the wizard, and some people hated him. He hurt a lot of people. People he loved. Wizards do that, you know.” He leaned forwards conspiratorially and winked behind his eyeholes. Sam shivered.

  Doll Face’s fingers started moving again. “Lots of people wanted to get back at the wizard for all the people he hurt. But one day, the wizard just vanished. Poof!” His fingers jerked open then curled closed again. “Years go by, and without the wizard around, the wor
ld is much safer. No one is getting hurt anymore. Everyone is happy, hmmm? Does it understand so far?”

  Sam swallowed and jerked a nod.

  “The world changes. The Pretty Man comes along, plotting his plots, planning his plans. One day, a little birdie speaks to the Pretty Man. ‘Cheep cheep,’ it says. ‘I know a little secret. Would you like to know a secret?’ The Pretty Man says he does want to know a secret. ‘You remember that powerful wizard that hurt everyone?’ the birdie says. ‘He had a son.’

  “The Pretty Man is shocked. A wizard’s child is a dangerous thing. He needs to be controlled. He can’t be allowed to hurt people like his father. So down comes Doll Face, down to the dungeons. To see how dangerous the child is. Because Doll Face is magic too, hmmm?”

  The girlish voice stopped, and all Sam could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. Doll Face was talking about him. And if he was the child, the wizard must be his father. His uncle always refused to speak about his father. The only thing Sam had of him was an old photo he kept in his drawer. It showed his father and uncle side by side when they were much younger, in front of some cabin in the woods. But beyond that, he knew nothing. Not even his father’s name. Could this man…this thing…really know something?

  Doll Face cocked his head to the side. “Does it like Doll Face’s story?”

  Sam said nothing. He wanted the sun, and his uncle, and to see that beautiful island girl swimming one more time. He wouldn’t be scared to talk to her now. He wouldn’t be afraid of his uncle’s scolding. He’d dive off the boat and swim over there and say hello. Because nothing she could say, nothing his uncle could do, nothing in the world could be worse than this. Not even the thought of learning about his father was enough to overcome the dread that swam through his veins.

  “It is silent,” Doll Face said. “It doesn’t like Doll Face’s story. Doll Face is sad. But Doll Face is not hired to talk to bad boys. It doesn’t know about Doll Face’s special skills.” He covered the mask’s mouth with his hand and giggled. “It’s been so long since he got to use them. So very long.”

  His fingers crawled like a spider around to the side of the mask and tugged on the leather cord that threaded through the crusted skin. Sam tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. His nostrils were filled with Doll Face’s stink. God, Uncle, anyone. Please.

  Doll Face’s nimble fingers undid the knot in the cord and slowly began to unlace it. Pus oozed from the festering sores as the cord slipped out of his flesh.

  “Doll Face was a little boy once.” Another stitch came undone. “He doesn’t remember where, or when, but he remembers being a boy. The other boys were mean to him. They called him names and said he smelled. Little Doll Face went home and cried every day, but the teachers didn’t help him. Mummy didn’t help him. He was so alone. Except for his toys. Little Doll Face loved his toys. He was crying one day, and a teddy bear spoke to him. It told him how to make the boys stop being mean.”

  One side of the mask was completely free now, and Doll Face held it in place while he went to work on the cord on the other side. Sam panted rapidly, heart vibrating. His fingers tingled.

  “Teddy bear was right,” Doll Face said. “Doll Face had special skills. If he got very close to the boys, he could do something magical. He could see into their minds.” Only two more stitches remained. He tapped the mask’s forehead with the hand that held it in place. “And he could do things to their minds. He could play with them, hmmm?”

  He undid the last stitch and let the leather cord drop to the floor. Sam gave one more thought to trying to overpower the creature, but every muscle in his body was frozen.

  “The boys became his toys,” he said, slowly withdrawing the mask. “Just like Doll Face’s little dolls.”

  A scream built in Sam’s lungs, but his throat had closed up tight. Doll Face’s naked face stared at him, and he couldn’t help but stare back. Oh God, what is this thing?

  From the eyes up, the face was that of a normal man, filthy and with a misshapen forehead. But it was the lower half of his face that Sam couldn’t take his eyes off.

  Out of every pore, thin, twisting strings crawled across his skin. Wherever they touched, they left trails of slime. Several longer ones emerged from Doll Face’s nose as Sam watched. They seemed to sniff at the air. They can smell me.

  “It is sickened,” Doll Face said. His lips twisted as he spoke. The strings wormed their way out, growing longer. They stretched towards Sam. One brushed his cheek. He could feel the ooze it left behind. A scream got caught in his throat.

  “It still doesn’t understand,” Doll Face said. More strings crept towards Sam, brushing his hair back, crawling across his eyelashes. “But it will. Oh yes, it will.”

  Sam finally screamed as the strings entered his mouth.

  9: It’s Too Late For Me

  Future Girl

  Real name:

  Carla Owens

  Powers:

  Able to change the speed of her personal timeline.

  Notes:

  Only female member of the Manhattan Eight. Disputes between her and Iron Justice were well publicized. After Dr Atomic retired, Owens claimed that Iron Justice made unwanted sexual advances towards her, but she never pressed charges. Shortly after the Manhattan Eight disbanded, she was trapped in a time loop by the supercriminal Chronoburner. Chronoburner was later captured and sentenced to death, but Future Girl was never recovered.

  —Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0007]

  Morgan did his best thinking when he was staring into space, and now was no exception. To anyone else he would seem to be studying the map fixed to the wall of the office, but he’d memorised it weeks ago. Everything was ready. Well, almost everything. He didn’t relish the thought of the coming days, but he couldn’t pretend his heart didn’t quicken when he ran through the plan in his head. Once again, he rubbed his forehead with a white-gloved hand. His head ached a little—it hadn’t let up since Bangkok—but everything was on track. Just a few more days, and he’d be done.

  A muffled crack brought him out of his thoughts. His chair squeaked as he swivelled to look through the office window. In the abandoned warehouse below, his people went through drills amongst the old machinery and shipping crates. They moved swiftly, and they were learning to complement one another. The first team would advance and secure cover under the protection of Haze’s smokescreen, while Screecher probed for hidden enemies. Obsidian had set up several of Navigatron’s target drones throughout the warehouse to try to ambush the metas.

  Morgan’s man had sourced this warehouse to act as a base while they were in Neo-Auckland. Neo-Auckland. A stupid name for a city. The New Zealanders should have given the newly constructed city its own name, instead of basing it on the crumbling husk of the old bombed city. If it weren’t for the name, no one would know they were even related. He’d never visited New Zealand before the bomb hit, but he’d seen photographs of old Auckland—a city clinging to its English roots, embarrassed by its youth.

  Neo-Auckland, by contrast, was like a tacky American theme park. It abandoned the narrow gardens and English villas to fully embrace modern suburbanism and technology. His flight over the city in Hyperion had revealed street after street lined by freshly-mown lawns and trimmed hedges. The old city’s tangled road networks had been replaced by swooping highways, monorail tracks, and grid-like street layouts. Shopping malls and department stores were the new churches. Not that this was a bad thing in itself. At least the civilians he’d seen had improved their dull English fashion sense.

  According to Morgan’s man, the warehouse had been used as a front by a trio of minor supercriminals back in the late ’50s. It explained the row of prison cells downstairs behind a false wall. His operative said the supercriminals who built it were trying to run a kidnapping racket, but they’d got picked up by the police. It didn’t sound like they were experts. The trio managed to get ambushed when they were out collecting a ransom. After the trial, the ware
house was sold at police auction for a steal. And the owner had been keeping it for just such an occasion ever since.

  Two of the cells in the basement were occupied now. The boy was already there when Morgan arrived, and they secured Iron Justice in the cell he’d had specially prepared. Morgan hadn’t looked in on the boy. What he had arranged for Sam was necessary, but that didn’t make it pleasant. He preferred not to think about what Doll Face was doing.

  “My lord,” came Obsidian’s voice from the doorway. Her black, rocky body had a strange sheen in the office light. “The boy has been given the first dose.”

  “He didn’t notice anything?”

  “No, my lord. Doll Face is with him now.”

  Don’t remind me. He nodded and said nothing.

  “You wanted to see the reporter,” Obsidian said.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, pushing aside thoughts of Doll Face. “Bring him in.”

  Obsidian shifted her bulk from the doorway and the young, portly reporter came into view. John Bishop was red-faced, with a few drops of sweat clinging to his forehead, but the young man was clearly doing his best to hide his fear. He’d improved remarkably in the last few days. You had to respect a man who could remain stoic in company such as this.

  Morgan had arranged for the man to be given fresh clothes when they arrived, since his abduction in Moscow hadn’t left time for John to pack a bag. Now he wore a pair of grey trousers and a vest over a white buttoned-up shirt. Obsidian had done a good job choosing clothes that fit the man, especially since she didn’t wear any herself.

  “Obsidian,” Morgan said. “The cuffs. John won’t be needing them.”

  She inclined her head and worked a key into the handcuffs that bound the reporter’s wrists in front of him. John rubbed his wrists as they came loose. A chain remained in place between his ankles, just as a precaution. Obsidian bowed her head once more and stiffly retreated from the room, closing the door behind her.