Preternaturals: A Superhero Thriller

by Allen Kensington

  He turned off the shower, and reached through the steamy air for the nearest towel. Drying, he stepped out a new man.

  He flicked on the small television in his bedroom and listened while he dressed. It was ten o’clock, and the morning talk shows were in full swing. He flipped through the channels, landing upon a twenty-four hour news network. A breaking bulletin caught his attention as he slipped on his socks.

  There had been a prison break at Hawkin’s Isle, and preternaturals had been involved. He turned up the volume, listening as the anchor summarized this new confrontation. Although details remained unclear, the report did convey a few facts. Red winced as he heard them. Eighty-three had been left dead or wounded, and all of the assailants had escaped.

  It was the exact situation that no one wanted to happen. It was a situation that begged for Faction. He picked up the phone, dialing the number on the senator’s card.

  The voice on the other end offered precise, but enigmatic, instructions.

  __________

  Sunlight filtered through the windowed walls of Stephen Detch’s office in the heart of the city. It was a massive space, an entire floor of a downtown skyscraper, with but a few columns and storage areas casting shadows against the glowing rays. His view of the sun was clean and beautiful, but he noticed little of it. He sat, working away at the computer screen extending from his desktop. At this point in the day, only those pixels interested him.

  “It’s all coming together, Father.”

  He smiled, his bony fingers shaping the stylized gauntlet he had worn during the video conference. A perfect recreation of Dr. Malorius’ costume hung in the hollow cavity of the nearest column, staring at him now that he had replaced the helmet.

  He pressed a button on his desk, and a stack of labeled disks revealed themselves. He pulled the first among them, and let it slide into an indistinguishable slot within the desk’s frame. The opposite wall detonated with sudden projections, the sights and sounds of battle filling the room. Captain Valour and Dr. Malorius reenacted their final confrontation.

  The costume hung motionless.

  He watched from his chair, allowing the chaotic fracas to enthrall him. Every attack, parry, and dodge that the projected Malorius made, Stephen duplicated from a sitting position. He swung his fists with the same lethal intent, and moved with perfect timing. Through it all, he voiced a running commentary.

  The room rattled as the playback progressed, showing shaky, black-and-white footage of the two nemeses duking it out for the last time. They were evenly matched, but Stephen knew a single victor would emerge. He fought his way toward the closing moments.

  He paused the recording on the last move, holding onscreen the final failure of the mad supervillain. His breathing labored, Stephen held the posture, allowing the weight of the battle’s conclusion to impact him. After a moment, he relaxed, draping himself back across his chair.

  Recovering, he reached down and grabbed his right knee. His legs had left their braces along the chair’s body, and he pulled the first back into place. With his right leg corrected, he repositioned his left in much the same way. Feeling the added stability, he grabbed the chair’s wheels and moved from behind the desk. Its medical chrome picked up errant bits of sunlight as he rolled across the room and replaced the gauntlet in its position alongside the rest of the suit. His eyes glistened.

  Staring at it, his hand remained to caress the fabric. “And that, dear Father, was your single mistake. Ever. It is a shame that it would be your last.”

  He brushed a few specks of white lint from the costume’s cape, and turned to roll back to his desk. His hands paused on the chair’s wheels, gripping the treads that supplied his mobility. He pushed them a few rotations further and turned, again regarding the costume’s delicate evil. His mind heard a question, though no sound carried through the room. He laughed a little.

  “I don’t intend to make one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Billy Moffet waited at a table, dressed in his best khakis and a shirt that had looked good on the store mannequin. Picking up the napkin for the seventeenth time, he wiped his sweaty palms, glancing around the room. Meredith was not among the sea of red-checkered table clothes and dim candles.

  Slipping a hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. Its screen read 8:17. Replacing it, he sat a while longer, not knowing what to feel. Whether it was disappointment, anger, or humiliation, he wanted to get out of there. It was clear that she wasn’t coming.

  He stood, pulling his coat from the back of the chair. He threaded one arm into the cotton sleeve, then the other. From inside the breast pocket, his phone rang. Hesitant, he answered. “Hello.”

  “Billy?”

  Meredith’s voice quavered from the speaker. Something was wrong. Usually, her tone carried a carefree lilt that intrigued him, but it held a different quality tonight. Her words were sorrowful.

  “I’m sorry I can’t make it,” she continued, not waiting for a response. “There’s no easy way to say this. My father was killed this morning.” She struggled to hold herself together.

  Billy didn’t know how to reply. “What . . . What happened?”

  “He was a guard at Hawkin’s Isle. There was some kind of attack.”

  He stammered for a moment, unable to respond. He sat down again, listening to the silence on the line. It left him unable to speak, and only after she explained more did he regain himself. He tried to console her as best he could.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about tonight, okay? Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon.”

  She began to say something, but he had cut her off somewhere. She hesitated, then began again.

  “Could you come over? I know it’s kinda weird.”

  His mind tried to piece together everything that was happening. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

  She gave him the address, and he ended the call, a gnawing concern growing within him. For once in his life, he hoped to be wrong. Clenching his inner cheek between his teeth, Billy exited the restaurant and found his car. It wasn’t much, something old and vaguely embarrassing, but it got him from Point A to Point B. He had left it on the street in hopes that someone would steal it, but thieves in the city had better taste. It wasn’t even locked.

  Billy opened the glove compartment and pulled his GPS from inside. He hadn’t had it long, something he had picked up from one of his spoiled dorm-mates. He turned it on and punched Meredith’s address into the locator. The fastest route through the city displayed without hesitation.

  In times like this, the car proved itself. The accelerator was pressed to the floor in his rush to get to Meredith, and to find out the truth. The vehicle rolled through the streets at a brisk 55 MPH, nearing its top speed. Passing under many yellow lights, but never a red, he made it to her house in record time.

  The home was nestled in a quiet neighborhood on the North side. A nice place, it was made of old brick and settled among hedges, elm trees, and a full lawn. Cars packed the half-circle drive, leading him to park on the street a few houses away. It was the nearest he could find.

  He inhaled and exhaled deeply as he approached the front door. He could feel a cold sweat inking from his hands and armpits. He reaching up to press the doorbell, thought better of it, and knocked instead.

  Meredith answered, as he had hoped. The last thing he needed was an awkward entry, with some well-meaning relative giving him the third degree. He wiped his hands on his pants, realizing that he didn’t know what to say. He was going to start with “Hi,” but saw her streaked mascara. It didn’t seem right.

  “Come in,” she said, moving out of the way and holding the door. He stepped onto the hardwood flooring of the entryway. For the moment, they were alone. She took his jacket as he searched for the proper words.

  “I was waiting at the restaurant,” he blurted. There was no reason for saying it, other than to fill the unease between them. The silence was killing him.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, no.” He tried to recover. “It’s not your fault. I was just . . .” He searched for the words, but they didn’t come. “Nevermind,” he said, shaking his head. His tongue felt too large for his mouth.

  She reached out, putting her hand upon his.

  Thoughts began to flow again. “Are you okay?” he asked. It was a stupid question. The answer was obvious. Of course she wasn’t okay.

  She nodded, not looking up. “Everyone’s in the family room. This way.”

  He walked behind her to an archway down the hall, watching her curves as they moved. About halfway there, he realized the folly of his attentions, and grew angry with himself. He paused at a picture instead, and a knot began to form in his stomach.

  An older man stood with Meredith and the family dog. His face didn’t look familiar, but it was this anonymity that triggered Billy’s worst realization yet. He wouldn’t recognize them, any of them. He hadn’t paid much attention during the attack, simply placing his explosives and leaving. The blood that had been splattered across the grass could have come from anyone. He had given the victims no mind.

  He entered the room behind Meredith, and was washed in the tide of sorrowful faces. She introduced him, and while the people inside tried to accommodate their meeting with some happiness, the atmosphere was heavy and quiet. He kept his greetings to as few syllables as possible.

  Being the only two standing in the room, they sat. Volunteering his seat to Billy, Uncle Something-er-other was induced to stand. It was all the man needed to get started.

  “You know what I think,” he said with a little slur.

  There was a half nod within the gathering.

  “Whoever did this should be sent to the electric chair, but not at full power. No. They have ways of reducing it, making it just enough to simmer you in your own juices.”

  An aunt, probably his wife, was kind enough to shush him. She put a hand around his wrist and pulled him down. The group didn’t stir.

  The uncle spoke again, somewhat to himself. “That’s what they should do. When the police find those dirtbags, they should make them pay.”

  Billy looked to Meredith’s mother, silent on the couch. Brave though she was, a tear slipped down her cheek from time to time. Daring not to meet her gaze, he stared at the floor instead. His vision narrowed to nothing more than the tasseled, vanilla rug. Even Meredith left his sight, but not his mind.

  The identity of her dead father still eluded him.

  Was this a man Iguanus had ripped apart? Was he one of Rangda’s victims? Or worse yet, had Billy’s own explosive done him in? It was without a doubt that he was killed in their attack, but he was an unknown. The casualties that they had caused remained faceless to him, merely numbers.

  He bit his inner cheek, and the damage came to bear upon him. The lives and families and futures that he had helped to exterminate broke through the mist and landed ashore in his consciousness.

  He reached over to Meredith and grasped her hand. What had he done? This was no dormitory burglary. He had been responsible for the deaths of men and women. Somewhere in his quest for wealth, he had crossed a boundary, and the girl suffered as a result.

  He sat there, surrounded by grief and unsure what to do. Guilt besieged him, and he could feel the blood flow to his face. He couldn’t be here, but could not leave either. Hi pulse pounded in his ears, and he wanted to disappear, but any action he took would make him seem even more suspicious.

  Meredith turned toward him, seeming to stare. Did she know? Is that why she had called him here? He felt panic sink into him, but tried not to move. More redness colored his cheeks, and his hand tightened upon hers.

  She snuggled against him, holding a little closer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Four days later, Red Cunningham pulled his rusty pickup into the parking lot of a small shopping center on the edge of the suburbs. He parked near the grass edging, far from the entrances to the electronics retailer and the dollar store. Twisting and removing the key, the truck’s engine shut down and the radio fell quiet. He looked around.

  Where were they? The senator had instructed him to meet here, where some sort of transportation was to take him to his new job. He had assumed others would be here as well, but the parking lot looked as any other, filled with empty cars and casual shoppers.

  A cold rain pelted his windshield, so he understood why people would not want to hang around outside. Red himself was unwilling to leave the vehicle’s confines, hesitant to give up what little warmth lingered inside. Perhaps the others had gathered in one of the shops, waiting for their sign to exit. He looked around again, wondering if he should do the same.

  Not far away, a tour bus sat idling. His first cursory glances had ignored it, assuming it to be nothing more than some senior citizen’s weekend diversion, but as the rains parted, another look proved otherwise. Hanging along the side of the bus was a large banner encouraging voters to reelect Senator Williams. Its presence seemed too appropriate to be mere coincidence.

  Red left his truck, running toward the motor coach. As he neared, a man stepped out of the entry door, flipped a page over his clipboard, and checked the list underneath. “Your name, sir?”

  “Red Cunningham.”

  He flipped through a couple more pages, looking them over with efficient eyes. “Ah, yes. Here you are. Welcome aboard,” he said, standing aside.

  Red climbed the narrow stairs into the heart of the bus. Rows of seats became visible as he ascended, each sporting the same gaudy upholstery. He saw that he was not the first to arrive. A few blindfolded heads rested nearby, but before he could get a better look at these new coworkers, another man stood from the front row, holding what looked like a sleep mask.

  “It’s a precaution, sir,” the man explained, pulling it taught over Red’s head. The interior of the bus went dark, and he was guided to a seat about halfway down the aisle. He sat, listening in silence for long moments as others boarded in much the same way. It became clear that the rows were filling, and random voices tried to make conversation in the nervous quiet. Soon, the bus got underway.

  The ride was not long, but it offered Red time to reflect on this decision that he had made. He was excited, he had to admit that. This journey seemed the culmination of a lifetime of dreams. He had made it. Like the legendary hero of old, Captain Valour, he was a protector of justice with all the trappings. He was a superhero.

  The child inside him rejoiced, but the ring on his finger reminded him of other concerns. He was not the only one affected by this choice to pursue the opportunity. Cynthia waited at home, willing to shoulder the everyday responsibilities as he chased his dreams. It was nothing new. She’d been doing it since he had become Faction, but his time away from her made the sacrifice all the greater.

  He sniffed, thinking about her. He hoped it would all be worthwhile.

  “Everyone,” a voice called, “you can remove your blindfolds now. We’re here.”

  Red pulled off the strip of fabric as the vehicle halted. His eyes were subjected to a sudden brightness, and it took him a few moments to adjust. When he did, the scene outside his window seemed a mistake. He blinked a few times to make certain nothing had gone awry.

  He had expected something huge and ornate, a palace of columns and statues. His imagination held gilded rooms filled with tapestries and computer terminals – a courthouse, museum, and computer lab rolled into one.

  He laughed as he realized his naiveté. This, it was not. It looked more like a hospital’s cheap administration building, a nondescript structure like any you’d find in business parks around the world. An ample parking lot swept up to its front door, allowing a pristine view of endless concrete. Flat, beige walls rose five stories to a level roof, and black windows dotted the facade at regular intervals.

  The pressure-sealed door wheezed open, and the leaders exited the bus. The group spilled out after them, nervous and excited. Red waited as most le
ft, then stood and walked down the narrow aisle at the back of the crowd. He followed them outside and through the doors of his new workplace.

  The entryway was adorned with neutral wallpaper and speckled brown carpet. A reception desk of unidentifiable wood filled a nook to the right, and gray cubicles crowded behind it. It wasn’t what he had expected, but despite it all, something about the place struck a chord. It felt mundane, but mundane in clandestine sort of way. The illusion of normalcy, so well perfected here, covered the group’s secrets, as if the entire workplace had a secret identity.

  He continued with the group as their handlers escorted them down a hallway. The tour terminated in a cramped conference room, and as Red got there, most were already inside, sitting in individual chairs along the room’s edges. Only the oak table at the room’s center remained open, the seats facing a pulled-down screen at the far end. He sat along the right side, between a dark-haired woman and a bulky man. Looking around the crowd, he recognized the senator, but no one else. Jack Williams stood at the front of the room, beginning his oration as the last of them trickled inward.

  “Welcome, everyone. I’d like to thank you all for coming today. What you’re doing takes courage, and we appreciate it.”

  He put a hand in one pocket, frowning at the crowd. “The world has become a dangerous place. People are now asked to deal with burdens far greater than any of those their forefathers imagined. I’m not simply speaking about the responsibilities of preternatural power. Man is a violent species, and this violence hasn’t been dulled by the technologies that we have given ourselves. If anything, it’s grown.”

  The senator grimaced as he spoke, but his face lightened as he came to his point. “Seeing you here today, it gives me hope. Each of you has come with the intentions of helping your country, and making the world a better place. Despite many problems, you’ve responded to my offer. To me, that makes you heroes already.”