Villain

by Michael Grant

  Shade, still a muted shadow of herself, said, “Are you saying we have no free will in this?”

  Malik shrugged. “In Philosophy 101, you get into the debate over whether free will exists or whether it’s just an illusion. The result is inevitable: it doesn’t matter. Either we have free will or we don’t, but we are not capable of acting as though we don’t. So, effectively, we do.”

  Shade’s smile was genuine and wistful. “College boy.”

  Cruz saw that her friend was in agony waiting to see whether Malik took this as a good-natured jibe or not. When Malik managed a small quirk of his lips, Shade seemed on the edge of tears of relief.

  “That’s all fine,” Dekka said, “but what about freaks and tanks?”

  “It comes down to who is going to win in the end,” Malik said.

  “Not who is right?” Cruz asked.

  “That’s always important,” Malik acknowledged. “But here’s the thing. If the government wins, they will inevitably hunt us down and wipe us out. Which may be the best solution—would be—if not for . . .” He shrugged.

  “If not for it meaning we all have to die?” Armo snarked.

  “The Ranch,” Shade said. “The Ranch proves the government will use the rock to create its own mutants. Do we trust a government that would do that? To its own citizens?”

  Suddenly there was another person in the room. Armo leaped to his feet, fists clenched and white fur sprouting.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Francis Specter said, holding up empty palms and shaking her head no. “I’m one of the good guys!”

  “How the hell did you get in here?” Dekka demanded, rushing to check that the door was locked.

  “It’s this thing I can do,” Francis said. “I’m one of you. I have a . . . you know . . . a power.”

  Introductions and explanations followed.

  “You’re just a kid,” Dekka said.

  “So were you, Dekka,” Shade said. “So were Sam Temple and Astrid Ellison and the rest.” In response to Dekka’s raised eyebrow she added, “I told you: I’ve read all the books.”

  “She really has,” Cruz confirmed.

  “I’m here because I saw you on TV,” Francis said, dipping her head shyly toward Dekka.

  “Me? Oh, man,” Dekka said. “Great. I’m the Pied Piper now. Well, you’re here, and it looks like you’re bringing some serious capability. So welcome. I guess.”

  Dekka extended a hand, and Francis shook it, abashed and with eyes downcast, like a personal assistant looking to be hired by a movie star.

  Shade summarized. “Okay. I have speed and a fair bit of strength as well. Francis says she can basically go through solid objects, and given the fact she just walked through a locked door, I guess she can. Cruz can alter her appearance or disappear completely. Dekka can shred anything. Malik can send out a blast of unbearable pain. Armo can bring some serious brute force.” At this Armo flexed his biceps and made his pecs dance, which Cruz found ridiculous and yet did not hate watching. She had her Moleskine on her lap and idly sketched a bit of his shoulder.

  “All of which is amazing,” Shade continued. “We have powers. Serious powers. But we still don’t have a plan.”

  “I have an idea.” The words were out of Cruz’s mouth before she could stop them. Any other time the look of skepticism on Shade’s face would have wounded her, but Cruz understood. Understood and agreed that she was very unlikely, based on past experience, to have a useful suggestion.

  “Go ahead,” Dekka said, leaning forward from the edge of her bed.

  “It’s just something stupid,” Cruz said. “Because I was thinking about writing and stories and . . .”

  “Spit it,” Dekka snapped. “Our resident geniuses and our experienced fighters aren’t coming up with anything.”

  “Well . . . okay. It’s what Malik was saying, about this being entertainment. Like a TV show or a book. And I started thinking about it as if it was a story, you know? Like a comic book or a movie? Well, what do superheroes do? They save the day.”

  “So, that’s it? That’s the plan? Save the day?” said Shade, looking almost pitying.

  “No, no, I mean, yes, but . . .” Cruz felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I just mean, it’s about when, isn’t it? Timing. Basically we have two bad guys—the government, and the Charmer and people like him, evil Rockborn. We all know we can’t let some sadistic creep with mind-control powers win. I mean, that’s the end of everything. Which leaves the government. In the end, we kind of need them to win, but not unless they decide they need us alive. So, we can’t ever help the Charmer, but we can maybe help the government. But only if they’re really desperate.”

  “So . . .”

  “So, if this is a story, an entertainment, when do the superheroes show up to save the day?”

  Malik smiled at her. “When all hope is lost.”

  “Cruz, that means standing by while people die,” Dekka said. “Doing nothing until we’re sure the time is right.”

  “Yes,” Cruz said heavily. And as she said it she had an image in her mind of the shark within Shade Darby, suddenly migrating to take up residency within Cruz.

  Two minutes earlier she’d been ogling Armo. Now she had blurted out a plan that might cost—very likely would cost—innocent lives.

  Two of the people in the room understood clearly, down to the depths of their souls, the burden she had just placed on herself. Cruz had just come off the bench to join the game, opened her mouth and made herself complicit in whatever followed.

  Shade and Dekka looked at her, mirror images of pity.

  Interstice

  FBI—Washington

  URGENT

  Note: The following transcript was prepared using a voice-to-text program.

  Transcript of Dillon Poe Facebook video:

  Hello, world, this is Dillon Po [sic] coming at you from beautiful downtown Las Vegas.

  I’m going to give you an order and your [sic] going to follow it.

  I command all who hear this to do two things.

  First, you will forward this video by all social media to all of your contracts. [sic]

  Second, once you have done that, you will come by the most direct means available, to Las Vegas. Once you are in Las Vegas you will defend the city against all government forces, killing any soldier or police officer you find, as well as any person helping them.

  You will follow this order for twenty-four hours after arriving in Las Vegas. Then you will await further orders.

  If you don’t get further orders from me, you will stop, stand in place, and refuse to eat or drink.

  Thanks for listening, thanks for obeying, and don’t forget to tip your waiters!

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Office of the Press Secretary

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Operating under the emergency provisions enacted yesterday, the President has ordered the immediate shutdown of all social media, to include Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and similar services, as well as YouTube and any other peer-to-peer means of broadcasting or rebroadcasting of video or voice.

  Any individual, company, or group knowingly broadcasting, rebroadcasting, or in any way aiding the person identified as Dillon Poe will be arrested and face severe punishment, to include ten years in federal prison and the forfeiture of all assets.

  Classified: Top Secret

  DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

  Director of Homeland Security

  Under the powers granted by the emergency decree, you are ordered to immediately make available any and all “backdoors” to your WhatsApp application.

  Failure to comply will result in the immediate seizure of your business and the termination of any and all ownership claims, whether by you or by stockholders and investors.

  This same letter will be sent to all developers of similar encrypted messaging applications.

  Expedia regrets that at this time we are unable to accept reservations for flights or hotels in the greater Las Vega
s area.

  47 U.S. Code § 606—War powers of President

  (d)Suspension or amendment of rules and regulations applicable to wire communications; closing of facilities; Government use of facilities.

  Upon proclamation by the President that there exists a state or threat of war involving the United States, the President, if he deems it necessary in the interest of the national security and defense, may, during a period ending not later than six months after the termination of such state or threat of war and not later than such earlier date as the Congress by concurrent resolution may designate, (1) suspend or amend the rules and regulations applicable to any or all facilities or stations for wire communication within the jurisdiction of the United States as prescribed by the Commission, (2) cause the closing of any facility or station for wire communication and the removal therefrom of its apparatus and equipment, or (3) authorize the use or control of any such facility or station and its apparatus and equipment by any department of the Government under such regulations as he may prescribe, upon just compensation to the owners.

  SUBSUNK ALERT

  Classified: Top Secret

  DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE

  Chief of Staff, US Navy

  Be advised that we have lost all contact with USS Nebraska last position within twelve miles of USCG cutter: Abbie Burgess.

  NSRS (NATO Submarine Rescue System) is en route via C-5 aircraft from HM Naval Base Clyde (Scotland). Scheduled to arrive on-scene in nine hours.

  F-15 aircraft from the 104th Fighter Wing (104 FW— Massachusetts Air National Guard) to provide air cap.

  CHAPTER 20

  Monster Surplus

  THE FIRST ATTACK came on I-15, just north of the intersection with state highway 127.

  Colonel Frank “Frankenstein” Poole was riding in a JLTV—Joint Light Tactical Vehicle—the replacement for the venerable Humvee.

  Within the truck was a miniaturized combat control center, a mass of computers, radar, and communications equipment meant to give Poole total command of the battlefield. The JLTV monitored video from drones flying overhead, and above them jets, and above them satellites.

  Frank Poole was riding shotgun, up front, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to admire the long column of gray-green or sand-colored tanks, armored personnel carriers, and trucks stretching for almost two miles behind him.

  It was sheer, naked, destructive power, that column: death on tracks and wheels. Death from helicopters and fighter jets. Death from machine guns and cannon, from missiles and bombs. It was Poole’s greatest moment as a soldier, though he was exceedingly worried about blowback: the rules of engagement were not at all clear, and the whole world was watching.

  “Colonel?” the driver, a sergeant, said. He nodded ahead.

  Poole saw a tan Lexus crossing the highway dividing strip, bottoming out and sending up a spray of sand, but plowing through.

  Poole had a brief glimpse of children in the back seat pounding on the seat before them, screaming silently, ignored by the determined-faced man at the wheel.

  “What the . . . ?” Poole said.

  And at that the car escaped the sand, wobbled as its tires bit concrete, then accelerated to smash into the side of an M1A2 Abrams tank. The tank weighed nearly seventy tons; the car weighed less than two. The car’s front smashed, the rear end jumped off the ground, and the Abrams didn’t even vibrate. The tank plowed on, crushing the front end of the car, squeezing it off the road, and moving on as if nothing had happened.

  Poole turned in his chair to speak to his adjutant. “Transmit new rules of engagement. Anbar rules: Any vehicle appearing to try and ram the column should be taken out. And detail an ambulance to see about the people in the car.”

  They were at the Nevada state line when the second attack came. This time it was a minivan that came up from behind and smashed into an armored personnel carrier, slightly wounding one soldier.

  No shots were fired, and it began to occur to Poole that his soldiers had been trained to kill enemy forces, not their fellow Americans. This could be trouble. He’d had no time to fully brief officers or GIs on this new reality.

  The third attack was more serious: a loaded ore truck pulled onto the freeway ahead of them, then managed a long, awkward U-turn to come racing right toward Poole’s JLTV.

  “Engage!” Poole shouted, and after a moment’s hesitation, the gunner opened up with his .50 caliber. But he was firing warning shots, tearing up the road. The trucker did not slow, let alone stop.

  “Fire for effect, goddammit!” Poole shouted as the massive truck closed the distance with shocking speed.

  This time the chattering gun blew apart the truck’s engine and made hamburger of the driver.

  The JLTV went around the steaming wreck, and the first tank in line shoved it off the road.

  As Poole looked back, he saw one of his own ambulances pull off, medical techs rushing to see if the driver could be saved.

  Poole sighed. The US Army had not knowingly fired on an American citizen since the Civil War. It was a glorious fact that the US military had never participated in a coup or interfered directly in politics. Poole would not have wanted to lead a force that enjoyed killing American civilians.

  But, he thought grimly, they’re going to have to learn.

  Tom Peaks was trapped driving behind Poole’s column. He had driven past the annihilated ore truck and had a pretty good sense that trying to pass the column might end badly, so he stuck carefully to the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed of the column.

  The sky was darkening, and in the distance he could see the garish lights of the city—somewhat diminished, as it had occurred to at least some of the casino operators that they were not, currently, looking to entice gamblers.

  And he saw as well a massive pillar of smoke that rose high before spreading out to form a hanging gray veil.

  Then he spotted flashing lights on the road ahead and realized the Nevada Highway Patrol had set up a roadblock that the army column would blow right through, but that he, in a stolen minivan, would not. He had no way to fool the highway patrol—his name and photo were on every law enforcement database in the country, with flashing arrows and exclamation points.

  So he pulled off the freeway and drove into the desert.

  Tom Peaks could not reach Vegas.

  Dragon could.

  Vincent Vu had watched television coverage of the attack on the Ranch, and the madness of Las Vegas, which MSNBC’s chyron called Crisis: Las Vegas, and CNN called Battle for Las Vegas, and Fox News labeled Sin City Apocalypse!

  The decision to go to Las Vegas was a combination of factors. One: There wasn’t much on TV but news. Two: He had run out of Pepperidge Farm Montauk cookies—his favorite. Three: He had always wanted to see Las Vegas.

  And then there were the voices in his head.

  Vincent suffered from a cluster of serious mental illnesses, the most terrifying of which was schizophrenia. He knew he was schizophrenic. He knew the voices he heard were not real, that the voices often lied. But when they berated him for laziness, cowardice, uselessness, and alternately reminded him that he was the avenging angel Abaddon, it was very hard to ignore them. Especially when he hadn’t taken his meds in weeks.

  And, by the way, he could actually become a nightmarish monster. That was not a figment. That was not a hallucination. And once you accepted the fact that you could actually become a giant starfish-human mash-up, well, the things the voices suggested seemed less crazy. Watching the last twenty-four hours of television—the Ranch, Las Vegas—notions of sane and insane had become rather . . . mixed up.

  The only time the Schizos—his name for his usual voices—receded was when he turned into the creature, into Abaddon. Then he faced new voices, different voices that spoke not in words but in urges, and those voices, the Dark Watchers, reduced the Schizos to a background murmur.

  He rose from the couch in the house he’d taken by killing the previous inhabitants. (Reason #4 for leaving
: The bodies were starting to stink.) He found a handgun in the nightstand of the master bedroom, and car keys in the dead wife’s purse. He had never driven a car before—he was too young—but he’d seen it done plenty of times. And he knew how to enter a destination in the GPS.

  L-A-S V-E-G-A-S.

  Anyway, it looked like the cops had bigger problems than arresting underage drivers. As he drove down surface streets through the greater Los Angeles metro, he saw the signs of destruction and decay, not from what he’d done down at the port, not from any freak. This was looting and vandalism, burned-out cars, shop windows covered with plywood, uncollected trash bags burst open, glass on the street, fire hydrants open and gushing water. Streetlights flashed on their emergency settings. Cars and trucks passed by, loaded with household goods. Refugees. Going where? he wondered.

  A billboard for an upcoming movie had been spray-painted over with just one word in dripping red paint: REPENT. A graffito on a real estate office wall used blue paint to say, KAM, the abbreviation for KILL ALL MUTANTS. There were swastikas and obscenities, hatred of this or that group.

  Few people walked the streets, mostly just homeless folks pushing Ralphs grocery shopping carts loaded with the typical rags and cans, but topped now with pilfered TVs and computers and fur coats. The few others out in public walked in pairs or small groups with at least one gun prominently displayed.

  The world was a gingerbread house, and it was being eaten away, bite by bite.

  I came as Abaddon the Destroyer, Vincent thought. Gaze upon my work and bow down before me!

  But he did not yell this from the windows. This was not the time or place. That would come.

  Justin DeVeere, aka Knightmare, had escaped the Ranch and kept moving as fast as he could, tumbling down hillsides, scraping against tree trunks, stumbling over fallen branches.

  It was a simple, straightforward, run-for-your-life moment. For approximately a millisecond he had considered helping the uprising, using his power to help wipe out the Ranch. . . .