Villain

by Michael Grant

  Machine gunners swiveled to chase her with .50-caliber rounds, but she stayed close to the tanks, making it hard to target her.

  Tank after tank, a few seconds each, but all the while the army column stabbed at the Triunfo, and the hotel erupted again and again.

  Shade ran up the stairs. No way she was trusting an elevator, and anyway, it was far quicker to run sixty-four floors than to wait on an elevator.

  Floor by floor, turning, leaping when she could, snatching at handrails to hurl herself upward as the cement-block walls of the stairwell cracked and buckled under the army’s brutal assault.

  She was at the door of Dillon’s suite in seconds. She stopped to listen and heard an eerie, mewling howl within.

  Shade stepped inside.

  Francis crouched under a desk, covering her ears against the cacophony. Malik sat calmly in a chair.

  And Dillon Poe, the Charmer, writhed in agony on the floor, yelling, “Kill me! Oh, God, please! Kill me!”

  Ka-BOOM!

  A near miss hit the floor below, shattering the windows, making the walls and floor jump. Francis cried out in terror, her eyes streaming tears.

  Malik, still eerily calm, nodded at the suddenly absent glass and said, “Well, Dillon, it looks like someone opened the window for you.”

  “Aaaaarrrggh!” Dillon shrieked. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  “Malik,” Shade said, slowing her voice.

  It was mesmerizing watching Dillon’s face. He was like a sinner in a medieval painting of hell, his face almost immobile in a grimace of bared teeth, strained tendons, and muscles clenched so hard his arms and shoulders and neck looked like they might crack like dry twigs.

  Malik’s expression, slowly turned on her, was unlike anything Shade would have thought possible from Malik Tenerife. His eyes were hot and pitiless.

  “He burned those people,” Malik said. “He burned them alive.”

  Shade wanted to tell him to stop. She could see the detail as Dillon’s fingernails tore at his face, drawing bloody lines on his flesh.

  Malik had a pocketknife in his hand. Not his, Shade was pretty sure; it must have belonged to Francis. Malik slowly opened the largest blade.

  He went and knelt in front of Dillon.

  “We’re sixty-four floors up. You can jump. Or you can make sure your voice is never a problem again.”

  Could Dillon even understand? He was in a living hell of pain.

  I have to stop this! Shade thought. I have to . . .

  It was not pity for the Charmer. It was fear of what this act would do to Malik. But her words did not come. Something both terribly just and terribly wrong was taking place. Something morally indefensible but cosmically right. In the back of her head, the Dark Watchers seemed to lean forward.

  Did the Dark Watchers want this? Were they enjoying Dillon’s pain?

  Malik grabbed Dillon’s hand, a desperate claw, and closed his fingers around the knife. “Jump . . . or cut.”

  “Malik!” Shade said, but failed to slow it down, so that he’d have heard nothing but a millisecond buzz.

  I can stop this.

  Dillon screamed and cursed. And stuck out his tongue.

  The world will never be safe unless he’s dead or . . .

  Dillon had thought the bullet wound was pain. The bullet wound was nothing.

  Nothing!

  He was burning alive! The pain coming from every nerve ending, flooding and overwhelming his brain with an urgency unlike anything he’d ever felt. His entire body was under a blowtorch.

  He felt the impact of the tank cannon blasts and prayed they’d kill him.

  Then, the window! Yes, yes, jump!

  But what was in his hand? What was the sleek-skinned black boy saying?

  Cut and live.

  Cut and live!

  Flashes of memory.

  Let’s make sure you never call me or anyone else names again. Bite your tongue in half.

  The sound of teeth grinding on gristle.

  Never again to speak. Never again to bend anyone to his will.

  Never again to tell a joke.

  With all that remained of the Charmer’s will and strength, he crawled on hands and knees, crawled to the broken window and the whistling night wind.

  Below, tanks firing.

  Fire burning.

  The pain!

  He did not leap, he just kept crawling. Crawling until his hands had nothing to crawl on. He tipped forward. His thighs slipped over broken glass, the cuts irrelevant.

  And he fell, screaming.

  Malik looked at Shade. He said nothing.

  Shade de-morphed to be understood and said, “Francis? Get Malik and yourself the hell out of here.”

  The tanks went on firing, round after round, but as Dekka wreaked her own careful destruction, the firing slowed and finally stopped.

  Shade watched from across the Strip, now blessedly out of morph and cut off from the insidious Dark Watchers. Armo, Malik, and Francis stood defeated and exhausted.

  “Cruz!” Shade yelled.

  “I’m here!” Cruz stepped out from behind Armo’s bulk, carrying the baby in her arms.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Shade said.

  Cruz nodded. In a low voice she said, “You don’t believe in God, Shade.” She shook her head. “And this is not the day to start.”

  “They enjoyed it,” Malik said. No one but Francis had any confusion about who they were.

  Shade narrowed her eyes. “I know. I felt it, too.”

  Armo shook his head. “I didn’t think things like this really happened.”

  “It happened,” Shade said. “It happened and we couldn’t really stop it, could we? I mean, we saved some lives, and we stopped the Charmer, but look at the cost. Look at what we didn’t do!”

  She spotted a lone figure walking, a sturdy-looking young black woman stumbling from weariness, her head down. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and seemed unable to stand.

  Armo, now merely human and clothed in nothing but scraps, ran to her and lifted her in his arms. He carried her back and sat her on the curb, where she hung her head in her hands and cried quietly.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” But as he spoke he shook his head, his body denying his words.

  Dazed, soot-covered people who had escaped the flaming wreckage of the Triunfo seemed drawn to them, kept a respectful distance, but clustered around them.

  Shade heard sirens nearing. After everything, after a day and a night of unrelenting horror, there were still men and women rushing to help.

  As if the sirens were a signal, the six Rockborn walked away, as behind them the hotel burned and crashed.

  I saved you, at least, little pink person. I saved you.

  Cruz stumbled behind Shade and Dekka, no one speaking. No one but Armo, who said, “I’ll carry him for a while.”

  He took the swaddled bundle from Cruz, but the baby started crying, and after a moment of futile cooing, Armo handed him back to Cruz.

  I saved you. Just you.

  Cruz imagined herself with a baby of her own. Adopted, of course, but what did that matter? Wasn’t the point to have someone to love, who you hoped at least would love you back? Wasn’t that everything that really mattered?

  Cruz felt the tears start again. Maybe they had never stopped. Maybe they never would. She had seen things that no human being should ever see. Things she would never forget, though if she could push a button and just delete . . .

  The day’s shock and violence was a fresh wound laid over many earlier ones. And this was life now, wasn’t it? Violence and pain and fear. That was it now. The old world was dead, wasn’t it? Nothing would ever be good or right again.

  But still Cruz formed pictures in her mind. There was a beach. It was maybe mid-morning, so the sun was shining bright but wasn’t yet really hot. The water was calm, the waves just lapping rhythmically, not crashing.

  And Armo—or some reasonable facsimile—w
as walking hand in hand with their baby.

  Jesus, Cruz, mawkish much?

  She knew she was retreating into fantasy. Well, why shouldn’t she? When she thought about someday writing stories and even books, hadn’t part of that always been escapism? Hadn’t she always wanted to create worlds where people could just love each other? Hadn’t she always known that her only happiness would be in some fantasy world?

  The baby burped. It had fallen asleep.

  “We better go find someone to take care of you,” Cruz whispered.

  “Nice baby,” Armo said. He was walking beside her. “And I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

  It was a feeble joke, but Cruz gave him a tear-streaked smile. She sighed. “Well, pregnant is one thing I will never be, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, right,” Armo said, nodding sagely. “But you could always adopt one. I hear there are plenty. You can just . . .” At this point he lost the thread and ended up by saying, “. . . I mean, babies can’t be that hard to find, right?”

  Dekka said, “We need to find someone to take care of it. Him. It’s a boy, right? We are not the safest babysitters in the world.”

  Shade frowned. “Hey. Not all of the Charmer’s slaves died. There must be hundreds at least running around. But look.”

  Cruz did, and realized that there were people on the sidewalks, civilians, but no one was attacking. Some of the people had blood on their chins and necks from attempting to bite and eat others. Many had wounds of their own.

  They walked down the Strip, heading for Caesars, hoping to find someone there to take the baby, hoping almost as fervently to find showers and food and beds. They walked, each de-morphed with the exception of Malik; Cruz and Armo in front, Dekka and Shade next, Malik and Francis bringing up the rear.

  “Thank you!”

  It did not at first occur to Cruz that the shout was meant for her.

  “Thank you! Thank you!”

  More shouts. And someone started applauding. Ragged, tattered, bloodied bands of survivors lined the sidewalk, with more coming to join them.

  “Shade Darby!”

  “Berserker Bear! You kick ass!”

  “Go, Lesbokitty!”

  “No, no, no,” Dekka said, but under her breath. “That will not stand. I am not wearing that name the rest of my damn life.”

  By the time they reached Caesars, they were leading a solemn parade, a crowd of hundreds. Wilkes, the security chief, came out to meet them.

  iPhones were raised. Video was taken.

  “Say something!” someone yelled. And Cruz realized from the ensuing silence that they all wanted this. Needed it, maybe. These damaged people needed someone to say something. Something to make sense of it.

  “You should say something,” Cruz said to Shade. “Or you, Dekka.”

  “I don’t do speeches,” Dekka said.

  Shade shook her head and smiled a sad, wistful smile. “I don’t think it’s me they want to hear from, Cruz.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The Speech

  “HI. UM . . . MY name is Cruz. I want to tell you first of all that Dillon Poe is dead.”

  The rapt audience cried, “Bastard!” and “Murderer!” and a few other insults directed at the villain.

  “Malik and Francis here”—Cruz waved to indicate them—“they went into that place while it was being blown up. While it was burning. And they . . . they took care of him. He’s gone.”

  The applause was loud, bordering on frenzied.

  “Look, we tried to . . .” Cruz shook her head. “None of us ever thought we’d be here. You know? That we’d be what we are. Now. Freaks or mutants. Rockborn. Whatever you want to call us.”

  “Heroes!” someone shouted.

  “No, no,” Cruz protested, urgently. “We didn’t succeed, we didn’t stop him, we didn’t . . . all those people. We couldn’t . . .”

  The tears came again and she didn’t brush them away. She needed tears. It felt like the whole world needed tears.

  “You tried,” a voice said. It was a calm voice, quiet, but carrying all the more authority for that reason.

  Various voices shouted, “You saved the baby,” and “You killed that monster!”

  Cruz shook her head. “But we should have . . . Maybe if we had, I don’t know . . . We just should have . . .”

  A woman’s voice from the back of the crowd said, “Save one life, save the world entire.”

  “We were helpless. You saved us!”

  Cruz frowned in confusion. She looked to Shade for help, but her friend seemed amused and shook her head slightly.

  Dekka leaned forward and whispered. “They want a hero, Cruz. They need one. Don’t fight it.”

  Cruz swallowed and nodded to herself. “Okay. Okay. Okay, look, we tried. You’re right, we tried. We wished we could do more. We wished for, boy . . . for a lot of things. But I guess it’s too late for that now. We have to look forward. You know? All of you the same. You’re going to have to find some way to deal with this, to process it. To forgive. To forgive yourselves. What many of you did you were forced to do. You’re never going to be able to forget. Neither will we. I won’t.” For a moment she couldn’t go on. “But even if we can’t forget, we have to be clear on who the villain was here, who is to blame. And it wasn’t you people.”

  Wilkes, the casino security chief, stepped up with a baby bottle. She handed it to Cruz.

  “I don’t suppose you’re a mommy?” Cruz asked her.

  “Better yet,” Wilkes said, “I’m a grandma.”

  “Will you . . . ?” Cruz asked. “I’m so tired. I’m afraid I might drop him.”

  Wilkes accepted the baby.

  Cruz nodded. She closed her eyes and had to fight the urge to lie down right there, right then, in the door of Caesars Palace.

  “What now?” a voice demanded.

  Cruz shook her head, baffled. “What?”

  “What now?” the voice repeated. “What are you six going to do?”

  Cruz looked at the others beside her. At silent Malik. At Dekka standing like one of the pillars of the earth. At Francis, just a kid with a power almost impossible to describe. At Armo, practically in a loincloth.

  As soon as they turn social media back on, that boy is going to have a very large fan club. And I’ll be its president.

  Finally she looked at Shade Darby.

  Shade, who had swept Cruz up in the wake of her obsession.

  Shade, who had led Malik to disaster.

  Shade, who had led Cruz to become . . . a hero.

  “What are we going to do?” Cruz repeated. She shrugged. “I guess we’re going to try and save the world.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Aftermath

  IN THE SUITE atop Caesars, they drank beer and vodka and whiskey from the minibar and ate room-service food. Management had sent up a spread fit for royalty. But they ate and drank in silence. Whatever words any of them had were not worth the effort to speak.

  Wilkes had taken charge of the baby, the still-nameless baby whose parents had almost certainly died in the fire.

  The army’s tank column was withdrawn. The National Guard, the Nevada State Police, the traumatized Las Vegas Police, and the hastily deputized California Highway Patrol restored order in the city. Two looters were shot dead, and that ended the looting.

  Fire departments and EMTs from all over Nevada, southern California, Utah, and Arizona flooded Las Vegas with ambulances and medevac helicopters. Every burn unit in every hospital west of the Rocky Mountains was filled to overflowing.

  Reassuring speeches flowed from Washington, D.C. No one believed them.

  And Dekka, Shade, Cruz, Francis, and Armo slept through it all.

  Only Malik lay awake, half hearing the low drone of the television news. His mind was full of the Dark Watchers and his own churning thoughts. From time to time he would turn to look at Francis.

  Francis Specter, the girl who could move through a fourth dimension.

  Fr
ancis Specter, the girl who morphed untouched by the Dark Watchers.

  Only Francis.

  Because Francis was a mistake. Francis was random chance, an anomaly, a freak among freaks.

  You’re afraid of her.

  Silence.

  She wasn’t in the plan, was she?

  Silence.

  Do you get movies there? Ever see Star Trek? There’s a famous line.

  Silence.

  Although it was actually from Herman Melville.

  Silence.

  Would you like to hear it?

  Silence.

  “To the last, I grapple with thee . . .”

  Silence.

  Malik, ever-controlled, ever-logical Malik felt something growing inside him. Something built out of the memories of burning men and women; out of clearer, sharper images of Dragon’s fire rolling toward him; the intolerable memories of pain.

  Hatred. Rage.

  His teeth clenched until they might crack. His hands were fists. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee!”

  “Do you like it?” Malik spoke aloud. “There’s more. You want the rest? Do you? Do you, you filthy bastards?”

  Shade, asleep on the couch, shifted, opened her eyes, and sat up.

  “‘For hate’s sake.’” Malik’s voice was a chain saw on metal. “‘For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee!’ Do you like that quote? Do you?”

  Shade stood over him. She laid a hand on his quivering shoulder.

  Malik sat up. He glared at her defiantly. “Don’t say anything, Shade. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Shade moved her hand up his neck, cradling his cheek.

  “My God, Shade. My God, what do we do?”

  Cruz woke hours later, confused as to where she was. On a bed? How . . . and the memories came like a tidal wave of horror.

  Francis was in the little kitchen, brewing coffee.

  “Hey,” Cruz said.

  “Hey. Want some?”

  “Like a drowning woman wants a life raft,” Cruz said. She took a cup and scalded her tongue. “What’s that noise?”

  Francis grinned. “Armo snores. Dekka, too.”

  “It’s like they’re a really bad musical act.”

  Francis laughed, and her laugh seemed to flow into Cruz. Cruz grinned despite herself, despite a million images threatening to overwhelm her. “You’ve fallen in with some crazy people, kid.”