Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  He reached forward and picked up a sheet of paper that caught his eye. Dante, in his infinite wisdom, had given him the tool to finish what the villains started. The funds were allocated, the prototype already under construction. It would soon be in position to rain down retribution on the scum of the earth. The nagging suspicion of doubt had grown softer. The time until the final piece was ready would be more than enough to rout the conspirators.

  The soft voice hoped it would be the ultimate deterrent… but his heart told him it would only truly end in annihilation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE HANGED MAN

  July 4th, 2011

  Nearing Midnight

  WENDY “ELECTRONICA” SEVERSON SAT in the large recliner in her pictureless apartment, the white walls bearing the dustless outlines of where frames had once been carefully placed. The late night infomercials had started after the final July 4th movie had run its credits, but she lacked the strength to change the channel or put in a movie. It wasn’t like she was watching the television, or even something as idiosyncratic as staring out the window at her neighbors. Cheap vodka had sapped the will to do anything but wallow in self-pity and rage.

  She had been a hero… the best damn hero… for years. Volunteered for patrols that no one else wanted, perfected the art of banter to best entertain the television crews and witnesses, dedicated her life to preserving justice in the face of chaos. And this, this was how the universe decided to thank her.

  That lousy scum-sucker Zealot… half-rate hero and half-man… had called her into a conference room with Arbiter and three others she didn’t recognize. He sat, smiling, as one told her that, upon review, it had become apparent that she may have allegiances other than to her fellow heroes. After all, her daughter was one of the handful who managed to not only escape, but evade recapture. A formal review would be conducted in five days, which required her presence to defend herself. She could tell by Zealot’s barely contained glee that she would never be reinstated. Even the cold comfort offered by countless others being subjected to ‘loyalty tests’ as well was but an insult to her dedication.

  All around her, heroes whispered and avoided eye contact as she had retreated to her office to collect the handful of personal items she kept there. No one comforted her, no one even offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. Only whispers and suppositions followed her after all those years of dedicated service. And the only one to blame, the only one she could blame, was her daughter, her insolence and ineptitude corrupting what legacy Wendy had tried so hard to build.

  And yet… she could not bring herself to blame Morgan. The direction that the Heroes’ Guild was heading was far more draconian than when she had begun working for them in the Silver Age. It was regressing back further, to a time of unbridled conflict. Maybe she was right to side with Zombress, with those who offered a more chaotic world. It was becoming more apparent that the greater power the forces of order had, the stricter their definition of justice became.

  Tomorrow… well, later today… would be the review, probably the last chance she would ever have of being reinstated as a hero now that Arbiter was High Consul for life. Maybe she wouldn’t accept it, even if they begged her to return. A smile cracked her chapped lips. They will beg me, won’t they? She was, perhaps, their best shot at bringing her daughter to justice. Julia, the girl she had fought alongside at the Fort, she’d back her up, say that she was ten times the hero than anyone she’d ever met. She would demand they reinstate her, and they would be forced to agree. Then, to prove a point, she would turn them down and opt to sit this little fight out. Or, better yet, maybe she’d find her daughter, ask for her forgiveness, and join her in whatever crazy plan she had. Not that Morgan was much of a planner… or anything, really, but it was better than hunting her down.

  She laughed, a small haughty thing, before her unfocused eyes fell back to the television. The infomercial number was tempting as always, as though it would unlock the secrets to productivity beyond anything anyone had ever known. Wendy secretly loved them, the over-acting, the voiceover, the cheap sets, everything. She just imagined every one of them began with ‘Do simple tasks confuse you? Does your IQ begin with a decimal point?’ and watched, allured by the world of the easily baffled.

  Senses dulled by vodka and distracted by the overly-enthusiastic man selling an automatic turkey carver, she didn’t notice the glint of a scope on the rooftop across the street.

  Four days, eleven hours. That’s how long it had been since Arthur and Stair returned to their apartment building. Almost everything had been ransacked by villainous remnants of the population or, more than likely, petty neutral criminals. The graffiti that had tagged numerous surfaces threatened anyone returning to the villain zone that, in essence, New York City belonged to the heroes and neutrals. Arthur and Stair ignored the warnings: the apartments had been their home for so long, it seemed positively negligent to leave.

  Bankers and real estate agents trolled the area almost every hour of every day, vocalizing their plans to gut the buildings and turn them into one thing or another. The greedy vultures were almost always escorted by a hero or two, looking as bored as anyone possibly could. Arthur and Stair watched them come and go from the old apartment, careful not to give any indication of movement. That was how they spent their days, waiting and watching. When night fell on the villain quarter, and only the faint sounds of an Enforcer’s vehicle rumbled in the distance, they left the safety of the apartment and traveled down roads and back alleys for supplies.

  Illuminated by the moon, Arthur leaned around the alley’s corner, checking for trouble one way, then the other. Across the street, the convenience store stood devoid of occupants, the door ajar. Short of breaking into even more abandoned apartments, it was the closest and most viable option for sustenance they had. He looked back down the alley, Stair watching him intently.

  “I don’t feel right about this, Arthur. Mr. Dadani was a friend of my pa’s.” Her voice cracked from either the cold or unease. He didn’t answer as his eyes skimmed the streets again. “Do you think there’s food in there?” she asked.

  “I hope so.” He looked back at the storefront. “The Enforcers have just been here, so we have about ten or fifteen minutes. You…”

  “Stay here.” She huffed in annoyance, an action which was becoming more and more common. “When I say you can’t leave me behind, I don’t mean just in the apartment.” He grunted as he pushed off the wall and sprinted across the street. “I can take care of myself!” she shouted, the words echoing dangerously off the empty buildings.

  Arthur stepped into the building, glass crunching underneath his shoes. The place had been ransacked, but there were a few canned goods and candy bars left. He picked a plastic bag off the floor and set to work, plucking the few items off the shelves and floor that he could stomach. Stair was a trickier proposition, as she wasn’t too keen on most foods, another reason why he hadn’t brought her. Incessant whining about the lack of fruit or bread was beginning to take its toll.

  The thought of being annoyed with her made him feel guilty again. Guilty because she had opted to go with him, to follow him, even after he had given her every reason to run away. He sighed, then trekked to where they had the health food. At least what passed for health food, anyway. A slight smile parted his lips when he saw a few fruit-and-whole-grain bars on the shelf. There wasn’t enough light to see what flavors they were, but pureed fruit all kind of tasted the same to him.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, man?” someone shouted. Arthur whirled toward the entrance.

  Six burly teens stood near the doorway, watching him, their pale skin lit up in the moonlight. It didn’t take long to notice a few were carrying makeshift weapons: two of them with chains and one with his hands wrapped around a baseball bat with nails worked into it. No answer he could give seemed like a good response. “Shopping?”

  “You asking or telling?” the one in front asked. Arthur found himself movin
g to the back of the store, prompting his guests to walk further in. One stood in the doorway, blocking it with his scrawny, though somehow intimidating, frame. “See, I don’t think any neutral would be in this part of town without a couple of buddies.”

  “And no self-respecting bum would be caught dead with this many Enforcers running around,” another member said. Arthur had no idea who these people were, but they weren’t heroes and they certainly weren’t villains.

  “What do you think, boys?” The leader turned to the rest of the group. “Do you think that the heroes mind if they find a busted-up villain in here?” Sinister mutters of agreement made Arthur feel violently sick. They began to spread out, one per aisle, boxing him in. Maybe he could make it to the side door which would take him to the back room… and then what? These neutral hoodlums were clearly more physically fit than he was. They’d run him down in the street.

  The neutral by the door was tackled to the floor. Stair wasted no time rising to her feet and running toward Arthur. The others turned toward the noise. “Having a seizure, ya damn ballsack?” one of them shouted as Stair neared another kid. He had been laughing, only to squeak in surprise as the girl shoulder-rammed him into an empty rack. Before he had even hit the ground, he immediately relaxed, as though falling over had been his own fault.

  “What’s going on here?” one of them shouted, turning to Arthur. “Shit!” he shouted and pointed at him.

  “Bestowed!” another screamed, backing up.

  “We can take him!” the leader shouted, turning to the others as Stair leapt at Arthur. “We can…” Her arms wrapped around him and Arthur staggered to the floor as her touch made ice spread through his heart and brain. The bag of food left his hand and crashed to the floor as the world went stark black-and-white, the neutrals now leaving dim, colored trails of symbols in their wakes. The leader seemed to visibly relax. “Get up!” he laughed, throwing a bag of potato chips at the still floored member of his gang in the aisle. “I told you there wouldn’t be anyone here.” His voice was a million miles away, yet comfortably resting in Arthur’s ears.

  Arthur looked at Stair, her eyes shimmering as she glared at the punks who decided to celebrate their isolation by trashing the place more than it already was. “We need to get out of here,” Arthur said.

  “Don’t touch any of them,” Stair ordered. She inhaled in a sharp burst as she shifted her weight, releasing him from her grapple in favor of holding his hand. “I don’t quite know how to control it.”

  Arthur didn’t want to argue. In all the excitement of the last week, he had never asked her how her ability worked. It seemed silly now, but there was a lot more on his mind when he was trying to focus on the world at large versus mere survival.

  One of the neutrals produced a can of spray paint and walked toward the front windows. He shook the can and began to paint in wide, slow arcs. “Hey, Picasso!” the closest creep to Arthur and Stair shouted. The duo stopped at the noise as the painter turned around, his eyes large and wet. The one who had yelled walked down the aisle, clearing a way for the two villains. “Make sure to spell it right this time.”

  “I have dyslexia, dick,” Picasso muttered as he returned to painting.

  Stair led the way down the aisle, her hand tightening around Arthur’s in a death grip. The neutral she had knocked over darted in front of them at the center walkway. Stair stopped suddenly, Arthur almost smashing into her. In the vandal’s fist was a wad of off-brand strawberry twists which he greedily shoved into his mouth. Once he had wandered far enough off, she looked back at Arthur and jerked her head to indicate she was going to move forward and he wasn’t to fall behind.

  Something flashed in Arthur’s mind, causing him to look back. Behind them, the bag of purloined groceries had spilled onto the floor. “Stair, I dropped the food.”

  “Leave it,” she whispered back harshly.

  He considered going against her command, but thought better of it. “Damn it.”

  They made their way up another aisle, the vandals occupied with their various shenanigans. The doorway loomed tantalizingly close. Stair reached toward it as they neared, only to snap her hand back and skid suddenly to a stop. An armored Enforcer filled the doorframe, shouldered rifle sweeping over the convenience store. “Alright, punks, hit the floor!” she ordered, her voice a carrying bark.

  “Shit,” Picasso said, dropping the spray paint can and falling to his knees.

  “My mom’s going to kill me,” another grumbled.

  “You’re damn right,” a second Enforcer growled, following the first one’s lead when she walked further into the convenience store.

  “Just stay still,” Stair whispered.

  “What are you even doing in here?” the female Enforcer asked. Yet another one entered the store and started down the aisles, drawing perilously close to Stair and Arthur. “You think it’s a good idea to deface hero property?”

  “There’s still villains around here, man!” one of the neutrals shouted. “We’re helping you by scaring them out!”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” the first Enforcer hissed, knocking one of the kneeling teenagers to the floor. “It’s not like Arbiter trusts us to do this on our own anyway.”

  “Relax, Austin,” a towering hero said calmly as he entered the doorway, adjusting a glove resting over his right hand. In a moment of heart-stopping recognition, Arthur realized the man was his sister’s sword-bearing counterpart, the one he had seen next to Arbiter weeks ago and the one who had attacked him after the explosion that killed his father. Stair’s grip tightened around his hand as Arthur stepped forward to get a better look. He looked back at Stair, her mouth slack and eyes rapidly flicking over the hero. She recognized the man, too. “No need to bad mouth the High Con…” he trailed off as he looked up. His eyes fixed on Stair and Arthur, losing their glimmer and becoming sharklike. “No…”

  “He can see us?” Arthur said breathlessly.

  Stair yanked on his arm, hard, pulling him violently toward the exit. “Run!” she screamed as an afterthought, shoving her way past the stunned hero. They hit him at speed, knocking him to the side and into the door frame before continuing down the street.

  Arthur had no idea how long they were running before Stair stumbled to the ground and hissed in pain. He overtook her as she got back up, allowing him to angle their path toward an alleyway. Once there, he let her go near an intersection, rounding the corner so they could duck out of sight. She heaved air, gulping it down as she collapsed. “How could he see us?” he asked, looking around the corner.

  Stair took a few more breaths. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” He was yelling at her in a whisper, harsh yet quiet.

  “I mean I don’t fucking know!” she snapped, glaring at him. Her chin began to quiver, and she broke eye contact in favor of looking down the alley.

  The pause was unbearable. “I’m sorry,” he said. She refused to look at him. “I don’t even know what you can do… my mind has trouble processing it.”

  The pause may have well continued unabated. Finally, Stair quietly muttered, “Everyone’s does.” She hissed in pain and began to massage her ankle.

  Arthur went to kneel by her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped again as Arthur was in mid-stoop. He immediately straightened. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re Bestowed, there’s hardly anything…”

  “Yes!” she snarled. “There is.” She shook her head and looked down the alley again. “Even by Bestowed standards, I’m a freak.”

  Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes, found it too difficult, and leaned around the corner again to prevent her from seeing it. He would kill to have something peculiar about him rather than his penchant for getting people… well… killed. “I don’t think we’re being followed.” He leaned against the building and slid down opposite his companion. “Tell me about it.”

  Tears were streaki
ng down the girl’s face. “I should have died with my mom back in Ireland. But somehow… ‘that’ happened.” She folded her arms across her chest. “When I get nervous or scared, it can happen. It’s like… people can’t see me, but something more.”

  Arthur nodded. “They forget you were even there.”

  “Exactly.” She rolled her shoulders and shivered. “I hate doctors… so every time I’ve been scheduled for a test, I just vanish from time. Like I never existed.” She looked back at Arthur. “No one’s really been able to work with me to make me control it… so it just comes and goes with my emotions.”

  “Why didn’t you just… I don’t know…” he trailed off.

  “After what happened to my mother, my pa didn’t want me to become a villain. He was thrilled that I wasn’t Bestowed.” She held herself tighter. “It was my secret.”

  Although he didn’t understand why she’d willingly do such a thing, he nodded in agreement. A thought crossed his mind. “So how come I can see you?”

  Stair smiled and licked her lips a little. Arthur could have sworn she turned a shade redder, but that was probably the moonlight playing tricks on his senses. “Some people just… see me. Like they’re immune to it.” She looked up at him. “Like you. You’re always going to see me.”

  Arthur suddenly felt the same nervous repulsion he had always felt around her prior to the whole world going crazy. “Lucky me,” he said, trying not to sound uncomfortable. “Do people you touch see you?”

  She thought about his question for a few seconds. “I’ve had a few people do that. Others are just clueless.”

  He swallowed hard, his heart finally ceasing its heavy beating. “And that hero?”

  She turned away. “He saw me at the Fortress. He and my dad got into a fight.”